#if i speak about why charles had to rearrange himself…

[jetaime-jespere]

Old Times All Over (Part 1 of 2)

A very special thank you to @sequinsmile-x for the beta!

Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore.

Aaron takes a risk and goes to Emily while she's undercover in Paris.

Rating: M

Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore. The weight of her absence is unbearable; it follows him around as if lingering in hidden shadows and settling deep in his soul, an indelible stain that doesn’t fade as the days pass by. He bears the team’s grief, shoulders it and doesn’t let himself handle his own. It feels wrong to mourn her as if she were actually dead when in reality she lingers somewhere very different, another kind of hellish existence. He often finds himself wondering what she’d say about all of it. Emily would have scoffed at the ornate casket, rolled her eyes at the formality of the Catholic service the Ambassador insisted upon. He’d been the one to make the call on the flight back to DC. Elizabeth knew right away why he was calling, and the detached coldness in her tone was merely a coping mechanism, for the older woman’s grief seeped through the phone as he relayed the news. Aaron could scarcely reach her eyes as he offered condolences in person, the words heavy and thick on his tongue. Elizabeth’s questions were answered with the vague formalities that were constructed as part of a grand lie, held together with threads that ran the risk of being unraveled with the slightest misstep.

Read the rest below the cut or on Ao3

Emily’s life depended on the sanctity of those lies, as did his own.

No one can ever find out about this, JJ had whispered to Aaron and Clyde behind a firmly closed door in the depths of that hospital in Boston. It was eerily dark, their heads bent together in near silence as initial plans were laid. For her safety, and all of ours. It felt oddly conspiratorial to plan her disappearance as she laid just feet away, oblivious to it all and very much alive. But Doyle escaped into the night like a ghost, and that meant Emily had to go too whether they liked it or not. It didn’t matter that they hunted monsters like him every day. They knew the moment her heart started again, that she would pull through, that she’d never be free. He’ll never stop looking for her. Clyde’s voice was like rubbing salt in a wound that burned through his skin.The tension between them was thick, laden with the unspoken tension of a tentative truce and a keen awareness of the pain that coursed within each of them. He will go to the ends of the earth to find her.

Aaron disliked Clyde Easter from the moment he laid eyes on the man. Perhaps it was his closeness to Emily - she trusted him, more so than she did Aaron, as was being made abundantly clear. It still stung - that she’d gone to him in her moment of need without even once considering just maybe the team could have helped. Maybe it was the way Clyde knew her so intimately, almost as well as a lover would - a delicate balance of adoration and indignance, a fierce desire to protect the oaths they’d sworn years ago, loyalty and trust woven from years of brushes with peril only to do it all over again. But it was more than that; he knew from the moment Clyde sat before him in an interrogation room in Boston his loathing ran deep. Only later would Aaron realize they both paid a similar price for loving the same woman.

The idea to go to her comes to him once Dave has finally disappeared for the night and the bottle of scotch is empty once again. It’s a ritual they share now, unspoken yet expected, an attempt at burying the worst of their grief. It never quite hits the mark, because Dave doesn’t know the truth. His words are wise and well intended, but he speaks of loss in terms of death, and it’s one thing Aaron can’t think about for too long. But it’s some of the only company he has once the building quiets down, so whenever he shows up at the door, he doesn’t object. Most nights they leave together after a round. The echo of their shoes striking the marble floors is the only noise between them when they pass the framed photos of agents long gone on the walls, now with Emily among them. He wants to shake someone, tell them she doesn’t belong there. “Don’t look,” Dave tells him every time. “It won’t bring her back.”

He always looks.

Tonight Aaron lingers, the idea now an intrusive thought reverberating through his weary mind. It’s dangerous - violates every rule of her disappearance - and puts anyone who knows at risk. He shuffles the files on his desk only to do it once more, rearranges the pens in the cup and flips through a few reports that still require his signature. His phone rings; he doesn’t have to turn it over to know it’s Jessica asking where he is, that Jack is asking for him. He was supposed to have been home a few hours ago. Instead of answering that phone, he digs for a different one. This one has stayed hidden in his desk since the night they returned from Boston. Clyde had pushed it into his hand at the last possible moment before he boarded a flight, his face stony and solemn. “If you ever need to reach me, use this.” It might be the closest thing to a friendship they’ll ever have, a twisted kind of bond that comes along with a shared secret they very well might take to the grave.

“I was wondering when you would call,” comes the lilting British accent on the other end when the line connects. “I thought for sure it would be sooner.” Clyde’s voice is haunting; it takes Aaron right back to Boston when it was just the two of them in that interrogation room, piercing blue eyes up against his darker ones as the pieces fell into place. If you want to stop that man, you have to put a bullet between his eyes yourself. He barely recognizes his own voice; it strains when he explains exactly why he’s calling, once the doors of his office are firmly shut. Even then, it’s a near whisper.

“You do realize what you’re asking of me?” Clyde demands. He’s not exactly surprised by the request, though. After all, he and Aaron had a few things in common. “The risks of all of this?” He’s whispering, the hiss of his voice biting even from thousands of miles away, wherever the hell he might be. “I thought you did things by the book at the BAU.”

“Can you make it work or not?” Aaron’s terseness matches Clyde’s hostility, a thinly veiled shield for his grief that consumes him.

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a contemplative inhale as if he’s considering his answer, like he holds the power in his hands himself. “You should have more faith in me, Agent Hotchner.”

...

It’s all a little too easy to coordinate once the initial call is made, much to his surprise. For two weeks, things continue as normal, or as close to normal as possible, a period of limbo-like freefall. A case takes them to Portland, another to Providence. While the team is across the country, Clyde takes care of the multiple identities and aliases Aaron will use in Europe, along with a reservation at a nondescript hotel and God only knows what else. He’s barely back in Virginia for an hour when a text message on the burner phone reveals a series of coordinates, a meeting location.

“A direct flight to Charles de Gaulle might seem suspect,” Clyde whispers, nestled amongst the shadows along the Potomac River three nights before Aaron slated to leave. “There’s a flight from Regan to Heathrow, then to Paris. You’ll have a different identity for each, so best not to get confused.”

Aaron bristles at the snarkiness in his tone. “And my cover story?”

Clyde scoffs, as if disgusted by the question. “You’ll tell your team you’re being called to London to consult with Scotland Yard as a favor to a friend. I’ve already taken care of those details as well - a fake case report. Familiarize yourself with them so they don’t suspect anything.” He passes over the thick envelope, holding onto it for just a moment too long.

“How will I find her? Once I’m there?”

“Leave that up to me, Aaron. She’ll be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” is all Aaron can say once he holds the weight of it in his hands. “I know you took a huge risk to do this.”

Clyde stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I love her too, you know.” It’s certainly the most honest he’s ever been, something that looks like hurt flooding his features. But he stiffens a few seconds later with an authoritative clearing of his throat. “Bloody hell, Aaron, for all of our sakes, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

...

Aaron drops Jack off at Jessica’s. He relays the same details he told the team a few hours before with the same feigned degree of calm assurance and mock annoyance - just a few days away, work related. No one suspects a thing. In fact, the rest of them seem almost happy for him to go. “A change of scenery might be nice,” Dave says as they walk out of the BAU.

It’s risky, inherently a bad idea and yet, it isn’t enough to deter him. There’s an element of betrayal he feels for lying to the team, for they’re still reeling from their collective loss. They miss her just as much as he does; none of this is fair. He drowns it out with a pair of headphones and a stiff drink as the plane roars to life and lifts into the sky as the sun sets.

He wakes up hours later in London with a headache and an all too familiar ache in his chest.

…

It’s another few hours of travel before he actually lands in Paris. He’s completely focused, determined as he collects his luggage and leaves the airport. He destroys the first passport moments after the plane touches solid ground and tucks the next one in his jacket pocket for easy access, the others will stay safely in his travel bag. Aaron calls Clyde on a new burner phone, one of several included in the envelope of documents that was passed over in a shadowy spot by the Potomac. He answers on the first ring, doesn’t even bother with a greeting. Instead he rattles off an address Aaron commits to memory and adds, “she’ll be waiting for you,” before the line goes dead. The address, he soon finds, is a small cafe in the fifth Arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. At first it seems risky, to meet in public, but it’s probably safer than somehow having a record of her address.

The woman at the small table in the back of the cafe is inconspicuous, but he spots her immediately upon opening the door. She could be anyone; she fits right in. One slender leg crossed over the other, a chic knee-length boot peeking out under the table. A simple raincoat, hair cut just below her chin. It’s lighter than it was the last time he saw her but still a rich shade of brown.The only giveaway is the state of the nails on her right hand - not manicured, bit down and ragged. It’s her, exactly where Clyde said she would be. He doesn’t make a big show, just simply sits in the empty seat across from her, his heart pounding in his chest when he sees her face for the first time in months. Emily’s hand is unsteady as her fingers wrap around the espresso on the table. “I’ve been waiting.” It sounds formal; she makes no move to shake his hand or hug him, or display any bit of emotion, but her lips tremble and her eyes well up a little.

“I got a little lost along the way,” Aaron shrugs a little, keeping his tone light for any ears privy to their conversation. She smiles, probably picturing him lost on the maze-like streets of Paris, the streets that still don’t feel like home to her either. “I’m here now.” It carries more weight than it ever would; all he wants to do is touch her to prove to himself this isn’t just part of the fucking nightmare he’s lived since March, one he’ll wake from wrapped in sheets damp with sweat and a pounding heart. She’s very much real, very much alive in front of him, but what the Emily he sees isn’t the Emily he remembers. Paris might be beautiful but it hasn’t been kind to her. She’s thinner and paler, shades of exhaustion on her face. Over the years Aaron has seen her sleep deprived more times than he could count - the toll of back to back cases added up - but this is something else entirely. It’s the culmination of fear from constantly looking over her shoulder, the toll of the unknown. Would Doyle ever stop looking for her, or would the rest of her days be spent on the run, alone, days that blend into weeks into months and years? Would she ever come home, to the only family she’s really ever had?

Emily studies him too, undoubtedly shocked at what she sees. Time hasn’t been kind to him, either. He’s a shell of what he used to be. A subtle shadow on his face that’s new, he’s weary eyed and tense. She knows it’s not because of the better part of a day he’s spent traveling - it’s much more than that. It’s a haunting look, with the memory of how quickly things spiraled out of control. He’d been helpless to stop any of it; Emily knows the blame he places on himself. If their hurried goodbye in the hospital was any indicator of the torment of what he’s been through the last six months, then she knows it’s been hell for him. Just like it’s been for her. She pushes another espresso, this one untouched, in his direction. “How much time do you have?” English feels foreign on her tongue. It’s been weeks, months maybe, since she’s had a real conversation not in French. It’s an act. This is all an act, but one her life depends on. Every minute she spends walking the arrondissements is a risk. The fear curls around her spine a little too tightly. She glances around the coffee shop, eyes scanning through without spending too long on any one thing. It can’t look obvious, only effortless.

“Not nearly enough.” Aaron wonders how much she knows about this, just what Clyde told her about the logistics of his visit. “We have about forty eight hours.”

He doesn’t miss the longing, wistful look in her eyes when she nods, the slightest tip of her head. It’s not enough time, it never will be. But it’s all they have, all they might ever have. They speak in short sentences, vague and cryptic, as they sip the espresso. It’s stronger than he expected, she seems immune to its effects. She doesn’t call him Aaron, and he’s careful not to call her Emily. He doesn’t know her new name, either. Not even Clyde could give him that information - it was probably better that way. They make superficial conversation - the rain here and the heat there, the bakery on the corner with chocolate croissants and the headlines on the newspaper that sits on the table. He plays along as she explains, as if he fits into this world she’s had no other choice but to assimilate into. To anyone in the cafe, they could be old friends, lovers even, with years of history between them, a casual intimacy spun like a web. The ease of lulls in conversation, a subtle glance every so often, the comfort of the proximity of someone else.

And hidden somewhere in their conversation, behind a facade of lies, is something else. What no one knows, what they haven’t quite managed to forget themselves, is something happened between them once before.

...

It was spring, after the dust had settled from Foyet and the world started to turn again, albeit slowly. Only when things settled into a new kind of normal - the humble experience of single parenting, relying on Jessica like he never had before - did Aaron realize something had changed between them. Perhaps it was the unwavering way Emily stood by him even when he wouldn’t admit to needing it, or how she picked up his loose ends without making him feel like his life was unraveling before his eyes. It was the way she mourned Haley’s death, a steadfast presence at her funeral, and her attentiveness to Jack in the months after.

He’d been divorced for more than a year, separated for at least two. Aaron no longer mourned his marriage, but the loss of his son’s mother, the woman he’d shared more than half of his life with. But someone else started to preoccupy his mind - dark hair, a blinding grin, a wicked sense of humor. It was becoming harder to ignore; she was everywhere. So a few months later in the spring, when he found Emily, nursing a drink at the hotel bar that had clearly seen better days, after a particularly brutal case in Scranton, he knew exactly how the night would end. It would cross a line - railroad through any professional boundary they still maintained. But an unsub had walked free earlier that night, a child was dead, and while it wasn’t her fault, he watched any trace of composure vanish from her face when they got back to the hotel as she retreated into herself.

It shouldn’t have happened that way - definitely not how he imagined it would. But Emily was desperate in her need to forget, he was desperate to help her do so. It was frantic, the clash of her teeth against his an ironic reminder that this was the first time he ever kissed her. Aaron pressed her back against the wall, sucked a bruise into her neck, and buried himself inside of her with one smooth push. He swallowed her moans with his mouth, the snap of his hips brutal and sharp. She reveled in it, her need for him and this, legs hitched over his hips as she clenched around him.

“Wanted you for so long,” he growled as she came around him. Her fingers were like vices around his shoulders, clinging to him as he fucked her through it, unrelenting. “Thought about you, about this.”

“Me too,” Emily gasped, the simple admission triggering his own release until he came apart and took her with him one more time.

Aaron had to carry her to the bed in the middle of his hotel room. It was the most gentle he’d been all evening, gingerly placing her in the center of it, following her down and pulling her into his arms. She was bruised and sore, he wore the scratches of her nails on his back and shoulders. Emily curled into him like she’d been doing it forever, snuggling into his chest. “I still can’t feel my legs.”

“We should have done that a long time ago,” he mused into the darkness, dragging his fingertips down her spine, listening to her slow, even breaths. It’s an admission more than an observation, and the low laugh that comes from her is all the confirmation he needs to know she thinks the same thing.

It happened again hours later, in the middle of the night, this time softer, slow and unhurried. He made her come twice with his mouth, coaxing her through each one. Aaron took his time, marveling at her and whispering praises into her skin. She beamed under his touch, besotted under his gaze. He studied the sharpness of her ribs, the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. And then he held her hands in his own above her head, rocking into her, metronomic and even. He kissed her like a lover should, his lips still wet with her slick, her legs pressed tightly wrapped around his waist as she crested against him. He collapsed against her shortly after, grappling for her hands, leaving kisses along her collarbones - anything to be as close to her as he possibly could.

But it was over after that.

Timing once again failed them. Not because they didn’t have the chance, but because they were both afraid something would change, whatever friendship they built over time, and they wouldn’t be able to take it back. They never talked about it, never even acknowledged anything had happened in that hotel room in Scranton once it was over. It lingered between them, the awareness of it sometimes all-consuming if she got too close or they somehow ended up sitting beside one another on the jet. But things happened - JJ’s untimely departure, coupled with Seaver’s arrival, the grueling toll of case after case. It was buried, hidden behind the burden of their jobs and the baggage they carried, both too stubborn to admit what was right in front of them.

And then she slipped away, shortly after a case in Montana. Emily’s typical professionalism, her unmatched level of skill was marred by uncharacteristic lateness and a short fuse, as if something had settled into her mind that she couldn’t shake. She was secretive and jumpy, slowly withdrawing from them all before his own eyes. And he’d been too caught up in what they weren’t saying, what they were hiding from, to even ask what was wrong.

Aaron never saw it coming. Until it was too late.

…

The cafe suddenly feels suffocating, the four walls trapping them in. What started as an alluring scent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries now feels cloying, overwhelming. It’s just a little too loud as their conversation fades into silence. After all, there’s only so much small talk that can be made when he only has one question. Why? Across from him Emily shifts in her chair yet still wears her pleasant smile, still playing the act she’s perfected over the last several months. But she’s tearing at her fingernails, a sure sign that she’s nervous. He knows her tells by now, all of them. “What do we do now?” She asks, her voice barely audible. Whether it’s intentional or not he isn’t sure,

He leans in, takes her hand in his own. “Let’s get out of here.”

[marvelyningreen]

Late-bloomer

[Summary: Professor Xavier once said that there was much more in you than you knew. You weren’t sure what he’d meant by that. Then again, when push comes to shove, who knows?

Warnings: mild language, references to injury

Notes: Peter Maximoff x reader, of the low-key established relationship variety. Sequel to “Linger.” ]

“You are gonna come with, aren’t you? Please?” Peter had laced his fingers through yours, swinging your hand playfully. “The professor thinks you’re ready, and I wanna be there for your first mission!”

The better part of a year had passed since Professor Xavier promised to spend more time helping you master your abilities and, true to his word, he devoted time every week to training you. To your own surprise – if not to anyone else’s – you’ve actually been improving. While you sometimes still feel that you’re behind the curve, you can’t deny that you’re much stronger than you used to be.

For your part, you kept your promise to the professor.

You’d always been too intimidated to speak to Jean, but one morning, you psyched yourself up and did it. You asked to sit with her at breakfast, and initiated a fumbling conversation that was mostly about the weather. Scott seemed baffled – and frankly embarrassed for you – but from across the room, Peter gave you a thumbs-up.

You did manage to find out that Jean’s fond of phlox and peonies, and resolved to add more to the garden. You must’ve thought it pretty loudly, because Jean caught your eye and smiled. She greets you when you pass in the hallways now.

You’d overheard Kurt mention that a certain disused alcove was probably once a little Mary garden. He’d sounded wistful to you. You did your homework, bringing in a small statue of Mary and filling the surrounding flowerbeds with irises, lilies, and roses.

The next time you saw Kurt in the gardens, you casually suggested that he walk over that way, trying hard not to sound like a try-hard and hoping that you hadn’t overstepped yourself. Not two minutes later, Kurt suddenly teleported in front of you and hugged you before you could say a word. Now, you often see him go out there to pray. Sometimes, you join him.

Summers are fairly quiet at the school. The students who were able to would go home for summer vacation. Some elected to stay around to further their training and some, sadly, didn’t really have homes to return to.

Your summer project has been an effort to revitalize the mansion’s disused kitchen gardens. You let the remaining students know that anyone who wants to is welcome to help out, and the response so far has been enthusiastic. You haven’t had any shortage of volunteers to help with the planting and weeding and watering. Some of the faculty joined in as well, when they were between missions. You think you might able to get a head-start on replanting the orchard.

And Peter, well…

Peter may not be inclined to gardening himself, but he’s definitely inclined to hang out with you while you garden. Apparently, you’d been the last to figure out that Peter was smitten with you, so it was to the surprise of no one when it was clear you two were seeing each other.

He’d even volunteered to help with your training. Of course, he was almost immediately banned from using the “think fast!” technique, if only because he was way too nice about it. The second it looked like you weren’t going to catch whatever he’d tossed in your direction, he’d zip in and catch it himself so it wouldn’t hit you. It was adorable, but not exactly helpful to your learning process.

He’d be gone for weeks at a time, though. He would get sent on missions here and there, and he took summer as an opportunity to spend time with his mother and sister. Your windowsills are beginning to fill up from all the souvenirs he brought back.

Just this morning, you’d promised him homemade apple strudel for breakfast, and he’d mentioned he might bring someone else along, if that was alright with you. You’d assumed that meant Kurt was coming home early. But no, Peter turned up at your door with Mr. Lehnsherr in tow.

It might’ve been nice to have a little advance notice so you could make a good first impression on your boyfriend’s very intimidating father – who happens to be an ex-supervillain – but at least Peter’s easygoing confidence managed to keep things from getting awkward.

And somehow – somehow – the offshoot of all this was that you and Mr. Lehnsherr both ended up tagging along on this mission. Whether it was the professor’s reassurance that it was strictly a diplomatic errand or Peter’s puppy-dog eyes that were more convincing, neither of you could say.

You’d managed to convince yourself that this was fine. The professor wouldn’t have brought you if he didn’t think you were ready, right? And all of your doubts were in your own head; you knew that. Nobody was looking at you and wondering why they’d brought the help along. Peter, who for some reason seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to spend time with you and Mr. Lehnsherr simultaneously, stuck close to you and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

And then everything went all to hell before you could blink.

Now you’re trying to telekinetically prevent a net-full of plastic waste barrels from falling into the harbor, Scott has just lasered a third shipping container in half, Mr. Lehnsherr is turning the wreckage into a makeshift holding cell, and Peter is zipping around tossing your assailants into it.

And just when everything’s finally been safely contained and you think you’ve got a second to breathe, the professor speaks up.

“I’ve lost Hank.”

The fairly upbeat mood darkens instantly.

“One of those guys was running psychic interference, wasn’t he?” says Peter.

“Yeah, but he got knocked out,” says Scott. “Nice shot, by the way.”

That last part is directed at you, with an approving nod.

“We’ll find him, Charles,” says Mr. Lehnsherr. “He can’t be far.”

“I’ll take a look around,” says Peter.

He disappears, and there’s a second or two of silence. The professor presses his fingertips to his temple and glances around worriedly, as if listening all the harder for any trace of Hank. Before you can suggest heading back to your transport, you hear Peter shout.

“Over this way! Hurry!”

Wordlessly, you all take off at a run. He’d only said to hurry. He hadn’t said that Hank was alright, which can only mean…

As you round the corner, you gasp in horror. There lies Hank – injured, unconscious, and bleeding out on the ground. As one, you all rush to his side, but Peter’s there in a blink.

“I can run him back to the mansion,” he begins, but Mr. Lehnsherr interrupts.

“If we move him before we stabilize him, it might kill him.”

Peter had looked worried up until this moment, not panicked. But at the thought that his particular skills won’t help here, his expression turns grim.

“If we don’t get help, he’ll die anyway,” Scott argues.

As the others speak, the floor seems to tilt under you, and you sink to your knees just to keep yourself from falling. You press your hands against the cold pavement, trying to steady yourself.

Is it because of the blood? No, it’s something else. Something pressing against your skull.

Hank, who’d always been kind to you, who’d become like family to Scott after Alex was killed. Hank, who’d been giddy as a schoolboy all week waiting for Saturday, when he was going to take Mystique out on a real date – dinner at a fancy restaurant, just the two of them.

It isn’t fair.

You feel Peter’s hands on your shoulders. You feel sick, like you’re about to faint, like you’re seeing double, like-

You are seven years old, playing out in your yard. A windstorm the night before has knocked several baby birds from their nest. The mama bird hops nearby, chirping and calling to no avail. You watch as the baby birds, featherless and helpless, struggle in the grass.

You feel a horrible crushing sadness in your chest. You’ve been told never to touch baby birds, and even if you did, there’s no way you could climb all the way up to their nest.

A heartbroken sob shakes your body. It isn’t fair. The birds are too small to fly, and too weak to defend themselves. And you’re too small, too.

It isn’t fair. You should be able to fix this. You should be able to help.

You aren’t allowed to touch wild animals. Why couldn’t there be a way to help without breaking the rules?

You reach out, and –

The mama bird shrills in alarm. Your sobs fade, and your eyes widen, and you watch as the little birds are lifted into the air – up and up and up – and set gently back in their nest. You know somehow, although you don’t understand, that you made it happen.

“I can fix this.”

The words leave your mouth before you know you’re speaking, and suddenly the others are staring at you in confusion. They know, as you do, that you don’t have any healing abilities, and yet… There’s an inexplicable certainty in your mind, in spite of the panic in your chest.

“I can fix this,” you say again, “But I don’t know how.”

You turn away from Hank, looking up at Professor Xavier. There’s worry in his eyes, and something unreadable along with it.

“Sir, please, can you help me?” you plead.

The professor nods, and reaches out to place his fingertips on your temple. Almost of their own accord, your eyes close, and your hand reaches out to Hank’s shoulder.

Through the chaos of your fear, there’s a calm presence in your mind.

Focus, it bids you. You can fix this. You can change it. Reach out to that which is damaged, and make it whole. Focus.

You reach out, and your mind is overwhelmed with a sensation that it struggles to comprehend. You’d thought that trying to use your powers was like trying to remember the words to a song. You see now that that’s not quite accurate. It feels like having heard a song played backwards your whole life, and finally hearing it the right way ‘round.

You are thirteen. A girl in your class has just seen her friend get pushed down the stairs by a bully. The girl shouts, and suddenly the granite steps rearrange themselves into a ramp, and the landing turns to sand, and the friend slides down into it unharmed.

The girl runs off before you have a chance to say anything. The following week, she doesn’t show up for class. You learn later that her family moved away.

You’re afraid, and you don’t understand, and you keep going. The effort of focusing is immense, impossible. You hardly know if you’re remembering to breathe, or if the pressure is inside your skull or around it.

You feel… What you feel defies description. It’s as though you’re at a beach, and you press your hand against the sand, and you can feel the pattern, the structure in the seemingly random grains of sand, and you know that it isn’t right. And if you focus – if you focus all your energy – you can will the millions and millions of grains of sand to rearrange themselves into the right order.

For a moment, the sheer vastness of the situation threatens to overwhelm you. But the professor’s steadying presence stays in your mind, like a hand holding yours as you lean further and further out over a ledge. Slowly, grain by grain, the sands are beginning to shift.

You’re in college. Yet another class has devolved into a debate about mutants – their existence, their rights, their purpose.

You don’t speak up in class under normal circumstances. That isn’t about to change now.

A voice, outside your head, drifts through the garbled static in your ears.

“His wounds are healing. He’s… he’s stabilizing. Charles, how-?”

You’re vaguely aware that the professor is answering him out loud, but you hear him in your mind: Come back now. Come back. You’ve done it; just relax.

Relax? You can try. The strange sensations fade from your mind, and their place is filled by the sounds of the world around you and an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. It feels as though the hand has pulled you back onto solid ground, but you can’t seem to keep your balance, and-

The instant you begin to fall, you find your head resting against somebody’s shoulder, and their arms are wrapped around you.

You’re twenty-five, and the entire world is shaken to its foundations by some catastrophe in Cairo. You try with all your strength, but nothing you do can prevent your apartment building from collapsing.

“Professor…?” Peter’s voice is beside your ear, strident with worry, but it seems so much further away.

“It’s alright, Peter,” you hear the professor saying, dimly.

You’ll be alright.

You are twenty-six. It’s far too quiet in this room. This building may function as a school, but it still feels like a mansion. You stare at the cup of tea in front of you. It smells wonderful, but you’re too nervous to take a single sip. Across the table, Professor Charles Xavier regards you with a thoughtful expression.

“I understand you wish to work here at my school. Is that right?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say. “I know I’m too old to be a student, and I don’t really have any experience teaching, but I… I want to learn, and I’m willing to work. If there’s any job that needs doing, anything at all; if you need a custodian, or help in the kitchens, or… or a groundskeeper, maybe. Anything.”

Your gaze darts longingly to the gardens outside the window. The grounds here are so beautiful. It’s one of the things you missed most when you lived in the apartment – having a garden to look after.

The professor takes a sip of tea and sits back.

“My school is open to anyone who wishes to learn,” he says. “What are your abilities, exactly?”

“My…? Well.” Your heart sinks. You were afraid of this.

Painfully aware of the professor’s eyes on you, you telekinetically lift your spoon into the air. Focus, now. Focus. The spoon dips into the sugar bowl, and – spilling a trail of sugar along the way – shakily hovers back to your teacup and stirs itself in before returning to the saucer with a loud clink.

“I know it’s not much,” you say, “But that’s why I want to learn.”

With hands trembling as badly as the spoon had, you pick up the teacup and take a sip, just to buy yourself a precious few seconds.

The professor nods. “I see.”

He leans his chin on his hand. You’re certain that you’ve failed. Just as you’re bracing yourself to hear him politely send you packing –

“We hire a local company to maintain the grounds,” he says, “But the gardens themselves could use better tending, especially from someone who cares about the work. There’s even a little groundskeeper’s cottage that’s only being used to storage now, if you need somewhere to stay. The job is yours, if you want it.”

You can’t believe your ears. Professor Xavier – the Professor Charles Xavier – is offering you a job, and a chance to learn, and a place to stay? You nearly upset the whole tea set as you stand abruptly, reaching across the table to shake the professor’s hand.

“Yes! Absolutely, yes,” you say, “Sir, thank you. I’ll work hard, I promise.”

The professor laughs. “I don’t doubt it.”

-

Are you ready to wake up?

No, you mumble. Five more minutes.

The voice in your head chuckles gently.

It’s been three days already.

Three days? Ridiculous. No one would’ve let you sleep for three whole days. The gardens would be overrun with weeds. The windowboxes would’ve dried up. Indignant, you open your eyes.

And immediately squint them shut again. The intense brightness of the room stings.

You feel a hand lift from your forehead, and a shadow falls over your eyes and lingers there. Beyond its merciful shade, you can tell that the light in the room has dimmed. Cautiously, you open your eyes once more, blinking a few times.

You’re disoriented for a moment, expecting to see the familiar walls of your room in the cottage. But this rather featureless room is in the infirmary beneath the mansion. You don’t have the faintest idea what you’d be doing there.

The hand shading your eyes withdraws, and you follow its movement to see Professor Xavier looking down at you. He smiles.

“Welcome back.”

“Back?” you repeat. “Back from wh- … wait.”

You remember. You remember all of it – the docks, the blood… Hank.

You have to get up. You have to find Hank.

The professor catches your shoulder, preventing you from sitting up.

“Easy. Easy, there,” he says.

“What happened? Where’s Hank? Professor, did I… Is he-?”

The professor speaks slowly and gently, like he’s calming a frightened child. And to be honest, that’s exactly what you feel like in this moment.

“Hank is fine,” he says, “He’ll need to take it easy for a while, but he’s going to make a full recovery. You saved his life.”

Relief floods through you, tightening your throat. For a moment, you don’t trust that your voice is steady enough to speak. You look away from the professor’s kind gaze and blink back tears. You’d been so scared that a good man might’ve died because you and the others were too late to save him. You’d been certain that, once again, you were powerless to help.

“I don’t understand what happened” you say, finally, “All of that… Was it you, Professor?”

He shakes his head.

“All I did was help you keep your focus. Everything else was you entirely. Didn’t I say that there’s more in you than you would guess?”

“I… I figured you were just saying that to be nice.”

Your sheepish honesty makes the professor laugh, and that puts you a little more at ease.

“I said it because it’s true.” He pauses, then continues on to answer your unasked question. “Hank has some rather complicated term for your abilities, but the more common expression for it is a reality warper. Telekinesis is merely the simplest manifestation of those powers.”

“Reality…? I’m still confused,” you say, and it’s the understatement of the century. The sporadic, barely-adequate telekinetic abilities you’d possessed since childhood weren’t really telekinesis at all?

“Within limits, you have the ability to alter reality. For example, it would be simple enough for you to change an apple into an orange, or freeze the water in a glass. It follows that you are able to take something damaged and repair it again. And if the damage is an injury, you could heal it. Of course, Hank was quite badly injured, so undoing the damage required tremendous exertion on your part.”

Your head is spinning as you try to process all of this. You can change things, transform them, fix them.

Your gaze drifts to Professor Xavier’s wheelchair.

If you can heal people, then maybe…

But when you look up, the professor is shaking his head.

“As I said, there are limits even to powers like yours.”

“But if I tried,” you say, “Maybe I could-”

“No.” The professor’s tone is firm. “You’ve been unconscious for days, and that was from healing recent injuries. Something new is more easily altered than something old. And an old wound… It’d only do you harm to try. I can’t allow you to do that, even for my own sake.”

The confused elation you’d been feeling starts to flag. You’ve been so used to feeling useless that it’s easy to slip back into that familiar territory. It startles you when Professor Xavier lays his hand on yours.

“Someday, you may be able to accomplish that and more,” he says, and laughs gently. “I’ve just told you that you have the power to reshape the world, and the first though that comes to your mind isn’t a way to use it for gain or entertainment. Your first impulse is to use it to help someone. I’m touched. Truly, I am. Thank you for thinking of me.”

There’s a deeper warmth in his voice as he says this, and you cannot doubt that he’s speaking from the heart. He’d know – he must’ve known, somehow – what you were when you came to him, offering to take on any job that needed doing just for a chance to learn. On some level, you’d always assumed he hired you out of pity.

But things are becoming clearer now – why he’d accepted you, why he hadn’t told you what you were, why he’d let you find your own way.

You’ve known the professor long enough to understand that his decisions are motivated by kindness. He had no choice in gaining immense powers at a young age, himself. Jean was just the same. You couldn’t fault him for wanting to spare someone else that burden.

The professor must be following your train of thought, because he nods slightly.

“I always had faith that your path would lead you here,” he says, “And that whatever the circumstance, you would come into your own out of an earnest desire to help others. That’s exactly what you did. I’m proud of you.”

Your hand closes around the professor’s for a brief, fervent instant.

“Thank you,” you say.

The sincerity of this validation warms your heart. You blink rapidly, trying to keep yourself from actually tearing up, when –

“Awww…”

You’re startled by the sound of another voice in the room. You look sharply over to see Peter sitting in the corner, his feet kicked up on a table.

“Peter!” you gasp, “How long have you been there?”

He shrugs. “The whole time. You just never looked over this way. And it seemed like you two were having a moment, so I didn’t wanna interrupt. Good morning, by the way.”

“Good… morning,” you say, haltingly, suddenly realizing that you have no idea what time it is.

Peter grins and pushes himself to his feet, walking over to stand at your bedside. The professor watches him with a smile.

“Peter’s hardly left this whole time,” he says.

“Not true,” says Peter. “I went out to try and help keep up on your groundskeeper stuff. Don’t, uh… Don’t look too impressed. I don’t actually know what’s a weed and what’s not, so I might’ve pulled up a bunch of your flowers. Sorry.”

Oh god, you can just picture the state the gardens must be in. You’re going to have a lot of work to undo whatever happened out there. But the mental image of Peter speed-weeding the entire estate is too amusing not to smile at.

“It’s the thought that counts,” you say.

“Tell that to the geraniums,” says the professor, shaking his head wryly. “Well, I’d better go tell Hank that you’re finally awake. I’m sure he’ll want to thank you in person. I’ll be back.”

The professor could’ve easily just called for Hank telepathically. You get the feeling he’s being polite and trying to give you and Peter a moment alone.

You start to sit up, and wow, apparently that’s a bad idea, because the room is no spinning. You close your eyes, reaching out as if to steady yourself against thin air. In an instant, Peter’s sitting on the edge of the bed, gently holding onto your arms.

“Whoa, take it easy,” he says. “I got you.”

You take a moment to breathe, and the dizziness slowly fades. “It’s okay. Just headrush.”

When you open your eyes, Peter’s still watching you intently. Never fully letting go, he moves his hands to hold yours.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Alright, actually. Just… tired. Not in a bad way.”

You smile, hoping it’ll reassure him, and it seems to work. Peter leans in to kiss you.

“Who’s exceptional and important and incredible now?” He grins brightly as he tosses your own words back at you.

“That’s not- You don’t- Um…”

He laughs as you trip over your tongue completely. You’d always felt a little inadequate in the face of compliments, and that’s a lot of them to accept all at once.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine. Bite-sized compliments from now on. Got it. But you are all of that. I always knew you were.”

Though his tone is teasing, the look in his eyes is entirely sincere. And, to your surprise, you believe him. There’s not an insincere bone in his body; you know that for a fact. So, it stands to reason that his feelings about you must be just as genuine.

The rush of that feeling – the confidence in Peter, and in yourself – puts on you cloud nine, almost literally. You have to focus to keep yourself from actually levitating everything in the room.

“I can’t believe I’m just figuring all this out now,” you say. “I mean, I’m thirty, for crying out loud.”

“And I lived in my mom’s basement until I was twenty-seven. What’s your point?” says Peter, shrugging. “Just ‘cause it took us a little longer to figure things out – we both still got there in the end. Late-bloomer solidarity, am I right?”

“Late-bloomer solidarity,” you repeat, grinning back at him. “Wait, do you think this means I’m gonna be an official X-Man now?”

Peter’s face lights up. “Hell yeah, you are! I’m officially calling dibs on having you as a partner. Hey, have you thought about what your codename’s gonna be?”

Your brows furrow in a look of confusion that Peter seems to find amusing. You actually hadn’t thought about it at all. You never thought you’d get this far, really.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” you say.

“Yeah, you’ve got a lot going for you. You’re a jack of all trades, a wild card. Oh!” Peter snaps his fingers excitedly. “Wild Card. That’s a good one. You don’t have to pick right now, but… I’m just sayin’- if you don’t pick your own, somebody’s gonna pick one for you.”

You grin. “That’s true. I mean, look at you. You’re fast, you’re full of sass, and you love sugar. In another life, you might’ve been The Amazing Hummingbird.”

The look of disgust on Peter’s face is priceless. “That’s tragic, and I’m offended.”

You can’t help but giggle.

“I like Quicksilver,” you say. “I think it suits you.”

You run your fingers through Peter’s hair, and he seems to melt. He turns his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

“You don’t know how glad I am that you’re back,” he says. “I didn’t realize just how boring this place can get without you.”

In spite of Peter’s frank expression, you can’t quite believe that. As a fairly reserved gardener, you know you’re not exactly the life of the party.

“Without me?” You laugh. “Be serious.”

Peter snorts. “Right, right. Baby steps. I forgot.”

By chance, your gaze drifts to the far side of the room, where Peter had been sitting before. You just now notice that there’s a cot set up over there, and it’s clearly been slept in. He really had stayed down here for the past three days, hadn’t he? It gives you kind of a warm fuzzy feeling that he’d wanted to stay close to you.

When you look back at Peter, you see that he’s frowning slightly.

“Y’know, you had me worried for a minute there, back at the docks. I mean, the professor explained that you just exhausted yourself because you never changed anything that big before, but…” Peter blows out a breath, shaking his head. “It really looked like you pulled some sorta equivalent exchange healing thing, and I thought, like, what if this is it? I guess what I’m trying to say is – there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Before you can ask what he means, Peter leans in and kisses you.

“I love you,” he says.

You wonder if this is how Peter feels when he uses his powers – like being the only person truly awake while the rest of the world is frozen in time. In spite of yourself, you feel the gravity in the room loosen its hold just a little, and everything’s floating gently an inch off the ground.

“I love you, too, Peter,” you say.

The trace of apprehension in Peter’s face melts into a smile.

“Even though I wrecked your geraniums?” he asks, sheepishly.

“I can find more geraniums. There’ll never be another you.”

At that, Peter actually looks bashful. Is he… is he blushing? He absolutely is. Gently, you take his face in your hands, and even as you kiss him, he can’t seem to stop smiling.

[bytheangell]

Hello!! Can I request a Thomastair based on the song, Be Kind by Halsey and Marshmallow? ❤ I loved your fic, Progress is a Process btw.

The Push and Pull of Kindness  (Read on AO3)

Thomas wants to believe the best in Alastair, he really, truly does. Despite Alastair’s own actions in the past and the grudges held against him by Matthew and James, Thomas tries his best to be there for him. Thomas can tell that Alastair needs support right now even if he won’t admit it.

See, Alastair confided in Thomas about Charles. Thomas wonders if he’s the only one Alastair told because Thomas can see the way Alastair avoids Charles now and notices the pointed way Charles looks everywhere but at Alastair when addressing them in group settings…. But he thinks he’s the only one who notices. Maybe he’s just the only one who cares enough to look.

“Hey,” Thomas says, catching up with Alastair before he can leave. They held a short meeting at the Institute that Charles was present at, and though he put on a brave face Thomas saw how upset Alastair was as he turned to leave the first chance he got. “Alastair, wait.”

“I’m in a hurry, Thomas,” Alastair says quickly, not pausing.

“I can see that. And I get it. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright,” Thomas manages to say, a bit out of breath from needing to practically run to catch up to Alastair.

“I’m fine,” Alastair says, the words short and empty.

“You’re not,” Thomas insists.

“Then why ask if you already know the answer,” Alastair snaps, stopping to round on Thomas accusingly. There’s heat in his eyes but Thomas instinctively knows it’s not really aimed at him, even as their gazes lock.

“Because I hoped you’d be honest with me,” Thomas admits. “I thought… maybe you’d want someone to talk to.”

“I-,” Alastair starts, and for a fleeting moment of hope, Thomas thinks he’ll agree. Then just as quickly Alastair’s gaze shifts to a spot over Thomas’ shoulder. “I don’t. Go back to your friends, Lightwood.”

Alastair’s cold tone feels like a slap, as does the use of his last name. Thomas wonders if he means it or if he’s just saying it for Thomas’ benefit, so Matthew and James don’t give him a hard time for talking with Alastair.

“I don’t care what they think,” Thomas says quietly. “You know that, don’t you? If you need someone, even just a friend, I’ll be there. Just say the word.”

“I’m fine,” Alastair insists one last time, before turning and walking away.

Thomas watches him leave with a sigh before heading back to his friends. They’ve gotten better at not poking Thomas about his friendship with Alastair, even though they dislike it. Thomas does his best not to glare daggers at Charles, trying not to make it obvious what he and Alastair were discussing, and suggests they leave before he does something foolish.

After that meeting, Thomas goes out of his way to talk to Alastair every day, no matter how often Alastair shuts down any attempt at a serious conversation. He volunteers to deliver messages to the Carstairs family whenever possible in the hopes that Alastair will be the one who answers the door, just to see him. He even bribes Mr. Herondale to put them on the same patrol rotations.

It takes a bit of wearing down, but soon Alastair is beginning to open up to him. Their conversations grow easier and easier until it feels a bit like Paris all over again with the startling simplicity of how well they seem to fit. Thomas wants them to be something more than friends, but he doesn’t push it. Right now, Alastair just needs someone on his side, someone he can trust, and Thomas is more than happy to be that person for him.

The only issue is that Alastair refuses to talk about anything serious or meaningful. Any time the topic shifts to Charles or something else Thomas thinks is bothering Alastair, Alastair changes the subject to local demon activity, or the plot of the latest book he’s reading, or something safe. They’re getting along great, but it’s entirely superficial, and it’s more than a little frustrating.

Still, everything is going well enough until the day of Cordelia and James’ engagement party when Matthew tells him the truth about the rumors started about their parents. The rumors Alastair started. Thomas doesn’t want to believe it, and even when he knows it's true there’s a part of him that still wants to talk to Alastair about it.

Except, he thinks to himself bitterly in his anger, what good is talking when he obviously can’t trust Alastair to be forthright with him? And it isn’t as if Alastair is willing to discuss anything serious with him, and this? This is as serious as it gets. This is his family.

So Thomas allows his frustrations to get the better of him.

Perhaps threatening to punch Alastair if he ever approaches him or his friends is a bit overkill, but Thomas thinks that after a betrayal of this magnitude he deserves a bit of dramatics. Instead of feeling satisfied when he spots Alastair turning with shimmering eyes to leave the party, however, all Thomas feels is worse.

He continues to feel worse the next day, and the day after that. He can’t even ignore the pain Alastair is obviously in because Matthew points it out at every turn to revel in it, noting when Alastair skips training and rearranges his patrols to be alone or with Cordelia instead of any of them.

Finally, a week after the last time he spoke to Alastair, Thomas manages to pull Cordelia aside.

“I wanted to ask after Alastair,” he says, doing his best to sound casual.

Cordelia, to his surprise, smiles. “That’s interesting,” she says. “Because he asked after you just yesterday.”

Thomas tries not to show how secretly glad he is to hear that. “Oh?”

“And it seems to me that perhaps the two of you should simply ask one another,” Cordelia continues pointedly.

Thomas looks guilty, and more than a little embarrassed.

“I’m afraid I ruined any chance of that,” Thomas admits.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Cordelia replies. “Mother will be out after noon tomorrow, and if you happen to come by I’ll make sure my brother answers the door.”

With that, Cordelia heads back to the others, leaving Thomas to debate his plans for the following day.

---

Thomas knocks at the door and waits. The longer the knock goes unanswered the more he worries that maybe Cordelia told Alastair he was coming and this is Alastair intentionally avoiding him. Perhaps he could knock again, or maybe he should just leave, or--

Alastair opens the door, takes one glance at Thomas, and looks as if he’s about to shut it in his face a moment later. He doesn’t, to Thomas’ relief.

“Cordelia is busy at the moment,” Alastair says instead, his tone cold. “But you can come in and wait if you must”

“Actually,” Thomas says, fidgeting a bit with the hem of his sleeve. “I’m here to speak with you. If you’ll allow me.”

Alastair considers this and Thomas waits in silence that, despite being only seconds long, feels as if it stretches on for hours.

“Come in,” Alastair says finally, stepping aside to let Thomas enter. “We can talk in the study.”

Thomas can’t help but look pleased with this, allowing himself a small smile in spite of his nerves as he enters the Carstairs home.

“Right,” Thomas says, once they’re situated in the study and there’s no more putting the conversation off. “I guess I’ll start.”

Thomas takes a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though the words scream of not enough, they’re the best starting point he has.

Alastair looks incredulous. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas repeats. “And I’ll say it as many times as I have to until you believe I mean it. I’ve spent so much time trying to convince you that you can trust me and confide in me. Saying I’d be there for you… and then I ruined that in one fit of anger rather than taking the time to talk about it, or even think about it properly first. I know you’ve changed since the Academy, I know that better than anyone, and I shouldn’t have been so quick or so severe with my reaction at the party,” Thomas says. Once the words start it sounds as if they tumble out of Thomas’ lips in a rush. Indeed, he takes a moment to catch his breath after.

Which is good, because Alastair looks as if he needs more than a moment to process all of that.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Alastair says finally. “I should be the one apologizing. What I did back then, what I said- it’s unforgivable. Matthew has every right to hate me for it, as do you, and if I were a better person I would’ve admitted to my role in it sooner. I’d hoped it’d stay in the past, that I’d never have to see that look of disappointment that crossed your face when you found out, even if I deserved that and so much more.”

Their words hang heavy between them. There’s the comfort of the apologies, but this transgression feels too big to be solved by a few words.

“You should know,” Alastair adds slowly. “I wanted to show up at your door every day for the past week and apologize. ”

“Why didn’t you?” Thomas asks.

“Because I wanted to respect your wishes. I hurt you and you needed space and if I could do nothing else, I could at least give you that. For as long as you needed it - forever, if it came to that, though I wished desperately it wouldn’t.”

Alastair’s voice is soft, it’s fragile and vulnerable and everything Thomas knows no one but him gets to see. He also knows how difficult it is for Alastair to admit things like that, even to him.

“I don’t want space,” Thomas admits. “It might take more than one talk to put this behind us, but I do think we can move past this. But we both have to be honest with each other. It won’t work if you can’t come to me with things - anything, but especially things like this. Promise me?”

For the first time in the past week, Alastair smiles, and the sight of it warms Thomas’ very soul.

“Before I might not have been so sure, but I don’t think I could stand to lose you like that twice. I missed you dearly, Thomas. I know I had no right to, that it’s my own fault, but it’s the truth. So yes, I believe that’s something I can do.”

Thomas feels that familiar swoop in his stomach that comes so often when Alastair is entirely genuine with him like this.

“I missed you, too,” Thomas returns. He knows they’ll have to talk about it more, but he thinks they’ve done enough for one day. It’s a good start, and he doesn't want to push too much, too soon.

“I’ve also missed your literature updates,” Thomas continues. Alastair ranting to Thomas about the plot in whatever novel he’s picked up most recently has become a bit of a thing between them, and it’s just the sort of normalcy they need right then, Thomas thinks.

Alastair, who settles back into his chair as if preparing for a long rant, seems to agree.

“Forget the past week - the ending to my last book was horrendous and I’m not even going to bore you with the droll recounting of it. I’m not sure I could stand to relive it,” Alastair sighs. “However, this new book I picked up yesterday seems promising…”

Thomas settles in as well, glad he came here today. He knows it likely won’t be the last time one of them pushes the other away, but now he also knows that’s something they can come back from - something they both want to come back from.

As many times as it takes.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man in his Castle

Warnings: noncon sex. Let’s not be fools here. You know what I write.

This is dark!Charles Blackwood and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A co-ed discovers that money is still king.

Note: Charles is fun because he’s already horrible. I know my summary sucks but I hope you all enjoy this. It takes place in the 1960s so keep that in mind and enjoy! But let me know what you think in reblog or reply and slap a like on there <3

There were more than a dozen girls squeezed into the windowless classroom in the basement of Victory Hall. The book club had grown quite a bit since your first week on campus. The Brownies, you called yourself. An ironic play upon a lifetime of ridicule.

Every Friday night you met in some abandoned room bartered off the registrar and set to discussing your most recent read. Sheila was the leader; bolder than you as she fostered your sprout of an idea. She was cooler, calmer, and by all means, more radical. And she was a senior.

The flock of freshmen looked up to her and the few other older girls in the group. She had brought along with her, Linda and Patty; the former with her stiff turtlenecks and the latter her faded beret. These were the types your mother had warned you against. Peddling their liberalism in the name of Kennedy and Kruschev.

That week, your group had chosen Miller’s famed play, The Crucible; still relevant despite a decade past. Though the red scare had faded to orange, there was still a breath of suspicion in the air. As people marched in the streets and sat-in at diners and cafes, the old breed was growing nervous. The world was about to change, with or without them.

You sat amid the circle with your worn copy against your knee. You took turns reading the lines and pausing to discuss the intricate and yet overt allusions made by the playwright. The furor of the blacklist which still lingered in the air. A paranoia much broader than years before. No longer just the Reds, but all who spoke of equality and freedom; no longer exclusive to a single group. The same tensions which kept you in the basement with the dingy old desks.

You couldn’t help but smile at the group of girls. When you’d arrived on campus, you were certain you’d be the same loner as before. Solitary nights spent barricaded in your dorm only to lose yourself in the crowd of the lecture hall. 

But Sheila had changed that. She was in your elective Lit class, filling a void in her audit so that she could graduate on time. You had lost yourself in a discussion of Marx and the mounting tensions with the East; not that they ever really subsided. 

Then she invited you to meet Linda and Patty for a drink. Your lack of ID didn’t keep you from the chance to make friends as she knew the doorman by name. That was when you mentioned the club. It was just you and your friend, Elsie. Not really a club, more so a pair of girls with nothing better to do. But Sheila liked it and the next week, she had six new girls to add to your duo.

Now, you were a full blown corps. The three seniors and at least fifteen freshmen, a few in between to fill out the circle. 

Sheila snapped her book shut and declared the end of the night as she checked her watch. 

“We’ll finish next week,” She chimed. “Granted we don’t devolve so easily again.”

The girls giggled and began to pack up. You stood and shoved your book into your leather bag. Sheila stood with Linda at the back of the circle and Patty offered a goodbye to each girl as they left. Most did so in pairs or trios. Safety in numbers.

Your dorm wasn’t far and so you would keep a brisk pace with your keys in hand. You turned and Sheila called to you before you could reach the door. You spun back and neared her and Linda.

“Hey, you need a walking partner?” She asked. “Me and Linda are head down the The Cask. We’ll be headed past yours.”

“If you’re headed that way,” You accepted eagerly.

You helped rearrange the chairs and desk with the three seniors. Patty left on her own as Sheila locked the door. You walked on her right as Linda kept to her left and made your way out of the depths of Victory Hall. The night was cool but not bitter. You pulled your collar up as you passed between the carefully trimmed hedges.

“You sure you don’t want to come for a drink?” Linda asked. “Seeing as Patty ditched us.”

“Oh, you know she has that boy waiting for her,” Sheila countered.

“Um, no, I have an early morning,” You replied. “But thanks.”

“What about next weekend?” Sheila asked.

“Next weekend?” You wondered.

“Wanna come to a party?”

“A… a senior party?” You glanced over at her as you tucked your hands in your pockets.

“Oh, no, it’s not on campus,” She trilled. “But I think you’d like it.”

“Off-campus?” You said surprised. “Really?”

“A bit of an older crowd but…” She lowered her voice, “Of a similar mind as us.”

Your eyes widened. You blinked at her and she laughed.

“Oh calm down, they’re no interlopers, merely open-minded,” She assured you. “You have to realize that this little club, that’s a children’s game. If you’re serious, these are the people you need to rub shoulders with.”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty seedy downtown and the last time--”

“Downtown?” She scoffed. “Oh, this is different from that hole in the wall.”

“Where--”

“Uptown, actually,” She preened. “You know, we do have allies with money. They hide among the enemy until we can truly act.”

“I don’t know. That sounds--”

“You worry too much. It’s not illegal to meet people who think like you do,” She said. “Otherwise us Brownies would be akin to the mob.”

You laughed at yourself and watched your scuffed shoes on the sidewalk. “I guess you’re right. Um, what kind of party is it, exactly?”

“Wear something nice,” She picked a thread from your jacket. “Fancy dress hides a humble heart.”

You nodded and gripped the strap of your bag. “Sure, why not?” You shrugged.

“I’ll see you in Lit,” She stopped just outside your gate. “I’ll give you the details then. You should ask Elsie to come with you.”

“Alright,” You breathed. “Yeah, I’ll ask her.”

“Have a good night,” She sang and Linda echoed her. 

“You, too.” You smiled.

You turned and unlocked your gate as their heels continued down the pavement. You let yourself inside and listened until there was silence. You were happy to have friends, happier that you were so much alike, but the thought of a party had your stomach aflutter.

🏰

You found your only formal dress. Rather, your most formal dress. A long-sleeved black number that flared at the knee. You wore the simple silver chain your mother gifted you for your high school graduation and a pair of kitten heels. You hugged yourself with a red shawl and grabbed your purse.

Elsie waited just outside your dorm room. She looked as nervous as you felt. The lack of details gave both of you the jitters. You were two shy girls who found each other among the sea of students. You took comfort in knowing you weren’t the only one in over your head.

And Sheila would be there too. She could help you maneuver your way through this maze of etiquette and idealism.

You took a bus as far as you could but at the last stop, you were still three blocks away from the place. Blackwood Manor. Sheila’s loopy cursive marked it on the corner of paper. The house on the hill, she said, can’t miss it.

The gates towered over you as you approached. Tinted lanterns lit the walkway and you pressed the button over the small speaker box. A dull voice greeted you from the other side.

“Um, hello,” Elsie squeezed your arm as you bent to speak into the box. “We’re here for the party.”

“Par-ty?” The voice said.

“We’re friends of, uh, Sheila.” You replied nervously.

“Ah, yes, Miss Sheila.” The crackle died and the gate clicked. 

You looked to Elsie and a man in grey neared from the other side. He pulled open the gate and removed his cap as he waited for you to enter. A car drove up, its bright headlights washed over you, as you walked up the drive and the gates man spoke with its occupants.

At the front door, you met with a man with grey hair and the same even tone that rose from the speaker. He took your shawl and Elsie’s coat and directed you to the next room. You detached Elsie from your arm and gave her a look. She smiled tensely and smoothed the front of her dress.

The sparkle of the chandelier drew your eyes first. The light refracted from the crystals and illuminated the large room. Men in suits stood around with drinks in hand and chattered. You heard the next guests enter behind you and stepped out of their way.

You spotted Sheila in the far corner, a broad pair of shoulders left her barely visible. There were several other girls you recognized; Linda. Darla and Colleen, two other Brownies, and even a couple girls from your Lit class. Every women in the room was barely that; they were all bright-eyed co-eds amid a conclave of stiff-lipped men.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine but resisted the shiver. You were just anxious about all these strangers. It was natural to be a little nervous.

Elsie followed you across the room and smiled at Sheila over the shoulder of the man she spoke to. She waved you over and the man turned to look at you. His blue eyes flicked from you to Elsie and back again. His expression was placid as he buttoned his jacket.

“Charles, these are my friends,” She introduced you and Elsie, “And this is Charles Blackwood, our host.”

He seemed to recall himself and shook your hand and then Elsie’s. His grip was firm and his expression unbreakable. He was entirely unimpressed by you and your plain black dress.

“You have a beautiful house,” You offered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so… grand.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” He said tersely as his eyes explored the room. “Sheila, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Gerald.”

“Of course,” She kissed his cheek and his lip curled before he walked away. “Sorry about him,” Sheila turned to you. “He’s a bit antsy, you know? Always is on nights like these.”

“I never…” You looked at Elsie as her eyes bounced around in wonder, “I never would think anyone who lived like this would you know, agree with us.”

“Oh, but we already know money isn’t everything,” She said. “You know, these men, they know that and they want to use their money for good. They want to make sure that students like us make it through college and go on to speak our truth to the world.”

She stopped a man passing by and took a wine glass from his tray. She offered you it and grabbed another for Elsie and herself. She batted her lashes at the waiter and returned her attention to you.

“Which is why you should loosen up and talk to some of these men,” She advised. “They are much preferable to the boys on campus and much more powerful. My second year, I had my tuition paid in full by one of Charles’ friends.”

“Wow,” Elsie gasped. “Really?”

“Consider it a grant,” Sheila explained. “Spread the wealth, right?”

“I suppose…” You uttered.

“Oh, there’s Patty,” Sheila perked up. “I knew she’d be the last one here. Pardon me a moment.”

“Alright,” You turned and watched her go as she waved over the heads to her friend. 

You brought the glass to your lips and the alcohol burned your nostrils. Your stomach turned and you lowered the flute. Elsie drank deeply as you glanced around. A man with thick silver hair and a sharp aquiline nose stared at you from across the room.

You fidgeted and slipped behind Elsie to set your glass down.

“You should take it easy,” You warned her as she gulped down the wine. 

🏰

The man with silver hair introduced himself as Harry. You weren’t fond of him as he talked of his new car and something about a cottage up north. You were confused. Sheila intimated that these people were like you; maybe not communists are heart, but left-leaning at least. They surely didn’t sound like it.

You glanced around for the umpteenth time and frowned. You didn’t see Sheila or Linda or Patty. Elsie was with a man in a striped suit, Darla and Colleen sipped from glasses as they listened to a pair of men banter, and you were stuck in the corner with this grey-haired boor.

You excused yourself, claiming to need the powder room, and walked along the wall as you searched the room. The seniors were gone. And something else caught your eye. The men drank from their stout tumblers and the women, more aptly girls, all held champagne flute. Yours was still on the table, untouched.

You neared Elsie and excused your interruption as you turned her away from her companion. You lowered your voice.

“Have you seen Sheila?” You asked.

She shook her head and wobbled. She giggled as she steadied herself with your arm. “Nope!”

“How much of that have you had?” You took her glass from her.

“This is only my…. Third,” She counted on her fingers.

“Well, I think three is enough,” You said. “Why don’t you come to the restroom with me? Splash some water on your face?”

“No, no,” She shrugged you off. “I’m talking to Gerald.” She turned back and smiled at the balding man. “He has a fellowship.”

“Elsie,” You drew her back. “Something’s… wrong.”

“What do you mean?” She hiccuped. “It’s all quite fine, isn’t it?”

“Just…” You peeked over your shoulder. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere else.”

She rolled her eyes and you sighed. You left her reluctantly and stopped a waiter as you neared the main archway. You asked him where the restroom was and ducked into the hallway. You passed by the foot of the staircase towards the next and paused. 

You peered around the wall and pulled back. You slipped off your heels and looked back at the room that swirled with voices. You tiptoed to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. You searched for a mechanism but there was only the intricately wrought handle. 

You went back to the stairs and listened to the buzz from the front room. You climbed a step at a time as your ears perked up at every creak and crack. You wondered what had happened to Sheila and the others. It was unlike them to leave early. And why was the door locked?

You found a window and carefully turned the latch. You shifted it up and cringed as the wood loudly rubbed together. You stuck your head out and stared down at the grass below. There was a tree not far from you, a few windows away.

“Can I help you?” The voice frightened you and you hit your head on the window as you reeled back. You turned to your host, Charles, as he leaned against the bannister.

“I was… looking for Sheila.” You lied.

“Oh, outside?” He wondered with a smirk.

“Well, no, I just needed a breath of fresh air so I thought…” Your voice trailed off as he stood straight.

“The party’s downstairs,” He said evenly. “I’m sure you just missed her.”

You stared at him. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Your heart dropped and your heels threatened to slip from your sweaty hand.

“She’s gone,” You said. His lips curved again and he chuckled. “What’s going on here?”

He inched forward as he pushed back his jacket and shoved a hand in his pocket.

“She did her job. Delivered what she promised.” He said coolly. “Can you blame her for cutting out?”

“What--” You backed up until you were against the window ledge. “I don’t understand.”

“You tried the front door, didn’t you?” 

You blinked and your shoes fell from your grasp.

“You think you can get to that tree? Even if you moved a few windows to the left?” He got closer. “Or maybe… you think you can get past me.”

Your lips parted as his features hardened. His brow twitched as he held your gaze. He didn’t look away as he knelt and grabbed your shoe. He took your foot and shoved the kitten heel on. He did the other and stood.

“Let’s go back to the party,” He growled. “It’s only just getting started.”

🏰

You stood against the wall as the room spun. Your chest was filled with doom as you looked around at the girls in their sheath dresses and chunky heels. Many shared the same glazed look as Elsie. They swayed just a little, giggled airily, and their eyelashes drooped. They were barely awake on their feet.

The man who answered the door stood beside you. He squinted at you every now and then. Charles had told him to keep an eye on you. You watched the host of the event disappear through another doorway. You thought of the invisible lock and the tree just a few windows down.

It was that crushing sense of defeat when you knew loss was imminent but unavoidable. So you watched it slowly creep forward until finally you had to submit. You shivered and shook your head at yourself. Sheila had done this. Ensnared all these girls in whatever sick game this was.

Time dragged. You watched the servers offer their tainted champagne and the girls all too ignorant to realize that something was amiss. Your eyes stung and you gripped your purse tight. Whatever was planned, it couldn’t be good.

The clinking of metal on glass silenced the room. Your eyes were drawn with every other to the other side. The men exchanged knowing looks. The girls were confused but not suspicious. They looked to Charles as he relinquished the glass and knife to a server. He grinned at his rapt audience.

“Shall we commence with our evening?” He asked; the men nodded and mumbled in agreement. The girls frowned and wavered on their feet. “Very well. Girls…”

He waved an arm to his left and the waiters, now free of their trays, dispersed to herd the girls to the other side of the room. You were led along with them and stood in the row of drunken co-eds. For a moment, you wished you had drank the wine. That you could be as oblivious as the rest.

The girl at the head of the line was ushered forward to stand beside Charles. Her red hair hung in ringlets and her cheeks were rosy with alcohol. He asked her her name and she slurred “Carrie.” He repeated it for all to hear and shouted a number. Ten thousand.

A man raised his hand and Charles called eleven thousand. Another gestured and the number went up again. Again. Again. Carrie was visibly confused as she tried to keep up. She couldn’t. She was sold for twenty-five thousand and ushered into the arms of her buyer.

Elsie was next. She could barely stand as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Eighteen thousand for the mousy-haired girl. Colleen went for about the same and Darla was in tears as she was bartered for an even twenty. 

You were near the end of the line. You marched up to the front and bit down as you stared at the bourgeois bastards. Harry was the first to bid for you. Your stomach flipped. Then another man you hadn’t even spoken to. You could see only his hand as he reached above the crowd. 

The bids bounced back and forth, Harry cursed as he wondered who was so determined to have you. You sold for forty thousand to the faceless man. You were shown out the side door by a waiter as the last girl was brought up to stand by Charles. 

You stood alone in a long dining room with a large table and more than a dozen chairs. You turned as the doors slid closed and faced the grey-haired man who had greeted you in his monotone at the door. You thought he was the help. You grimaced at him.

“You?” You sputtered.

“No,” He said blandly. “Not me.”

“Then…” You couldn’t finish as you were certain you knew the answer.

You swallowed and spun away from him. You gripped the back of a chair and placed your purse on the table. The furor from the other room reached a peak and then began to dwindle. The grey-haired man glanced at the doors.

“I must attend to the coats,” He announced. “Do not stray. He will be mad.”

You sighed as he slipped through the door. A hand kept them from closing and you watched the doorman rush away. Charles stepped through and shut the doors. He took a breath as he turned to you. He fixed his lapels as he stopped across the table from you. 

“What?” You hissed as he stared at you.

“No… thanks?” He asked.

“Thanks?” You narrowed your eyes. “For what?”

“Don’t tell me you wanted to fuck one of those old men?”

You blanched at his language and your lip curled in revulsion. He laughed.

“Don’t worry. I only need… a maid.” He smirked.

“A maid?” You wondered.

“Cooking. Cleaning.” He tapped two fingers on the table as he spoke. “They ever write about that in your books?”

Your eyes were glossy as you gulped. You were furious, frightened, and frustrated.

“You girls think you know it all,” He scoffed. “There’s a lot they don’t put in books.”

“No, there are horror stories,” You assured him. “Of repulsive monsters and their nasty ways.”

He chuckled and rounded the table. He stopped just beside you as his hand closed over your purse. He slowly lifted the strap from your shoulders and batted your hand away before you could stop him.

“Trust me,” He said as he flipped it open and looked inside. “There is no monster like me.”

🏰

You were shown to a room with a barred window. It didn’t matter as it was in the basement and so narrow that you couldn’t hope to fit through it. The door was locked but even so, there was a man without. You could see his shadow under the door and hear him cough every now and again.

You didn’t sleep much. There was a blanket on the floor beside some dusty boxes. You sat against the wall and dozed in spurts. The night replayed in your head on a loop. Then all those moments you’d spent with Sheila. How she had lied so easily. Was she even a student? 

Didn’t matter now. The sun rose slowly through the small window and the door opened shortly after. You were given a black dress, stockings, and a pair of black shoes. Nothing else. You were taken to a shower hidden in the cellar; the water was cold and you washed quickly in the closet-like restroom.

You dressed and contemplated turning your underwear inside out. They were too worn to re-use. You left them with the rest of your clothes and emerged in your uniform. The man in black who had spent his night outside your door was mute. You weren’t sure entirely if by choice.

Your first task was to clean the main room, still dirtied from the party. The grey-haired man, Albert, told you so and recited your list of chores. The kitchen would be next and then you were to sweep the upstairs corridors and check every room in case it needed dusting or new linens.

It took you hours to tidy up after the previous nights’ guests. When the glasses were cleaned, you stacked them in the cupboards and wiped the counters. Alone, you went to the back door. It was locked too. The windows on this floor only opened two inches. You cursed.

You climbed the stairs with a broom and pan and set to the endless tedium of sweeping every corner. That took another hour, if not more. You emptied the pan downstairs in the bin and returned with a duster. 

You knocked on each door before you entered. Most were pristine and required only a touch up. When you reached the end of the next hallway, your rap was answered as the door opened from the other side. 

Charles wore only an undershirt and pants as he looked you up and down. He waved you in wordlessly. You entered and set to dusting the mantle and all its ornaments. He moved around behind you and stopped in a doorway just left of the bed.

“I expect you to do more than dust in here,” He said. “Grab some fresh linen when you get the chance.”

He slipped through the door but left it open an inch. You huffed and continued on lazily. Call it spite or your fleeting mind. You tried the window. It opened but there was no way down. You closed it and turned away.

You went to find the sheets and when you had discovered the trove of pressed and folded cotton, you returned to the room. You could hear the soft ripple of water through the small doorway. You set the sheets down at the foot of the bed. You cleared the wrinkled clothing from the chair and dropped them in the hamper.

“Girl,” Charles’ deep timbre called sternly. “Girl.”

Your cheek twitched. He knew your name. You sneered and quickly wiped it away as you neared the door. You pushed it open hesitantly as you peered through.

“Towel,” He demanded.

He sat in the deep tub, his dark hair damp and his broad chest bare above the water. You tore your eyes away and grabbed the towel from its rack. As you faced him, he stood and the water dripped down his body shamelessly. You unfolded the towel and held it up so that you could not see all of him.

“Well,” He waved you closer and snatched it from you. 

He stepped out onto the bathmat and fanned the towel around his body. You looked away quickly and a soft chuckle escaped him as he secured the towel at his waist. He passed you, his wet arm touched your sleeve and he neared the mirror as he admired his freshly shaved face.

“Did you make the bed?” He asked.

You shook your head and turned to return to the bedroom.

“Wait,” He stopped you. “That’s ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’.”

“No, sir,” You said bitterly. 

“Then you better get to it,” He rebuffed.

You swept through and moved the new sheets to the chair before you stripped the mattress. He leaned in the doorway as he watched you. You could feel him as you moved around the bed and stretched the cotton over the corners. You spread out the top sheet and replaced the quilt over top. You changed the pillowcases and fluffed them. 

Done, you bundled up the old bedding in your arm. He went to the bed and dragged his fingers along the quilt. He grasped the blankets and tore them from the mattress. 

“Tuck in the edges,” He said. “Now, fix your mistake.”

“Yes,” You gritted. “Sir.”

You dropped the old sheets in the chair once more and set to redoing your work. He stood at the foot of the bed and when you slipped past him, you felt a brush across your ass. You ignored it, content to think it was natural friction, and carried on. You could feel the heat of his gaze upon you and as you faced him, it was confirmed.

“Very nice,” He commented. “You learn… quickly.”

“Quicker than the others?” You asked. “Huh? How many have you bought? What did you do to them?”

“Oh, you’re mistaken,” He said. “I’m not a buyer, I’m a seller… but well, I decided to indulge myself last night.”

Your mouth was dry. You turned and grabbed the linen again. As you backed up, you were stopped by a figure behind you. His arm stretched out around you and he held his towel out. Slowly, he released it and it flapped to the floor.

“You don’t learn that quick though,” He mused as his hand settled on your shoulder. “You think I would spend that much money on a maid.” His fingers crawled along your neck. He gripped your jaw as he pressed himself against you. You felt the prod of his arousal through your skirt. “But it was fun to watch you try.”

“Why me?” You breathed as he gripped your arms and pulled them away from the laundry. The bundle fell to the chair and drooped down onto the floor.

“Because you’re the first to figure it out,” He answered. 

“Please,” You begged weakly as he pulled your arms back and rolled his hips so that he poked you.

“Get on the chair.” He ordered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stood staring at the yellow wallpaper with its golden lilies. You turned slightly and he caught you. 

“No, don’t turn around.” His voice sent a shiver through you.

Your lip trembled and you lifted a knee, then the other. His hands ran up your arms and around your back. He shoved you so you caught yourself against the back of the chair. You tensed as his hands fell to your hips and over your ass.

He squeezed and stepped between your ankles so that his legs were against the seat. He ran his hands down your thighs and kneaded through the skirt. He reached the hem and slowly raised it an inch at a time. When it was higher than your stockings, your hand flew back to stop him.

He grabbed your wrist and twisted until you cried out.

“If you scream, there’s no one here who will care,” He snarled. “And they certainly won’t help you.”

He pushed your hand away and tore your skirt up over your ass. He slapped you so hard you yelped. You could feel the heat of his palm across your ass even after it was gone. He bunched your skirts around your waist and hummed in approval.

“You look nice in black,” He said, “Better out of it.”

You kept your eyes forward. You couldn’t have looked at him if you wanted. This man, this stranger, was touching you like no one had before. And he meant to do more. Because he owned you.

His hand snaked around your hip and down your pelvis. He tickled the hair there and slid lower. You tried to press your thighs together but your ankles hit his legs. He tutted and leaned against you.

“I’m being nice,” He warned. “I don’t have to be.”

You grabbed his hand and shoved it away. He struck your ass again as he stood straight. He grasped the back of your neck and pushed your head down against the back of the chair. Your fingers clutched at the cushion beside your face as he held you there.

“I told you last night,” He pinched your thigh. “I can be the worst fiend you’ve ever known.”

He pushed his knees up on the chair between yours. His fingers crawled around your hip again and along your pelvis. He pushed two down along your folds. He rubbed your bud with his middle finger as he spread your lips. He flicked and teased until your hips bucked.

“Not so bad…” He purred. “Am I?”

“Stop,” You begged as his grip tightened on your neck. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t just let you go,” He said. “That’d be a poor investment. Even you could see that.”

He dipped his finger inside of you and you inhaled sharply. He drew it in and out and added another. Your thighs shook and your fingers bent against the cushion.

“You don’t realize how fucking lucky you got,” He pushed his palm to your clit as he rocked his hand. “Those other men; old men, they’d fuck you for two seconds before they blew. Leave you there, unsatisfied, discarded. The girls never last long.”

He curled his fingers and moved his hand faster.

“The men get bored. Naturally, they’re greedy,” His nose tickled your ear as his breath glossed over your cheek. “Or maybe the girl gets pregnant. No good. Send her away. Don’t care where, just don’t want to hear about her ever again.” 

He nuzzled your hair as your breaths grew laboured. You found it hard to resist the heat that radiated from his touch. You shook as you tried to force the ripples back down.

“So, you keep me happy, girl,” He sneered. “And you might just last.”

You squealed as you came. You were ashamed and astounded. You’d never felt so… much. Never felt anything so deeply. You quivered around his hand and he slowly drew away and wiped his wet fingers on your bunched up skirt.

He reached between your thighs and you felt his length rub against your ass. He teased you and dragged his fingers along your ass. He pressed his tip to your skin and guided it down. He squeezed your neck and you whimpered. He pushed against your entrance and paused.

“You’re not…” He began and thrust inside of you all at once. “Well, it doesn’t really matter.”

Your walls ached as he filled you. The pain was nothing compared to relief that washed over you. You hadn’t realized how much you longed for that feeling. His hand slid from your neck and he gripped your shoulder. His other went to your hip and he rocked his hips.

You grunted as he thrust. You wanted it to end but you also didn’t want him to stop. He was relentless and impatient. You expected little else from the steely man. You quaked as his pelvis slapped against your ass. The noise echoed off the corners of the room, interspersed with his low groans and you pathetic mewls.

He moved your body against his as he plunged deeper and deeper. He sped up, driven by your helpless moans as you clawed at the upholstered chair. You wanted to get away as much as you just wanted to grab onto something steady. You turned your head back and forth as your nerves flared. You shook and gasped as you came again.

“St-st-stop,” You pleaded. “Stop. It’s too--”

He slammed into you so hard you shrieked. He didn’t let up as he crushed you against the back of the chair. He snaked his hand up in front of you and groped your tit as his other arm wrapped around your neck. His thick muscle choked you as he pounded into you and the chair creaked dangerously. You trembled as the ripples washed over you and you skin tingled with the heat of the man behind you.

His thrusts turned sharp and furious. His arm tightened around your neck as he pulled his other hand back. He pushed into as far as he could, holding himself there for just a second each time. His heavy breaths were like hungry growls in your ear.

He pulled out of you suddenly and you felt his knuckles against your ass as they moved frantically. A warmth spurted along your lower back and his hand slowed. 

He sighed and unhooked his arm from around your neck. He climbed off the chair and smacked your ass again. It stung so much you were certain there was already a bruise.

“Clean yourself up.” He demanded as he sat on the bed heavily. “Then take that damn dress off.”

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night Part XV

(A/N at end)

Parts I-XIV:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Here is Part XI

Here is Part XII

Part XIII

Part XIV

Part XV

Lucie’s Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel’s house was an old brick-fronted Georgian house near the railway station. A suite of severe bottle green horsehair furniture occupied the dark-paneled front room, and Lucie tried not to slide about as she waited perched on the edge of a curlicued sofa. Heavy curtains disguised the elegance of the large windows and stopped the sun from penetrating. A thick Turkey rug in shades of purple and brown added notes of affluence. As she waited, she grew quietly more agitated at the impending conversation she had been practicing since dawn with Grace Blackthorn, of all people. She wished she had the moral strength, or the disciple to stay away as Jesse had requested, but considering what he requested was frot with idiocy and a cruelty unlike himself, she decided to ignore it. Still, after three days of his absence, she could almost feel him smirking in disapproval behind her, but without the courage to face her.

Or perhaps he was being as stubborn as she was.

Impossible, she was far more stubborn.

At last a door opening in the paneling and Aunt Cecily with her dark hair curled and pinned to rest against the nape of her neck, arrived with Grace following behind her. The girl always reminded Lucie more of a ghost than her brother ever did.

“I’ll have some tea brought in,” said Aunt Cecily. “You girls let me know if there is anything else I can bring you.”

“Thank you,” said Lucie, without taking her eyes off of Grace, as her Aunt quietly left the room. When the door clicked shut behind her, Lucie removed her gloves one at a time and placed them on the wooden coffee table in front of her. “And thank you for agreeing to meet with me. My aunt says that you haven’t been accepting much company. Is that because they all know what a conniving monster you are and you’re afraid of what they’ll say... or because you’re embarrassed by what they know?”

“Can it be both?” Grace asked down at her folded hands.

Lucie tilted her head. “You don’t get to sit up here and feel sorry for yourself.”

“That’s not what—“

“Not when my friend is lying on her death bed because of your selfish actions,” she said, straightening her posture as the maid walked in with a silver tray of tea and freshly baked biscuits. “Would you like some tea?” asked Lucie with contempt.

Grace shook her head.

“What you did was utterly abhorrent,” started Lucie, as she poured herself a cup. “Shackling my brother with some dark magic when he was nothing but a stupid, idiotic boy, without the brains or know-how to refuse a beautiful girl; all these years just stringing him along like a lost dog to use for your entertainment when you felt like it. Then, when he was finally free of you; engaged to the most perfect of humans to walk the earth since Raziel himself, and you kiss him, in front of his betrothed.”

“I can explain,” said Grace, though she kept her eyes on her hands which Lucie could now see were trembling.

“I didn’t come here for shallow explanations,” said Lucie, surprised by her cruelty. “If you wish to confess your sins then find a church, I am not here to pardon you. I am here about your brother.”

Grace’s eyes lifted then and widened at Lucie’s words.

“Jesse Blackthorn,” said Lucie. “And don’t bother telling me that he’s dead and has been for years, I already know all of this. What I want to know is where you have his body and your plan for resurrecting him?”

Grace peered at her closely as if looking for signs of madness.

While Lucie would have much rather found this knowledge out herself, she’d come to realize after hours of laborious concentration that if she were going to bring Jesse back from the dead without the last breath of his life, then she was going to need some assistance. And since Jesse, the heartless coward, was no longer responding to her, she decided that the only person in the world that she could possibly alliance herself with was Grace. Grace who lived with the corpse of her dead brother for years inside a dusty old manor. She realized that he may never speak to her again if she did manage to raise him from the dead, but at least he’d be alive.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Grace. Still looking slightly confused. If Lucie didn’t know better, she might believe her blank expression.

“Since you’ve stained yourself an unbelievable liar and a pathetic loner, I’m going to tell you a secret of mine that no one else in the entire world knows aside from my awful brother, but before I disclose this information, if I find out that you’ve told a soul what I’m about to tell you, I will tell everyone what Cordelia and I walked into that night before she left,” said Lucie, looking Grace directly in her solemn silver eyes. “I will destroy your reputation beyond repair that not even Charles Fairchild will stand to look at you.”

Grace’s face dropped, horrified.

“I can commune with the dead,” said Lucie, and sipped her tea. “Your brother,” she willed herself to say his name, “Jesse. I’ve been talking to him for months now. He saved my brother’s life with his last breath that he’d been keeping for himself, for that I owe him more favors than I can possibly repay in this lifetime. I want to help bring him back.”

Grace, who wore an expression, as if Lucie had reached across the room and slapped her suddenly blinked after a long time of not. “Is he here now?”

“No,” said Lucie. “We’re not on speaking terms at the moment. He’s being stubborn. Though, I suspect he’s not far away.”

Grace released a ghost of a laugh that sounded more like a breath. “He’s always been quite stubborn, Jesse. Always.” She gave Lucie a solemn look that roused in her the slightest trickle of sympathy for the girl she considered her enemy. “But I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

“Why not?” Lucie rose as Grace did, preparing to block her path from leaving the room. “Don’t you want to see Jesse alive again? Isn’t that why your mother has been preserving his body all this time? You’ll just leave him to settle in-between realms when he so utterly deserves to return to this one?”

“Of course I want to see my brother alive again,” said Grace. “But you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

Lucy set her teacup and saucer down on the table and straightened again. “I know exactly what I’m asking. I’m not naive enough to think this isn’t dangerous or ridiculous, but I’m also desperate enough to believe that it will work. And since you’ve made yourself quite the social pariah of our small circle, I’m offering you something of a partnership.”

Grace smoothed her pale hands over her lace skirt, embroidered with snowflakes made of gold thread along the hem. “And what would James or Cordelia think of this partnership?”

Without hesitation, Lucie answered. “They needn’t know of it.”

Grace sunk back down onto the sofa, her quicksilver eyes focusing on the teapot in the center of the silver tray as she spoke. “My mother, she was an awful woman— is an awful woman. A tyrant and a bully, but she was not always that way. The world was cruel towards her since her childhood. Death always knocking on her door, but never for her, just for those she loved. It made her cruel and vicious.”

Lucie fought the urge to insist that she already knew all of this and move Grace towards the part where she agreed to help, but she reached for a biscuit instead.

“Death begets death begets death. Did he not tell you, my illusive brother? You cannot take from death without giving to death first and sometimes it takes more than its share.” Grace twisted a silver ring around her middle finger. “I’ll help you, but I’ll ask you first Lucie Herondale, only once and never again, what are you willing to lose to death for the return of my brother? What life are you willing to exchange for his?”

The biscuit turned to ash in her mouth and it took a great effort for her to swallow. Names flashed before her eyes: her mother, her father, James, Cordelia, Uncle Jem, her aunts, uncles, cousins, friends… But before she could answer, her aunt Cecily appeared in the doorway, a letter in the hand that rested at her side.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you girls, but your mother’s sent word,” said Cecily to Lucie. “Cordelia is awake and she’s asking for you.”

Lucie stared out the carriage window the entirety of the drive home, her hands fussing with the fabric of her skirts as London went by out the carriage window. Her thoughts flooded with what Grace had told her about bringing Jesse back from the dead. If what she’d told her was true, and she wasn’t entirely sure that it was, she’d need to find another solution and soon.

Why didn’t Jesse tell her? She wondered. Why didn’t he say anything? He must have known and instead of simply explaining what it would cost to bring him back from death, he ran away like a petulant child.

Recovering her composure by taking a steady breath through her nose and out her mouth, Lucie tried to think about her situation in a less objective way. It was a trick her father had taught her as a child when she was sad or angry. To analyze the problem in a larger, more empirical way would, he always said, improve her mood and her intellect at the same time. Though she now thought it possibly a very unsuitable response to a crying child, she often found herself rearranging her problems as if planning to present them in a small treatise.

Besides, she couldn’t think about her situation with Jesse now. There was a more pressing matter at hand. Cordelia was awake. And Lucie's intricate web of lies to keep Belial’s agenda unknown until she could figure out how to bring Jesse back to life and anyone finding out about her ability would only draw unwanted attention to herself. She needed to know how much Cordelia remembered of what Belial said to Lucie and how much she’d already told the others.

Lucie was out of the carriage before the driver could open the door for her. She gathered her skirts in her hands and took the marble steps two at a time and burst through the doors and nearly slid to a halt on the wood floors as her eyes befell Cordelia standing by the front window between her mother and Alastair.

All of Lucie’s worries suddenly vanished like steam from hot tea into open air.

Cordelia looked a vision standing in front of the floor to ceiling stained glass window, cut with colors to look like a lake with a shining angel hovering above it. Lucie took in every detail in her mind to use in her writing later: elegant in a pink silk dress that hugged her frame. Her vibrant red hair had been twisted back in a coronet with tightly wound curls hanging in her face. Her skin lush with color in her cheeks and her eyes were alert as they caught Lucie. A sad smile broke across Cordelia’s face as she looked upon her friend.

“I’m sorry!” Lucie shrieked and ran the rest of the way towards her friend with arms outstretched. Cordelia opened her own and welcomed Lucie without hesitation. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. I should have been—“

“Careful, Lucie,” said Tessa sitting on the couch between her father and Uncle Jem. “Cordelia is still healing.”

Lucie cursed, which earned her another scolding from both of her parents this time.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated to no one and everyone.

Cordelia’s smile brightened as Lucie released her and stepped back. “It’s alright. I’m not as fragile as they’ll have you believe.”

“She is,” said Sona, who also appeared healthier than when Lucie had seen her last. “She won’t admit it, but she is.”

“I will mind myself perfectly,” promised Lucie, with a nod. She made a face only Cordelia could see and understand, earning herself a laugh from her oldest friend.

“May we have a moment,” asked Cordelia to the people in the room. “I wish to speak to Lucie alone, if that’s all right.”

Sona looked to be about ready to disagree, but Alastair took her hand and led her towards the doorway that went into the dining hall. Tessa, Will, and Jem followed after leaving Cordelia and Lucie alone.

“Should we sit?” asked Lucie. “Are you still in terrible pain?”

“Not so much anymore,” said Cordelia, as she lowered herself onto the sofa. Though the way she angled her body showed that she favored her left side some. Sitting beside Cordelia, Lucie could see what she could not before. The dark shadows underneath Cordelia’s once bright and vibrant eyes, now dull by what she’d seen; what had happened to her. The dryness of her once smooth lips. The veins in her neck and dark bruising along her chest that peaked out from the lace collar of her dress.

The memory of finding Cordelia collapsed in the sand at the feet of Belial, like a broken doll, assaulted Lucie. Her mouth went dry and her eyes burned as the sound of her screaming Cordelia’s name through the wind echoed in her ears.

“You look well,” said Lucie, her throat tight and unlike herself. “You didn’t miss much while you were asleep. We were all scolded something terrible for going after you without informing the adults. We’re all on a strict curfew and cannot go out in large groups unless it’s for something mundane.” She reached forward and took a biscuit from the center of the coffee table. She took a bite and chewed for a moment, dusting the crumbs from her skirt, thinking of a way to approach the Belial subject without frightening Cordelia back into a coma. “Probably for the best. My brother and his band of— whatever they call themselves— can use a little restriction.”

Cordelia tensed a fraction, but enough for Lucie to notice. She quickly went over her words to see what she might have said and realized that her delinquent brother was not amongst the people in the room when she’d arrived.

“You haven’t spoken to him?” asked Lucie.

Cordelia shook her head.

“Good,” said Lucie. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Consider me your personal guard. I will shield you from his presence at all times.”

Cordelia’s mouth twitched at the corner. “Thank you,” she said, “but I think it’s important that we talk if I’m going to be staying here a bit longer with my family.”

“A bit longer?” Lucie inhaled. “You’re still leaving for Alicante?”

Cordelia nodded. “Once everything settles down and I remember what it is that happened to me inside the shadow realm with your— with Belial.”

Lucie could not restrain a slight start of shock. “You— you don’t remember anything?”

Cordelia only shook her head, those intricate curls falling across her face as she looked down at her hands. “I only remember leaving the institute with Alastair and then everything goes dark. Brother Zachariah said that it’s not uncommon for memory loss and that what I might have suffered was traumatic.” She said the word as if she didn’t quite trust it. “It’s the mind’s way of protecting itself. They told me that you were there. That you rescued me.”

Lucie could hear her heart beat in her ears as she met the expectant eyes of Cordelia, searching for the pass that would free her of London, James, Belial, and the memories that came with all three.

When Cordelia left that fateful night after finding Grace and James in the throws of passion, and Cordelia told Lucie that she was leaving with Alastair to return to Alicante indefinitely, she’d been overwhelmed with a dreadful loneliness that she often felt as a child when James would dismiss her to play with the other boys including Anna, and all Lucie had were her stories. While stories were a wonderful place to spend her time, some intrinsic part of her craved companionship, if not someone to share her stories with.

And then she met Cordelia, and not only did she have someone to share her stories with, but she had someone to fill her stories with. She wanted to write many more adventures of the beautiful Cordelia; their adventures as parabatai, when it was unexpectedly ripped away from her.

And now, she was being presented a second chance. But, as with everything, it came with a terrible price.

“Lucie?” said Cordelia, as if she’d been saying it for some time. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Lucie nodded and reached to take Cordelia’s hand in her own.

“They said that you brought me back from the Shadow realm?” asked Cordelia. “How? What did Belial say? Why did he want me?”

“He was after James.” And there went another strand to the web of her lie. Lucie released Cordelia’s hand and smoothed out her skirt. “I suppose word got around of your engagement. Apparently even in the Shadow Realm, engagements announcements do not go unnoticed. He thought that if he captured you it would draw James out of hiding, but instead I arrived. I tried to kill him, but he cannot be killed by earthly or heavenly weapons, and since I have nothing to offer Belial, he threatened to kill us both and return our corpses.” She went on perfecting her story as if she were writing at her desk and not lying to her friend. “He was about to do it too, but I managed to convince him that wasn’t in his best interest. If he killed me then he’d never gain access to James. So, he settled for your life instead. You did a wonderful job convincing him of your death. I, for a moment, believed it myself. The next thing I know, we were falling through what appeared to be a dark tunnel and when I opened my eyes again, we were back on the street. James found us moments later.”

Cordelia frowned. “He was after James?”

“Yes,” said Lucie, taking another bite of her biscuit. “Poor company that brother of mine. Biscuit?”

Cordelia shook her head and while she asked no further questions, Cordelia seemed to ponder Lucie’s story.

The door to the foyer burst open followed by a cacophony of loud voices and even more obtrusive footsteps as Thomas and Christopher walked into the Institute, arguing with someone over their shoulder about being five minutes late.

“Thank you for this information, Thomas” said Matthew following behind them. “Years of academia and study and I never did manage to learn how to tell time.”

James emerged last, his hands tucked in his trouser’s front pockets, as he extended his leg back to close the door. A smile curved on his mouth that did not reach his eyes then wandered towards the sitting room where Lucie remained beside Cordelia, watching her friend intensely.

Cordelia stood, her dress falling around her ankles, her fingers gliding over the fabric as she said, “Hello James.”

(Author’s Notes: Hi guys! I hope you’re all doing well. Thank you for the kind words on the last part. I missed writing/reading with you guys and I’m so thankful that you all came back to The Last Night. I have a new obsession, I’ve finally read Sarah J Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses. Have you all read this? Am I super behind? It’s amazing! I love that story so much, so if my blog is suddenly splashed with ACoTaR, then ya’ll know why now. It’s just SO good! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please hit that reblog and spread it around, give it some love, leave me a comment about what you thought, and follow along for updates. Okay, love you guys, bye! Next update Sunday 9/13)

[watching-pictures-move]

Put On Your Raincoats #23 | Jungle Blue (Tobalina, 1978)

These days, as I spend much of my time trawling through Letterboxd, one of the things that will get me interested in a movie is an eye-catching poster. Plenty of ill-advised viewing decisions have been made by yours truly on the strength of a striking poster or cover art. You would think by now I would at least weigh the plot synopsis or the talent involved, but truth be told, sometimes the poster wins. (Nobody's perfect.) Carlos Tobalina's Jungle Blue has a great one. (I should clarify that you won't find this on Letterboxd, at least until they change their dumbassed "no porno" policy.) Lots of scantily clad women scattered throughout a jungle background. (And a couple of dudes, because we have to hit a ratio. Nobody's perfect.) Scrawled across the top in (mostly) capital letters: "WARNING!! THE JUNGLE IS HOT and WET and IT BRINGS OUT THE BEAST IN YOU!" ("And" is in lowercase both times. Nobody's perfect.) And smack dab in the middle: a grinning gorilla, cradling a shapely nude woman and pointing a banana (not a euphemism) at her. As the bottom right corner says, "Truly, the ball of the wild!" Look, you put a gorilla front and centre on your poster, I'm left with no choice but to watch your movie. Either I'll be treated to a real gorilla or a guy in a gorilla suit, which offers a baseline of entertainment value. There's no way this won't be eighty-odd minutes well spent.

The movie delivers what it promises with its opening shot. A man in a gorilla suit, in flagrante delicto. Yeah, that's right. The gorilla's gettin' it on with a good looking lady. Now, if the entire movie were about this gorilla getting into various shenanigans, this would be a 10/10 movie. Alas, there are other things that happen. Like how the main character, played by Nina Fause, going to the Peruvian jungle to find some priceless jewels and poisoning a bunch of other people in the process. You know Nina is evil because she says in the narration that she plans to do exactly that, which would have been a lot funnier if she said it out loud. Credit to the movie, it looks like they actually did go down to Peru and shoot there, which gives it some power, as Werner Herzog once said, through the "voodoo of location." The condescension in the narration lends it some semblance of commentary similar to the cannibal films popular during the same era, although this is thankfully much more palatable than those.

The movie is also about her scheme to get it on with a legendary immortal man who lives in the jungle and whose only friends are animals. One of these animals is the aforementioned gorilla. Now, you're probably going to point out that gorillas are not native to South America, and you'd be right. Credit to the movie, it definitely knows this, and explains that the gorilla escaped from the circus. There are also chimpanzees and baboons and some other animals which are also not native to South America. The movie does not explain their presence, but it does cut to shots of them, and their genitals, during the sex scenes. Now, I try to approach movies with respect for their original context, and this movie's original context would have been in a porno theatre while a bunch of creepy guys in raincoats jack off in the dark. Did these men time their motions in between the cuts? Did they wait it out until the animals were nowhere near the action? Or did they just power ahead, accepting that the monkeys are inescapable and that maybe that's what they're into now? These are the questions that occurred to me during the movie. It's worth noting that the gorilla suit man gets an extended sex scene later in the movie, perhaps to cater to the audience's evolving tastes.

In between this, we cut to scenes in a hotel with a bunch of people in an orgy. Among the participants are Fause and a few other recognizable faces, like Annette Haven and Candida Royalle. Now, I've seen the former in a few things and I've quite liked her. She's a good actress and quite easy on the eyes, and seeing her name in the credits definitely enticed me. Alas, if you watch this for her, you'll be disappointed as you don't even get a very good look at her. Annette is in the corner, riding away, with nary clear shot of her face. You don't get a good look at Candida either, although you do see that the guy fucking her is wearing a lot of rings, which seems ill-advised in this situation. (I suppose, like Charles Grodin admitted in an interview with David Letterman, that he doesn't know where to put his valuables during such scenes.) The orgy is shot with no real rhythm or shape, the camera drifting in and out of unmotivated and poorly chosen close-ups. Given how much of the film's runtime is devoted to these scenes, I suspect Tobalina either had a bunch of orgy footage that he didn't have a movie for or ran out of money shooting in Peru and needed something cheap to fill up the runtime.

There is one other thing about these scenes that bugged me. Now, I don't lead a terribly interesting personal life. Which is to say, I've never been in an orgy, and am certainly in no position to opine on proper orgy etiquette. But I do think if you're going to host a gathering, you should put some effort into making everyone feel welcome. In this orgy, there are an odd number of participants. Now, you'd think this wouldn't be an issue, but alas, everyone pairs off except this poor schmuck, he's left all by himself to jack off in the corner. When he asks who he's supposed to do it with, they tell him another girl is coming. Again, I am in no way speaking with any authority here, but it seems to defeat the purpose of group sex for everyone to pair off and leave an odd man out. Some of these people could have easily rearranged themselves to facilitate a threesome. Or even a foursome. Or why not a whole daisy chain arrangement? Might have made this scene feel less shapeless.

It's hard to call this a good movie, but for eighty or so minutes, I had a passable time. I have a weakness for jungle adventures, having suffered through enough cannibal movies to eke out those drops of real jungle atmosphere, and as I mentioned above, this is a much easier watch than those. And while I'd hesitate to call Nina Fause a good actress, she's at least easy on the eyes and I didn't mind her line readings. And what can I say, it delivers what the poster promises.

[andersoncharm]

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. /Blaine Self Para. February 20, 2020

Para: He is half of my soul, as the poets say.

Rating: PG.

Pairing: Blaine and his troubles. His father, Will,  makes an appearance. Mentions of a past, very brief and kinda toxic relationship with Kurt Hummel.

When: February 20, 2020 

Location: Boston, Massachusetts

Notes: Blaine can’t keep his mind from wandering to terrible places. His father brings news that causes him more strife.

Warnings: Sad Blaine? I don’t know. Not really Kurt friendly but, this is a Seblaine rp so, you’ve been warned. <3

OOC Notes: I tried to make this simple. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve confused anyone.

Blaine was normally an extremely happy guy. He’d been fun and full of too much positive energy his entire life. There had only been one time in his twenty-three years that he could recall not being able to summon the sunshine. And even then, when his mother, who was his Home, had been ripped away from him he pretended to shine and then cried alone in his room. He spent his teen years after her death pretending to be like any normal kid. Or as normal a kid as he could be considering he was a witch. It took him a long time to admit that all the things he did then were just ways for him to cope. He didn’t do a great job.

Like when he and Sam would steal the whiskey from his father's stash, as if he wouldn’t know, and sneak down to the river where Blaine would hide the bottle away from his best friend and refill it for them each time it would get close to empty and they’d drink it until they were sick. Or when he left his Ohio home to go on one of Sam’s McKinley High field trips that lasted three days, glamouring himself as a student, and didn’t tell his father, letting him worry for days.

Or when he’d let himself be Kurt Hummel’s freaking trophy witch for months. Letting the other boy put thoughts into his head about how even though they weren’t Fated that maybe they should stay together anyway because why not? And besides, no one could possibly understand Blaine better than him considering Kurt’s mother had also died when he was young. She didn’t waste away but, it was still terrible so of course he understood whole heartedly. Turns out Kurt really didn’t. Or if he did he was bad at showing it.

Sure. They’d had fumblings in the woods and sneaks in bedrooms with the doors set up to alarm them if their respective fathers came home. That part was fun at least. It was the very public dates where Kurt would introduce Blaine as “Blaine Anderson, you know, of Willem Anderson fame? His father is a Descendant.” His voice just polite enough to hide its condescending nature from the world. The tinkling little lilt that, for a very short time, made Blaine kind of smile, had started to grate on him more and more and he finally had to cut off the fling when Kurt went a step too far and introduced him as “ Blaine Anderson, you know, his mother’s a hero. Sacrificed herself all for a human stranger…” It was the little shrug like it was no big deal that had done it for Blaine. He’d given a head shake and a laugh of disbelief and left. Because at the end of the day it didn’t matter how sad or lonely he was, he was worth more than being some pretty boy’s boasting right.

Still, it took him years to feel good again. To feel even a little how he felt before she died. Sure, he let his smile come back slowly over the years and the move to Boston. And he let himself make friends at LeFey once he figured out they weren’t just hanging around because he was semi famous for two very different reasons. He felt good enough and seventy five percent himself during his years in Boston. It wasn’t until his beautiful Sebastian, who was actually the fucking sun, and his companion and ball of love, Ras came barreling into his life that he felt whole again. They brought that light and happiness full force back into his life. And now, because of something so stupid it felt like it was going to crumble. Like it was made of the thinnest crystal and one little tap would shatter it. Lately it felt like the sun was setting and nothing he did could stop it. The only time he could preserve it was when he was with Sebastian and no matter what he did there wasn’t a plausible way he could be with him every second without raising the concerns of his father and the Council and from the looks of it… His father knew. Maybe.

The man was pacing his office in front of Blaine, not saying anything but the words seemed to be stuck behind his teeth and if Will Anderson were to open his mouth something negative and harsh would come tumbling out. And it would be directed at him. Blaine sat, Freya sitting at attention on a stool next to him, at his desk, the one he’d spent the last few months learning advanced forms of magic. Potions that only the highest witches were allowed to use, charms and curses and how to break them and detect them. He was supposed to go out into the field next year. As in leave America in favor of England. It was something he didn’t want to think about. He sat there quietly and just watched while his father walked back and forth in front of the ancient stone window in his Headmaster’s office. He waited, dread filling his heart with each sisk of Will’s expensive shoes on the floor as he turned. This was it. Will was going to tell him that he knew all about Sebastian and he was going to try and make him leave him. He was going to threaten Sebastian or something and Blaine didn’t know if he could match his father’s advanced High Witch status but he’d damn well try. He even loosened up his fingers just in case he needed his hands.

Turns out he didn’t need them. Will Anderson turned, gave Blaine a nod, and then sat down on the edge of Blaine’s desk. His ankles crossed, fingers laced loosely together. “When was the last time you played your violin, Blaine?” His father asked, his voice smooth and clear. Blaine face scrunched up in confusion for a moment and he quickly had to rearrange his face to be more relaxed.

“The violin? I don’t know, a year ago?” It had been almost exactly a year ago, actually. Just after he told Seb that he was a witch. He’d be absently tuning and playing the old instrument when he turned around to put it away and his boyfriend was standing stupefied in the doorway. Blaine hadn’t even been trying to use magic and still it had charmed his boyfriend. There was a reason Blaine didn’t play it anymore. He'd practically been born playing the thing. All music, really. But, the violin was the first one he’d picked up and it was like breathing to him. When he used to go to the Charles River and play his guitar or keyboard for the people to calm them he never chose the violin because it was far too powerful and he charmed or healed too much even when he didn’t mean to. “You know I don’t like to play it often. It’s too risky.”

Will fixed him with a exasperated look. “Well perhaps if you spent more time at LeFay practicing instead of gallivanting around Massachusetts then you wouldn’t have to hide your magic so much.” Blaine opened his mouth to protest, all the sudden angry that his father assumed to know anything about his life especially when he knew damn well that his mother had always insisted they mingle with humans and not get so wrapped up in a purely magical world. She probably hadn’t intended for him to fall in love with a human but, well, Fate happened.

Before Blaine could speak up however, Will raised his hand to silence him. “I don’t care to hear your excuses. You’re going to do what you want, I know. But, you need to listen. There’s been some unrest in the community. Strange sightings in foreign countries, magic sprinkled in places it shouldn’t be.”  Will cleared his throat and gave Blaine a pointed look. And Blaine could almost swear that his father knew that he was the reason.

He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Stuff like this happens in the magic community all the time, dad-” He was abruptly cut off by his father standing suddenly, causing Freya to step in front of Blaine’s chest as if to protect him. His father watched her for a moment before speaking. “Hmm. It’s good that you’re so close to her… All of that being said, stuff like this does not happen often. Not to this degree… I asked about the violin because I think you should start using it more. You’re powerful with it. Did you know the Oracles are stirring? Of course not, you’re never here. However, you might need that power to protect us from any sort of threats that might come our way.”

“The Oracles? That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, dad.” It did though, and Blaine knew it. Were they going to start spitting out details of his and Seb’s life together? Were they going to tell the world that Hunter and Tony had helped them along? Why were they so important that Oracles were getting involved. He felt sick and once again wondered how any people would get hurt all because he fell in love with a human. As if he could help it. “You’re acting as if we’re going to have to go to war or something. It’s not 1692 anymore.” He attempted to joke but, knew it was in bad taste. He couldn't help it. He was terrified.

Will wasn’t having any of this. “103 year old Edna has been spitting out random words all the way over in Wales that nobody can make out. No amount of magic is moving her along towards her tellings. She keeps shutting down and starting back up. While three year old Zoe is so fussy and confused and babbling gibberish her parent’s couldn’t take it and felt the need to call it in. I don’t know what it means but I do know it means that something is coming. Something big. And I need you to be prepared. You need to start taking all of this seriously, Blaine.” Will leaned forward, his eyes softening for a moment as he really looked at his son and for just a second, a glimpse of his old dad and Blaine though he might touch his shoulder and say something kind. But, he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Will stood up straight and made his way back to his desk where he sat down and instantly busied himself with work. “Now, I expect you here and learning more often. Not doing gods know what around the city. You’ll be here at five am tomorrow morning. Do you understand?” He spared a look up long enough to see Blaine nod, swallowing hard as he focused on Freya’s worried silver eyes as opposed to his dad's stormy blues. His dad gave a curt nod. “You may go.”

Blaine scooped up Freya, he didn’t need to, she was capable of keeping up, but he wanted something solid in his arms. He wanted to feel relief that what his dad knew wasn’t for sure about him and Sebastian. Only maybe. But, he only felt dread. Why were the Oracles stirring? If the Witches Council and The Order were exchanging information there must be more than just the Paris incident to look at. Had they seen Sebastian and him elsewhere? Was Blaine leaving magic traces? Blaine had always prided himself on being careful. But, if he could get caught in Paris then what the hell else was he messing up?

He tried not to think too much about it as he cautiously popped himself and Freya into Sebastian’s apartment. Ras greeting the two of them with fervor. His boyfriend wouldn't be home for hours but, Blaine needed to feel close to him. Needed to remember that they were real and worth the fight. The apartment felt and smelled so much like the him that he started to relax just a little bit as soon as he walked into the kitchen.

He made himself some Chamomile with a dash of calming magic in the kettle Seb had gotten him. Smiling softly to himself at the not so distant memory of Seb remembering that Chamomile was for calming a person down as he told Blaine to drink some. He drank his tea down as he slipped off his shoes and curled up on his side of the couch. The pup tucking himself behind his legs and Freya settling on the arm next to his head. He pulled the familiar and comforting Harvard blanket over him and Ras and let himself drift off to sleep to the soothing sounds of  pup snores and Prince Henry bantering with Danielle. He told himself that he just needed to calm down. But, in reality, Sebastian and everything he touched was his sanity right now. The only bright thing in a dark day. Being near him and in his home almost took away the pain of thinking too hard about the possibility of losing him. So he let himself sleep off the conversation with his dad. 

And when Seb came home later he didn’t tell his boyfriend about Oracles or the conversation or magic trails. He just pretended it was all okay and allowed himself to press kisses into Sebastian’s skin and then lose himself in Sebastian’s embrace. This was his. And this was theirs. Here he didn’t have to think about Sebastian hurt, or Sebastian loosing his mind, or Sebastian alone... Blaine could let himself think that the Council and the Order couldn't touch them when they were together like this. And as long as he believed that, they’d be okay.

They had to be.

/fin.

[tired-college-student-writing]

Devil Rejects pt. 2

Summary- The demons are no longer considered odd to see around the Office, nor are their odd habits. The Egos had been in a state of relative calm and all were content. Too bad it can’t stay that way forever. 

This is the single longest thing I’ve ever written.

Part 1

Part 2 (HERE)

Part 3

He hadn’t moved since he had gotten the phone call from Anti. His phone was still stuck to his ear, long have gone dark, but he couldn’t convince his hand to move, the static in his fingers stopping any signal from his brain from getting through. His chest was too tight as his heart pounded like it wanted to shatter all of his ribs. He wanted to run, needed to run before Lord Lucifer found him, but he couldn’t convince his body to move, not that he could find the door right now with how much the room was spin-

“-gil? Come on, focus on me.”

He jerked as the voice cut through his panic and forced himself to focus, finding Logan kneeling in front of him, concern knitting his eyebrows together. His hand was raised clicking slowly, like a metronome, and Virgil felt his breathing slowly relaxing into the same rhythm, in for 4, Hold for 7, Out for 8.

“Is touching okay, Virgil?” Logan asked after a second, not stopping his clicking. After a slight nod, a pair of arms wrapped around him pulling him closer. Patton…. He turned and burrowed into the fatherly side. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but he could feel the three other sides just being there, silently supporting him.

“Why do you smell like lavender?” His voice was shaky but he could feel Patton relax at his tiny bit of improvement.

“Bim gave me some essential oil, says a little bit could help you calm down in an emergency. Thought I might give it a try. Did it help kiddo?”

“Use less next time,” He sighed, taking in another big whiff “Your guys’ scents calm me too.”

“Okay Virgil,” He chuckled lightly, “You want to talk about what set you off so bad?”

He stiffened up, but a large hand landing on his back and rubbing soft circles got him to relax again into the prince’s touch, still warm from what he had made in the kitchen.

“No need to speak until you feel like it, Virgil,” Logan commented. He shook his head.

“No… No,” He said, “I really do need to tell you, you guys need to know too.”

He could feel them share a look over his head.

“Tell us what, spooky scary?”

“About the new ego in the Ipliers. He’s Satan.”

“Oh come on, Captain,” Roman said, “I’m sure he’s not actually that bad.”

Virgil looked up his eyes solid marron as his breathing started speeding up again, “You don’t understand. He’s actually Satan as in the embodiment of the Devil. He was known as the Demon King in my last life, and he’s come back and now I screwed and I can’t-” He buried his head

back into Patton’s shoulder, trying to stop his shaking.

A heavy silence filled the room.  

“Is… how bad is this?” Logan asked lowly, “I mean, clearly your reaction shows us that this isn’t a pleasant man, but by what levels of evil should we be expecting?”

“Yeah, Mr. Crowley,” Roman said with a weak smile, “We talking about Sid Phillips and Captain Hook’s level, or is he more on Scar and Frollo’s level?”

“More Thanatos or Emperor Palpatine,” He mumbled into Patton’s sweater. Roman chuckled, but his voice was hollow and a tiny bit fearful.

“Throw out my Disney metaphor, why don’t you.”

“Technically Emperor Palpatine and Thanatos are Disney property now.”

“Shut up L,” Virgil complained pushing himself up again. Three pairs of concerned brown eyes stared back at him. Roman gave a small smile, offering some of the ‘Keep that chin up” coco he had made. He smiled down at the cup remembering the night he and the prince had worked to perfect a blend of flavors to soothe his frayed nerves. Even now he could smell the dark chocolate, orange, and blueberries, knowing he’d find a splash of cherry liquor mixed in as well. He didn’t hesitate to take a large slurp knowing Roman would have cooled it enough before handing it over like he always did.

“Are you alright, Virgil?” Logan asked.

“No, but I’m better than earlier so that’s good,” He grimaced before taking another sip, “I never did tell you guys what I did before getting here did I?”

“No, but you don’t ha-”

“No, if you guys are going to understand why all the demons are terrified of him, I should probably tell you what lead to me being here.”

“You don’t mean-” He cut off the prince, gripping the mug tightly.

“That I’m telling you my death story? Yeah, I am.”

They all stiffened, eyes widened.  None of them spoke of their last days before being sides, and none of them asked because there was no reason to, at least before now.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, “You guys need to know what he’s capable of, especially against me and Blank.”

“Why especially against the pair of you?”

“Because they aren’t the same breed of demon, Logic.”

The room jumped as Deceit made himself known by the stairs. Virgil gave a tired middle finger.

“Fuck off, Snake,” He hissed, “How long you’ve been here?”

“That was called for,” The snake rolled his eyes,  “who do you think didn’t get the others here since I know exactly what to do when you go comatose on us.”

“Yeah, thanks now leave,” He said earning a small huff from the snake.

“Yes, let’s get rid of the one person that understands where you came from and the dangers of the new ego, Brilliant plan, Oslqxus.”

“So what do you know of this Devil, Deceit,” Roman asked, cutting off the fight before it could start. He gave a small shrug even as his scales paled.

“Demons are the only race that feared that monster,” He answered, a shiver going up his spine, “the lower he viewed you the better you got treated.”

“But what does that have to do with Virgil,” Logan asked with a cocked head, ignoring Virgil’s mumbling and Patton’s unease stare, “Shouldn’t other demons be ranked higher than other species?”

Both Virgil and Deceit snorted.

“Not personal demons,” Virgil said, standing up on shaky legs, “Join the group, snake, if you refuse to leave. I don’t want anyone standing behind me when I explain this.”

The others didn’t argue as he perched himself on the coffee table, hunching over his half-filled cup. Roman gave a wave of his hands, and Virgil could feel the wall hit the side of the table, giving him plenty of room to escape if he felt the need to but not enough space for anyone to just appear behind him, and his cup filling up again. The anxious demon gave a small smile of thanks as the sides rearranged. Roman moving to the other side of Logan to put as much space between Deceit and Patton, even as the snake rested as far away from the others as he could on the couch.

“So to start with Blank and I are what are known as Personal demons…”

“What’s the point?” Virgil mumbled as tears streaked down the cheeks of his young subject, the inkwell he just tipped over dripping down the table’s legs. Kaide, age 14, born to a wealthy family but abused by his older brothers for his small stature and high intellect and ignored by his parents as they had no need for three sons, an easy target.

“I just need… I just…” Kaide rummaged through the chest, looking for another pot of ink.

“You’re a failure, a waste of space, Dale sees it, Erion sees it, Mom sees it, Father sees it. The whole town sees it,” Virgil pushed, tone growing harsher, “Just stop trying. You’re never going to be good at anything useful. You can’t fight, You can’t trade, Your writing is atrocious. The only thing you are good at is crying and making girly pictures. You're better off dead.”

“No, they’ll see,” the human countered making Virgil sigh. He walked over, knowing Kaide couldn’t hear his steps or see him, and placed his hand over his, lowering the ink pot slowly back to the confines of the chest.

“No, they won’t. Because they only see what’s important, and that’s not you. You’re not worth seeing,”

“I’m not worth it,” Kaide repeated, just staying down, curling in on himself. Virgil moved away, cracking a bitter smile.

He was supposed to stay, to make Kaide feel even worse but Virgil knew that once his breathing picked up this fast, he couldn’t make it much worse today. In fact, he knew he could slip out right now and no one would know for at least five hours. He had done this before, countless time in fact.

So he teleported out of there, letting his form twist as he left. When he landed in the field he knew well by now he had changed, his skin had faded from greying purple to a healthy peach, his hair flattened from its messy wine color to a warm chestnut. His features were humane now, his clothes simple and not announcing his disgraceful nature to all that saw, and he felt lighter, more at ease than he ever had in his original skin.

“Thomas is back!”

He looked up at Elijah’s scream as the rest of the small family popped out from around the house.

“Tom-Tom!” The little violet-haired girl cheered from the bedroom window, “You’re back!”

“Hey ‘co,” He called back, “How's my favorite girl doing?”

“Mom has me collecting all the clothes for washing, but it’s heavy!”

“It wouldn’t be if you made more than one trip like I told you too,” Mary called as she turned away to the vegetable garden.

“It’s good to see you again, Thomas,” She greeted, the crows' feet around her eyes growing deeper as she smiled at him. He smiled back.

“It’s nice to see you too, Mrs. Eckleburg,” He said as he drew closer only to dodge the weed she threw at him.

“How many times must I tell you to call me Mary, you cheeky brat?” She snapped with no real venom. Elijah just laughed reaching over to tousle Virgil’s hair, making the shorter man blush and push him off.

The Eckleburgs had been here and accepting of him for the last four years. They had found him when he first stepped away from his job, after his charge ended their life, shifting into human form as he cried and cried. Elijah had found him, bringing him home and Mary and her husband, Charles, made the demon stay for dinner. The humans' reaction to his mannerisms was confusing. He was a lowly being, not meant to smile or laugh, not meant to eat with those higher than him, and yet they looked at him with such heartbreak. Maybe it was because he looked human but the looks and kindness of these humans made something stir in him. He didn’t know why he went back, but he was greeted kindly each time until he was able to smile back.

Before she could give him a list of chores like she always did, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and dragged Elijah down without a second thought.

“Hey!” The teen yelped, “What are you-”

He didn’t even finish his thought a ball of black energy ball flew past, setting the roof of the house ablaze. Jericho screamed as she leaped out of the first-floor window, bolting towards them.

“What in God’s name-” Mary cried as she grasped her daughter tight.

“Sorry, Wrong direction,” a chilling voice announced. Virgil whimpered, pulling himself away from Elijah.

“Thomas what are you- Jesus Christ!”

Virgil couldn’t blame him for screaming when he saw the wide set woman standing in on the path to the house. Her skin the color of the barley plants around them, her inky hair waving in a nonexistent wind. Her amber eyes were glowing like a cat’s over the small pink triangles on her cheeks and her tall straight jade horns looked sharp enough to kill.

“So this is where you slipped away to Virgil,” She called walking closer, sickly green flames lighting on the path with each step she took.

“Verena,” he whispered as he started to stand up. Elijah pulled him down.

“Where are you going!” He hissed into his ear, “That’s a demon, she’ll kill you!”

“Nothing less than the worthless worm deserves for slacking off,” She replied, having heard the quiet words, “Now Virgil, stand up before you make me even angrier.”

“I’m sorry,” he said scampering to his feet. He wasn’t even surprised when he was blasted back through the walls of the house. He heard the family... his family scream.

“Get rid of that hideous skin. You know the rules on shapeshifting, you worm. That’s another strike I’ll have to explain to Our Lord.”

“Rid of his skin?” Jericho asked, horrified, making Virgil flinch as he rose to his feet, looking at the humans for a second before letting his image flick back to that of a demon, shoulders hunched to try and hide his unnatural color under his cloak, but nothing could hide his tall horns from the prying eyes around him.

“Thomas…” Mary breathed, he didn’t have the heart to look at any of them.

“Oh, would you keep up,” Verena growled, “He’s not called Thomas, he’s not even human. He’s been playing you like fiddles this entire time.”

Virgil winced but said nothing, he couldn’t make this worse, not if he wanted the Eckleburgs to survive this encounter.

“You’re so full of shit.”

No… Virgil flinched at the swear from the usually sweet Mary, she looked pissed as she continued her verbal attack at Verena, calling her out for thinking for a second that Virgil would never do something like that to them. Stop caring about me… or your family is…

Verena didn’t even flinch, simply lighting fire in her hands again, growing larger than before, “Silence,” she hissed sending it towards… towards…

Virgil’s story screeched to a halt as his mug shattered in his hands. He looked down at the shards as they dig into his skin, streams of blood mixing with cocoa.

Roman and Logan was on their feet in an instance, summoned first aid kits already opened before Virgil even registered the tears dripping down his face. No one said anything as the pair cleaned up the mess and

“You can’t stop,” Deceit whispered, “We need to hear more.” The demon gave a snort.

“You’re telling the truth now, huh Niyk?”

“Virgil.”

“Shut up,” He snapped at Patton, voice echoing and eyes burning black, “I haven’t even gotten to the point of this yet. Just shut up and let me get past me watching Mary and Jericho burning alive!”

None moved to stop him as he took a calming breath and continued

Elijah’s scream cut through Virgil’s head as the mother and daughter were reduced to ash. He wouldn’t let his stony mask fall, he couldn’t he was already in so much trouble, fear was turning him numb.

“Thomas…. How could you just stand there?” He asked voice cracking, “You’d promise to keep us safe…”

Verena snorted, “Idiot boy. As if he could do anything even if he wanted to, he’s nothing more than just a mutt. Isn’t that right, Virgil?”

“Yes, Mistress,” He replied, looking at the ground to hid his anguish. Maybe just maybe if he played his part and did everything right, then she’s let Elijah go. Her eyes flitted over the human that was trembling before her.

“Virgil,” She asked slowly, the tone sending ice into his bloodstream, “How would you kill this human?”

A test, he felt his chest tighten. She wanted to see how attached he was to the humans. See if he could still do his job… He had to tell the truth… She would know if he lied… But he couldn’t...

“Throw him into the river,” He answered without raising his eyes, “He never learned how to swim after his father drowned when he was 4.”

She was next to him before he could blink, “You wouldn’t be lying to me would you Virgil?”

“Never Mistress Verena,”

“Good.” She snapped his fingers and Elijah was gone. How he hoped she had actually sent him to the river, something Virgil had seen him play in regularly during the heat of summer, the same river Charles was almost certainly checking his traps in and would see his son be teleported to, He prayed that both would be safe, even as Verena’s claws dug into his arm, fire burning neat little holes through his cloak and onto his forearm.

He didn’t look up from the ground as she teleported them back to hell, nor as she marched him from her personal manor all the way through the center of hell to the Morningstar Castle, or when she flung him down at the seat of the throne.

“I brought him, my lord,”

“Very Good, Verena.”

The voice sent ice into Virgil’s veins but he refused to rise from the crumbled heap his manager had left him in. He could see cloven feet to his left, feeling the ice radiate from them as they glided closer.

“Where, oh where did you find your little pet? How far did he wander?”

“He was in a human village, sire, with a human family.”

The hooves stopped next to his ear.

“Was he now? And how did he act around these humans?”

“Vaguely distant, but they seemed to know him fairly well under the name Thomas.”

“And what came of these humans?”

“All three are dead, He suggested the method of death for the son.”

“Thank you, Verena. Would you be a darling and fetch the rest of your personal demons for me? Pull all of them out of the field and send them directly here to the throne room.”

“The Throne room, my sire?”

“Is there an echo in here?”

“No my lord, I’ll send them here at once.”

The door closed and there was scorching hot breath on his cheek.

“Rise Virgil, or do you prefer Thomas now?”

The personal demon scampered to his feet, never raising his eyes from the floor, “No Lord Lucifer, I’m still Virgil.”

“Good,” came the purr as he felt claws trace lightly up his arm and neck, “Even you lowly mongrels deserve the dignity of being called by your proper name. Now tell me, Virgil, Why are you here?”

“I wandered too far away from my charge,”

“Is that all you did?” Satan asked with a raised brow, pulling Virgil’s head back by his hair, almost gentle, “Your mistress is claiming you did much more than that,”

The doors reopened, but Virgil didn’t move his eyes away from the Devil in front of him, even as he felt the others in his unit file into the throne room.

“Dear Verena,  Virgil here claims his only crime he committed was wandering too far from his charge, what do you have to say about this claim?”

“He’s lying my Lord,” She replied voice icy cold, “I found him interacting with humans, being… friendly with them. Others saw him leave his post without informing me as well.”

“Oh?”

Virgil held himself back from flinching as the devil’s voice turned heated.

“So you lied to me, Virgil?” He asked, “You left your post, you socialized with humans, and you LIED to the one being that holds your fate in his hands?”

The accused simply bit his tongue, trying desperately not to cry out as Satan’s hands tightened in his hair, strands snapping under the force as razor sharp claws dug into his scalp.

The taller man raised his yellow eyes to the crowd, “Before me is a disgraced piece of filth, falling lower than any dared to fall before. You all are vermin in the grand empire I have created, and to see such a lowly creature make a mockery of this greatly saddens me.”

The gathered demons were silent as the Devil’s eyes slid back to Virgil, “Though you were one of the highest revered personal demons, had you been loyal for another fortnight we were discussing having you rewarded. Verena was almost proud to have one of her subjects be prompted, weren’t you dear?”

“Yes my lord,”

“See,” Satan hissed, “We were all so looking forward to having you do well, and you squander that away. Now you must be punished. Mitra, your blade please.”

“Which one sire?” The small yellow skin guard asked stepping forward from her place by the throne.

“The dullest you have, but it must be strong. We wouldn’t want the punishment to be too painless after all, or Virgil will learn nothing.”

She pulled a short golden dagger from its sheath on her calf, presenting it to him and falling back into her place, sending a look of disgust at Virgil as she passed.

Satan inspected it as he forced his victim to his knees, “Yes this shall do nicely. Fane, Njal, if you would be so kind?”

Thick hands landed on the personal demon’s shoulders each demon called holding an arm back, immobilizing him for the torment yet to come.

His heart was pounding, fear burning through his veins. He did not like the look in his master’s eyes.

“A demon that fell lower than any thought possible,” the King proclaimed, resting the blade lightly on his head, “Fitting that his punishment is the ultimate disgrace a demon can face.”

He couldn’t stop his eyes from flying open as the Devil gripped his ... his left horn, raising the blade to strike at the base.

“No, please-”

“Come now, Virgil. Begging Have a little bit of dignity,” He cooed sweetly as he brought down the blade hard.

His anguished scream echoed off the stone walls as the sensitive bone splintered and creaked.

“I’m going to be sick,” Deceit hissed through clenched teeth, hands clenching his pant legs.

“Like you care,” Virgil bit out, trying his best to keep his breathing under control as he felt the pounding phantom pain starting on either side of his skull, his skin was rippling against the pressure of the memories. Deceit just glared, voice scarily calmed.

“Yes because you hating me is going to stop me from hating how you got mutilated for acting humane. This is exactly what I want to hear, you getting violated in the worst way a demon can. This is such a lovely thing to hear especially since I actually hate you!”

The demon just bared his fangs, fighting to keep his human disguise in place. Could the stupid snake shut up for five fucking seconds?

“He cut off your horn?” Patton choked out, cutting off the impending fight with tears in his eyes. Virgil shuttered as he took in the others, Logan was sickly pale and Roman appear to have stopped breathing as they looked at him.

“Horns…” He managed out under the weight of their stares, giving up on the fight and letting his true form show, missing horns feeling more glaringly obvious now that they knew, “He said he didn’t want me to be lopsided.”

“What…” Logan’s voice cracked before he cleared his voice and tried again, “How much does it hurt to  have them... removed?”

“If he had shattered my pelvis, both legs and every bone in my feet then made me walk on them and work overtime I would have been in less pain then what he left me in by cutting off my horns off. “

“You died from the pain then?” Roman whispered, eyes miles away, lost in his own memories. Virgil could only shake his head.

“No... I lived from the removal in agonizing pain for four days until the stubs got infected and I died from that,” Virgil recounted dully, “They just dumped me back in my rooms and didn’t check on me afterward.”

Tears were streaming down his face now, and too everyone’s surprise Logan was the first one to wrap him into a hug.

“Thank you for trusting us,” The logical side whispered as the demon shook in his tight embrace, “I know it’s hard to remember these things and reopen the trauma.”

“He can’t know I’m here,” Virgil sobbed, “If he sees me he’ll kill me again, and again and again...”

“Shush, Azazel,” Roman whispered, running a hand down his back, fingers tracing up and down his spine, “We won’t let him know about you, we’ll keep you safe.” 

“Yeah Kiddo, we’ll protect you,” another pair of arms were added to the embrace

“Even if you don’t believe me, I will never let that monster get his blood-soaked hands anywhere near you again, Uqqg,” Deceit hissed softly not moving from his place on the couch. 

Virgil just sobbed harder, feeling safe and not at the same time. 

“What are you going to do?” 

Dark didn’t look up from the piano keys even as he couldn’t convince his hands to move from where they were poised over the ivories. 

Wilford just frowned at his unmoving back, completely monochrome back. 

“It’s not like you to give up, Old friend,” He tried to tease, “Where’s the little spitfire that refuses to bow to anyone?” 

“I can’t win against Satan, Wil,” came the broken whisper, “If I were to stand against him I will lose and the Office will be worse on then if I let him make the changes he wishes to. I can do nothing... I’m powerless.” 

The pink haired man flinched, a powerless Dark... that wasn’t right. 

“Surely there’s some-”

“You don’t understand William,” Dark snarled, form suddenly snapping, cracking and twisting until it almost appeared to be three very different forms sitting on the bench, “He was the one who placed me into Markiplier Manor, he’s the one that stripped me of everything that made Durans and left the Creature that ruined your life, that destroyed the very essence of the Kim siblings until all that remained is... me.” 

Wilford squeezed his eyes tight, not being able to look at the blue and red forms that didn’t quite match Dark’s form. The building around them rumbled almost sounding like a great being drawing a shocked gasp. 

“This Devil... does he really have this much power... this much sway now that he is an ego,” Wilford asked, as he forced his eyes open to see a single black and white form stroking the wall in a calming gesture. 

“I don’t know, Wil,” was the nearly silent whisper, “but I’m scared to find out... I’m scared, Wilford.” 

“As am I, Old friend,” Wilford intoned back, “As am I.” 

This was a rough chapter to write

Translations for the Abyssal used in the Chapter:

Oslqxus- Unclean, a crude term for Personal Demons.

Niyk- Worm, a derogatory term for Nagas.

Uqqg- Ally, because Virgil and Deceit aren’t friends but they do have a common enemy so they will put aside their differences for now. 

[sky-daybreak]

There is something about the gentle and yet indisputable acceptance of horses that is soothing to Kieran. They're lovely and calm almost all the time and he can admit that he's often sticking close to them to stay at the fringes of the camp and out of the way. Well, he generally does his best to keep from stepping on any toes, doing his work quietly and diligently.

Horses are, even if he doesn't say it out loud, his safe place. As safe as anything can be, with Colm out there and the van der Linde gang not trusting him. Kieran doesn't begrudge them their suspicions and mistrust, he understands that trusting him would be hard for the best of them. It doesn't mean that he doesn't wish it would be different.

Sometimes, when he hears Javier playing by the fire, the laughter of the others as they talk or the sound of someone telling a story, the words never quite reaching him, he feels incredibly, indescribably lonely. It's a feeling that seems to reach deep down, finding his heart no matter how well he tries to tuck it away and burrowing inside. Sometimes, it even feels as though the loneliness is hollowing him out to have more room.

Even when he gets his food, he tries to remain unobtrusive. There are people who aren't happy with him being there and they aren't shy to let him know. Bill likes to be the loudest about it, but honestly, Sadie is the one who scares the hell out of him. She has grace and unshakable strength and there is a vengeance burning in her gaze, bright enough to bring stronger men than him to their knees, that makes him duck out of her way.

Kieran isn't good with people either and he knows it. He entirely lacks Dutch's charm, or the open friendliness Lenny has. He isn't quietly reassuring like Charles or easy to talk to like Javier or Hosea. Hell, he isn't even gruffly charming like Arthur, who checks up on people in camp and whenever he comes over to the horses, Kieran can't help but become nervous and yet also hopeful that maybe they can get along after all.

The thing is, Kieran would like to befriend Arthur. At this point though, he'd be happy with just being accepted by the man. In all honesty, Kieran would like to get along with most of the people at camp. He'd like to listen to Hosea's and Uncle's stories or quietly sit at the fire when Javier plays his guitar. Kieran would love to talk to some people, even if it's just to genuinely ask them how they're doing or offer to help with something.

Well, at least he says hello to people and some greet him back. Hosea is kind enough to answer it, John tends to give him curt nods when he's not busy with something and Jack always greets him back. Tilly and Mary-Beth are nice to talk to as well. Mary-Beth especially. Kieran finds her not as intimidating as the others and she even, occasionally, gives him small smiles, making him duck his head in a bout of shyness.

The loneliness is less strong then, when he exchanges a few words with people around camp. Mostly, the others seem satisfied with letting him take care of the horses and carry things around.

It could be worse, Kieran tells himself. He knows what Colm would have done with a fella from the enemy camp. He certainly wouldn't have been as nice as Dutch. Kieran knows that he could be in a far worse situation, where he would face more than threats and people keeping him at the fringes, barely talking to him more than a few sentences here and there.

In the evening though, or when he hears the others having fun, it gets harder to believe that. He just wants to belong somewhere. Wants to be accepted, to be home. His life didn't exactly go well, he can't say that - after all, he didn't particularly want to run with Colm, but it had been a good option at the time, or rather one of the better ones.

"Kieran?" Mary-Beth's voice draws him out of his thoughts, her voice lowered in the settling dark, with some people already asleep and others moving to the campfire like moths drawn to flame. From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Javier picking up his guitar and John and Sean already sitting down. "Thank you for your help with the saddle."

A saddle strap had been too worn and close to snapping and after Mary-Beth noticed, she asked him to fix it - everyone else had been busy at the time, but it still was nice to be asked to help. It had been an easy enough job, barely taking him half an hour, especially with a spare strap lying around.

"S-Sure." Briefly, he feels an uncomfortable, tight flush in his chest at his stutter. "It was easy enough, don't worry."

She gives him one of the small, brief smiles she occasionally gifts him and just as she takes a step back, obviously ready to move on and leave, she pauses.

"Is everything alright?"

Kieran almost fumbles for a moment, surprised by her words, then lightly ducks his head. "No, ma'am, I'm alright."

He can't really bring himself to say that he's lonely, that he honestly doesn't know if any of them would care should he disappear. Aside from worrying of him ratting them out of course - Kieran wants to scoff at that, Colm would never accept him back, even if Kieran would tell him anything, Colm isn't the man to forgive. He can't really tell Mary-Beth that honestly, he just wants one or two friends, and to have a real place somewhere in this camp.

Mary-Beth studies him for second, barely long enough for him to notice, before she gives him another smile. Something thoughtful and solemn is in her eyes though.

"I see. Have a good night, Kieran." With that and a small dip of her head, she leaves. Kieran hurries to return her good night and then shuffles away, over to the spot where he rests.

It's hard this night, to fall asleep. Kieran isn't sure if it's because he's been in a strange, almost melancholic mood almost the whole day or because he can hear laughter from the campfire, Uncle's excited voice floating over, words muffled, as he tells a tale. Somewhere, he can hear giggling and laugher, maybe Sean and Karen, drunken and fumbling together, sneaking off less than subtly.

Somehow, listening to it all, makes him feel hollowed out again and strangely thin and heavy. Sleep doesn't come, not until everyone's finally asleep and even then, Kieran sleeps too lightly to really get any rest.

The next day, he's surprised when, after his usual chores, Charles calls him over, Mary-Beth standing at his side.

"Yes?" Kieran asks, barely resisting the urge to fidget. He's always been bad at keeping his hands steady when he's nervous.

"Arthur said you were a decent fisher?" At his slightly confused nod, Charles tilts his head towards the horses. "You're coming fishing with us, then, if you're up for it."

Kieran feels truly baffled and then quickly nods. Truth be told, he could do with some time away from camp. He casts a brief, questioning glance at Mary-Beth who looks ready to go as well.

"I need a bit of time away." Mary-Beth answers, voice lowered and her smile lopsided. "And since you're going fishing, that's rather perfect for me. I'll read a book while you boys catch something to eat."

"Oh, I see." Kieran answers and then hurries to follow them to get the horses ready. His horse, obviously sensing that something is up, gently noses at his arm and it calms Kieran down again. He isn't even entirely sure why heading out with them is making him nervous. Maybe because he never had much contact with Charles and only a few, fleeting exchanges with Mary-Beth.

"Follow me." Charles says and turns Taima towards the path they're taking, leading them through the woods.

Charles' horse is happy and attentive, responding easily and willingly to any commands he gives. It's easy to tell that the man is good to his horse, gentle and steady, kind. Kieran always recognizes the type and a part of him wishes he could talk more with the man, about his horse or horses in general.

It's quiet between them when they leave the camp and ride out of the forest shortly after. Kieran can't help but glance around a bit. It's not safe for him to be out in the open - at least not alone - and yet, he finds he misses riding around. Seeing free fields and train tracks, smelling flowers and watching dust being blown up from dry paths, stupid things like that, things he hasn't seen in weeks, ever since they arrived at Clemens Point. He misses riding for fun and is all the happier for the chance to see a bit of the area they're in.

It doesn't take long before they reach their destination, though it's still a nice ride and a bit longer than Kieran expected.

"We're here." Charles says as he stops his horse and dismounts. Kieran follows his example, quickly eyeing the water and the possible catch in it. They leave their horses grazing and Mary-Beth settles in the shade with a book retrieved from the saddlebags. She looks entirely happy and content to stretch out her legs, rearrange her skirts and start reading.

Soon enough, Kieran stands in the water, the waves sloshing into his boots and soaking everything downwards from his knee. It's strangely familiar. Kieran used to fish more, back before he joined Colm and everything that followed and brought him here.

Charles, he notices soon enough, is patient, though not as proficient with fishing. He's still decent at it and from what Kieran overheard, the man is an amazing hunter. It's also not as silent or awkward as Kieran might thought it would be. While Charles isn't one for conversations he isn't interested in, he doesn't hold back either when he wants to say or ask something.

Kieran finds himself answering questions about how he learned fishing and from there, they progress to talking about the places they have seen and, to Kieran's quiet delight, somehow end up talking about horses.

Charles smiles when he speaks of Taima, something warm in his voice and possibly for the first time since he ended up with them, Kieran finds himself really relaxing. Maybe it's because he hadn't a genuinely nice and fun conversation with someone else in a long while, or maybe it's because Charles doesn't look at him with eyes full of suspicions. Still a bit reserved, but not as guarded and closed off as before. It gives a quiet part of Kieran hope.

It's almost easy, really, for them to talk about their respective horses and the other shenanigans they saw the animals getting into.

Kieran even manages to make the other man laugh once, a short moment of laughter that tappers of into amused chuckles. A small smile tugs on Kieran's face as well and he ducks his head, focusing on fishing, as Charles tells him an anecdote of his own.

Kieran honestly feels like he connects with the other man and his chest feels lighter, as though he can breathe easier.

They don't really end up catching much, a couple of fish and in the end, Kieran can't really feel his toes anymore, his boots filled with water and his fingers smelling of bait, but he finds all this is entirely worth it. The hours spent away from camp and enjoying himself, hopefully proving himself as nice enough company in turn, it's good for him. Kieran hadn't realize before how much he wanted and needed this.

Mary-Beth is asleep in the shade, book resting on her lap and Kieran worries a bit about the odd angle of her head - it doesn't look all that comfortable for her neck - when they slosh their way back out of the lake.

"Let's grill them now." Charles suggests, looking at their catch. It's enough for three people and considering they missed out on lunch in camp, it's a good idea.

First of all, they dump the water out of their boots and Kieran heads off to collect wood - never straying out of sight, though - while Charles prepares the fish. Mary-Beth wakes when the flames crackle and the scent of grilling fish starts to fill the air.

"Sorry." She says, briefly rubbing over her face and brushing a few loose strands back, as she sits up. She briefly grimaces as she tilts her head and Kieran wonders if he should have woken her up sooner. Maybe her neck would feel better then. "Do you need my help with anything?"

"No, we got this." Charles answers reassuringly and Mary-Beth moves to sit down beside them.

"You boys had a good time?" Mary-Beth asks, settling her book into her lap, still looking slightly sleepy. Charles is entirely at ease, calm and centered. A bit happy maybe too.

The bad night is slowly catching up on Kieran now and after hours of standing in the water, he starts to feel tired. It's nice though, it's a good kind of exhaustion and he finds a smile appearing on his face.

"Yeah." He answers, voice a bit quiet and flicks a quick glance Charles' way, a small bout of nerves bubbling up again. The man certainly looked like he enjoyed himself, but what if Kieran got it wrong...

"Yes." Charles answers easily. "It's been a good day, even if we didn't catch much."

"There is probably a better spot further up." Kieran offers.

Charles hums thoughtfully. "A try for next time, then."

The words shouldn't make him that happy or relieved, Kieran thinks. He shouldn't feel like exhaling the biggest gush of air at the certain way Charles offered another trip like this one. He still feels relieved and happy though, and Kieran really, really doesn't want to mess this up in any way.

"Just let me know when you want to head out again." He answers and Mary-Beth looks happy at the prospect of accompanying them again, considering her smile. It's wider than the others he's seen in his presence. This one crinkles the corners of her eyes and even Charles smiles as well, a lopsided thing that makes him look relaxed and approachable, charming in a nice way.

The fish are done soon and after the meal, Charles puts out their makeshift campfire while Kieran and Mary-Beth retrieve the horses. Mary-Beth even briefly brushes his arm in thanks when he holds her horse steady for her to have an easier time getting into the saddle, surprising him into silence.

When Kieran hands over Taima, Charles briefly clasps a warm hand on his shoulder, stunning him into stillness for a second. The touch is strangely calming, not rough or heavy and suddenly, Kieran's throat clogs up.

"Let's head out again soon." Charles says, as he gets into the saddle and Kieran has to duck his head against a sudden rush of emotions he honestly hasn't expected nor knows how to handle. He can't even really parse apart what's going on with him, only knows that it leaves him hanging in an odd balance between grinning like a loon and getting blurry eyed. So before he ends up doing either, or god forbid, the latter, he quickly nods and gets in the saddle.

"So, Kieran." Mary-Beth says, nudging her horse beside his as they start moving. "How did you end up becoming an outlaw?"

When he has to clear his throat to regain a steady voice and swallow against the emotions still sitting somewhere between his chest and throat, she's kind enough not to comment on it, merely waiting patiently for him to start talking. Charles tilts his head to listen, riding beside them as well when they leave the woods around the lake.

Soon enough, they're swapping stories and Kieran, for the first time in months, feels like he might be making friends. He doesn't know how things are going to be once they're back at camp, but for now, he's quietly glad and happy for this moment. Of being welcome, of laughing with people and making them smile or laugh in return. It fills him with a warmth he has missed for years, his nervousness not rising for once and instead, he feels like they might actually like him for who he is.

[hputh91-blog]

Nicknames (Charlie Puth Imagine)

-

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen! I’m Ed Hawkins here with Charlie Puth today on 100.9 Top Bops! How are you doing today Charlie?”

“Hey, thanks for having me, I’m doing well. Thank you for asking.”

“So your most recent album Voicenotes has been a complete hit, congratulations. I’ve even spoken to some who have never listened to you before, and they said they really enjoyed the sound and style of your music. How does that make you feel?”

“You know, Ed, I feel really blessed to have had a great reaction to the album. I put a lot of time and work into making it as perfect as I could get it to be. A couple of songs even got added that weren’t written to go with the rest of the songs, so I’m very impressed myself that it turned out well.”

“I didn’t know that, awesome stuff man! How is the tour going?”

“It’s going great. I’ve had amazing crowds every show, and every night they seem to take it up a notch. They’re just so loud.” The interviewer, Ed, nods with a smile.

“What’s been the highlight of the tour so far for you?”

“Um, definitely the energy I’m able to use that the fans send to me. Like singing the lyrics when I’m out of breath or just encouraging me to keep going when completely exhausted after hopping around for a few minuets.” Charlie chuckles and raises his eyebrows.

“That’s insane, your fans just love you Charlie, and I honestly don’t blame them. Will you ever stop or take a break from touring?”

“Maybe a short break, like a year or so. I wouldn’t want to go any longer than that because I feel like in order to help keep my music alive for my fans would be to take it to them and play it in person so that I can share those moments with them and not just myself. For me, it’s not as fun being by yourself singing new songs just in the studio with your producers and bandmates. I want my fans to be inspired by my music, even in person. Plus I would miss my family or loved ones, and being around those people is very, very important to me.”

“Charlie, you always impress me! You’re speak from your heart and you absolutely love your fans like no one else could. You’re an amazing guy! I’m sure Y/n thinks so too.” Ed smirks and Charlie blushes. His elbow rested on the seat of the chair while his fingers supported underneath his chin.

“How are you and Y/n doing?” Ed asked, pressing the topic of you more into the interview. “I’ve heard some rumors that you recently got settled into a new house?”

“We’re great, she’s amazing and yes the new house is fantastic. It’s just nice to have our own privacy even with out having to drive somewhere. It’s got a basement with no windows so it’s easy hide in places like that we enjoy.”

“That’s great, I’m definitely happy for you two! Also, I saw some photos just last night of you and Y/n coming out of Trader Joe’s with a couple cart fulls of food, Do you both eat that much?” Ed laughed and so did Charlie.

He raised both his eyebrows and shook his head lightly.

“I mean we probably could put away all that food in just a couple of weeks, but no, we actually have been cooking since we moved in and it’s nice that I’m not eating take out for once.”

“What’re some of the meals you like to cook?” Ed asked.

“I’m a really bad cook. I could literally burn something or ruin it completely and not even notice I’m doing just that. So, Y/n does all of the cooking.”

“Do you ever help her at all? Like maybe just something as simple as turning on the oven?”

“I can’t ruin anything by turning on the oven.” Charlie laughed but shook his head once he remembered something. “But, there was one time, Y/n asked me to finish mixing in the ingredients for a chocolate cake then bake it for her. Which by the way is an amazing cake but only when she makes it..” He laughed and continued.

“I was mixing up the ingredients then once I was done I poured it into the pan it goes in, I placed it in the oven and you know, set the timer, cleaned up the mess and Y/n came back after showering. So about an hour after I put it in, Y/n came in and asked me if I had set the timer, I told her yes, I set it for an hour and ten minuets, but she gave me a weird look and I wondered why..”

Charlie’s cheeks started to turn a light shade of pink, putting his embarrassment fully on display.

“So she drags me into the kitchen...and I see it, the dark brown, crusty looking cake thing, in the pan! I covered my face and started to apologize. I thought she was going to be so mad at me for ruining her cake, but out of nowhere she started busting out laughing!? I jumped because it scared me and I honest to God was not expecting her to react this way!”

“Oh my god, so you ruined the cake?!” Ed laughed, creating tiny wrinkles by his eyes. “It was then in that moment Y/n realized you’re not the cooking type.” He laughed harder as Charlie sat there completely reliving the moment.

“I didn’t know it was only suppose to go in for 30 minuets? That’s way less than I thought it would take, but I’m glad you got a laugh out of that.” He shook his head and bit the end of his thumb. “No more embarrassing stories today!”

“Aww man! We we’re just getting started.” Ed smiled waving his hands around and rearranging himself in the chair.

“Maybe I’ll let you and Y/n just have a day together so she can tell you all about me and my idiotic self.”

“Are you guys pretty serious, do you say ‘i love you’ and all that romanctic stuff?”

“We do say I love you, and I have a few nicknames for her so it’s more like ‘I love you princess’ or ‘I love you baby’. You know, the simple couple things.”

“Aw.” He cooed. “That’s cute that you’ve got nicknames for her, does she have any for you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Charlie blushed and rubbed his neck. “We don’t speak of those though.”

“Ohh come on Charles, we’re all pals here.”

“It’s special, she only calls me it during sex.” Charlie threw his head back in a chuckle earning another coo and smirk from Ed. Charlie shook his head and ran fingers on the nape of his neck.

“I mean, making love.. or whatever the hell everyone likes to call it now to sugar coat it.” He laughs as the interview came to an end and he apologized to all the young ears who just heard more than they should’ve.

“Oh man, Y/n is going to kill me.” Charlie laughed once the mic cut off and it was only him and the studio crew members.

[depthisforever]

Nothing Can Go Wrong (A Legally Blonde AU) 4

Description:  Phil gets his heart broken by his boyfriend.  In an effort to get him back, Phil gets into Harvard Law but on the way, he meets an interesting third-year law student.

Rating: T

No trigger warnings so far! 

Remember to start from the beginning by clicking here --> Masterpost

The next morning, Phil woke up to his alarm clock blaring. It read 6:30 am. He confidently clicked it off and began getting ready for his first day of classes. If he was going to get Ethan back by being a law school student, he needed to dress the part.

When Phil was finished getting ready, he peered at his reflection in the large, full-length mirror he had shipped to his dorm. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with his signature black skinny jeans and his favorite Christian Louboutin dress shoes. He fiddled with his hair, using one finger to slide his fringe back into place. Delicately, he removed the final piece of his outfit off of its hanger: a tailored purple blazer with silk lapels. 

"So ready to do the law school thing." Phil said to himself. 

With one last glance in the mirror and a final straightening of his blazer, Phil left his dorm room feeling excited for his first day of classes.

Phil was walking down the hall of the main academic building.  He felt eyes on him and smiled.  In LA, people usually envied his style so he was quite used to getting stared at.  Several times, people had mistaken him for a singer or actor and Phil basked in the attention. He carried his briefcase at his side and rearranged his face into a neutral expression.  Remember Phil, he chastised himself. You have to be serious!

As Phil walked down the hallway to his first ever class at law school, his eyes focused sharply on a figure a ways down.  It was Ethan.  They had not spoken since the breakup but Phil squared his shoulders, intending to “nonchalantly” pass him without acknowledging him.  

“Phil?” The incredulous voice made Phil smile as he turned around.

“Oh my God, Ethan?! I totally forgot you go here.”

Ethan had a fixed smile on his face as he voiced his confusion, “W-what are you talking about? Are you here to see...me?”

“No, silly” Phil said with an eye roll and a smile.  “I go here!”

“You go where?”

“Harvard!” Phil said as if explaining to a very small child. “Y’know, law school.”

“You got into Harvard Law.” Ethan said in disbelief.

Phil snorted. “What? Like its hard? Oh my gosh, Ethan.  It’s gonna be so great.  I’m going to plan a mixer and Buffy Rewatch Party, you totally have to help me.  This is going to be just like senior year except for funner!” Phil paused briefly. “More fun.” He amended, his Creative Writing degree showing itself in full force. 

“I gotta go to class but meet me after, on the benches?” Phil said with a smile and briskly took off in the opposite direction.  

He did not see Ethan’s flabbergasted stare and small shake of the head.

First impressions are key. Phil told himself as he took a seat in the front row of the rather intimate lecture hall.  His classes at UCLA had always been on the larger side.  Phil took out his Buffy the Vampire Slayer notebook and metallic green pen (his lucky pen) and looked around as other pupils began to file in.  He had to show the professor that he was ready to learn!

The professor began lecturing, introducing the course. Phil noted that she was a stern woman, a bit on the shorter side with a commanding attitude.  If I can impress her that would be a really great end to this day! Phil thought happily.  He dutifully took notes in his notebook, vaguely aware that everyone else had a laptop. 

As soon as the actual lecture began, Phil realized that his assessment of the woman in front of him had been correct.  He watched as a nerdy looking guy with a wide set face was exposed to the full scrutiny of Dr. Stromwell for answering one of her questions. Carl.  Phil noted  from the class sign in that had been sent around the room.

“Are you quite sure of your answer?” She inquired, a smirk playing around the corners of her mouth.

“Yes.” They boy said quickly.

She fixed him with a steely grin.  “Would you be willing to stake your life on it?” She said softly. 

“I think so.” Carl answered, confidence wavering.

“Hmmm” She hummed and sharply tapped one of the guys in the front row with her pen. “What about his life?”

Phil watched as Carl shrank down in his seat a bit. “I don’t know.” he said.

“Well, I recommend knowing before speaking.” She said smartly.  She turned back to the board where the quote The law is reason free from passion was elegantly written.  “And you were right.” She paused.  “That was from Aristotle.”

Phil kept his head down.  How mean. He thought. The boy had the right answer all along and Dr. Stromwell was still bullying him. Poor Carl.

“Now I assume all of you have read the assignment and are well-versed in subject matter jurisdiction.”

Phil’s eyes went wide. They had had homework?! Why did no one say anything to him? Phil began to panic. Alright she can’t call on you if you don’t raise your hand.  

“Who can tell us about Gordon v. Steele? Let’s pick on someone from the hot seats.” She smirked, gesturing to the front row.

Phil’s panic increased tenfold, praying that she would not call on him.  He kept his eyes down.  

Dr. Stromwell noticed Phil avoiding her eyes and her eyes narrowed mischievously.  “Philip Lester?” 

“Oh,” Phil’s heart was hammering in his chest.  He fell back on an old UCLA standby.  He smiled sweetly. “ I was actually unaware that we had an assignment.” He scrunched his face in a way that most of his professors at UCLA had found quite endearing and had more times that not helped him escape trouble.  Phil gulped as Dr. Stromwell’s eyes narrowed further and a smirk tugged on her lips.

“Charles Kensington,” Dr. Stromwell addressed another student in the lecture hall.  He was of average height and was wearing an argyle sweater and matching bow tie.  His hair was parted straight down the middle.  Phil noted it was overall, not a great look. “Do you think it is acceptable that Mr. Lester is unprepared?”

Phil turned around and gave his best and brightest buddy-buddy smile to the other man.  

With an emotionless expression on his face, Charles replied snobbily. “No, I do not.” Phil felt his face fall as the man smirked slightly at him.

“Would you support my decision in asking him to leave class and only return when he is prepared?”  Dr. Stromwell inquired .

 Charles replied “Absolutely.” He then cast a mocking look to Phil when Dr. Stromwell had  wheeled back towards Phil waiting expectantly.  Phil’s mouth fell open further in full offense.  What on earth had he done to this Charles that was making him be so mean?!

Positively mortified, Phil packed his things in his briefcase and felt all eyes on him as he crossed the room and exited the classroom.

Next chapter

[xmenimagine]

Imagine: Can I Have This Dance?

Requested by supershewholock. Includes: Charles Xavier x Reader. Request: • I have a Charles x reader imagine where someone at the school puts on a dance contest and the reader wants Charles to be her partner but he doesn't feel good enough because he doesn't have his legs. Can I have fluff please? You are a fantastic writer! Ability: Illusion- Ability to alter or deceive the perceptions of another. Can be sensory, a light or sound-based effect, or an alteration of mental perceptions. May overlap with reality warping when it is possible to interact with the illusions.

Note: My knowledge of any kind of dance only covers dad dancing, so, I won’t be writing much about it. I’m also the least romantic person I know, so, I’m going to wing it with the fluff. I hope you enjoy, Alex, sorry about taking so long. Also, I didn’t know how to end.

    Somehow, Jubilee had roped Peter into siding with her on the idea of wanting a dance contest. It was almost midnight when they ran down the stairs of the mansion and into the kitchen—when they should have been asleep—knowing where you would be. Upon hearing their footsteps, you looked up from your laptop, coffee cup raised to your mouth, with a startled expression. Both of them tried getting through the doorway at the same time, both evidently getting stuck, grumbling to each other. After they tumbled into the room, skidded along the tiles, straightened themselves up, and made their way over to you, explaining their plan, they began asking if you wanted to join them. When you placed the coffee cup down, turning away from your laptop—that you had been previously staring at in order to finish off a paper that was due soon for your university—you raised an eyebrow, reminding them that Charles was the one who had to agree to it, not you.

    Some of the students forgot that, even though you didn't attend the school at the mansion, you were a still student at a university nearby. Charles had offered you a place at the mansion while you attended for your course. It was mainly so you didn't have to look for a place to live, you didn't complain because everything seemed to be overpriced and working an average job just didn't pay for everything that you needed in order to live a semi-decent life while being a student and because you were a mutant too.

    When Charles had found you, it was purely by accident. He had offered to make a speech at your university for the science department and stumbled upon you in a, supposedly, empty lecture hall. It was while you were getting ready to make a presentation for your morning class. There were no students on the campus and when he saw you, standing at the front, with your flash cards in your hand, talking to a hall full of students, he knew you were different. When you finished, he watched as the students seemed to fade away before you were the only one left. He moved into the room startling you while talking about how fascinated he was with your mutation. You were worried he would expose you to the school board, but he simply offered you a place to live, and a place to work on your ability.

    That was over two years ago, and you were now nearing the end of your course, you only had a paper to complete, even though you had already finished your exams, your professor still wanted one last paper. Over the two years, Charles and yourself had grown closer, almost to the point where you could say that you were in a relationship, but neither one of you had said anything about it out loud.

    Jubilee and Peter groaned, almost forgetting you didn't work at the mansion and agreed to ask Charles in the morning, leaving you to finish your paper in peace.

    The next morning, just like they said they would, they pitched the idea to Charles, pretty much cornering him in his office and blurting out their ideas and plans. He simply smiled, leaning his arm against the armrest of his wheelchair while mulling over the suggestion. They had all been through so much, and just the prospect of having them act like children and simply relax and enjoy themselves for a night seemed to be something that Charles also wanted for the students.

    When you arrived back to the mansion, after handing in your final paper for good, Jubilee made her way over to you, zipping in and out of the other students, making a direct beeline to you. You didn't even have time to set your bag down or get a drink before she linked her arm with yours, pulling you up to her room, claiming how she needed you to judge how her choreography was going so far. Her room, painted a bright yellow despite Charles' protests and warnings that the walls were not to be painted, was rearranged differently to the normal dorms. She had pushed her bed and desk chair out of the way to give herself more floor space. Jubilee pushed you to the bed, brushing her hair out of her face while she got the music ready. A small laugh bubbled from the back of your throat as you crawled onto the bed, leaning against the wall, with a pillow in front of you to rest your head on while your arms hugged it to your chest.

    "Okay, so, I don't want you to speak until I'm done, okay?" Jubilee asked, turning around to face you.

    With a smile, you nodded. "Of course."

     Jubilee grinned, pressing play on the CD player. The music echoed around the room. The curtains to the window were pulled open and the sunlight shone into the room as Jubilee began her dance. She had cartwheels, twists, turns, a lot of complicated jumps, and strange hand movements choreographed into her dance, just watching her made your limbs ache and grow tired. By the time she finished, you could barely remember if she had made any mistakes—not that you would have known if they were mistakes or moves made on purpose—and simply told her that she was amazing. Jubilee seemed happy enough with your answer and let you leave, but not before she grabbed hold of your arm and smiled widely.

    "You should enter too!"

    With a nervous laugh, you shook your head. "Oh, uh, I don't—"

    "Yeah! Yeah!" She ignored you. "You could dance with the professor!" Jubilee caught wind of your uncertain expression. "Oh, c'mon, it would be so romantic! Just imagine it! Think about it, for me," she told you, finally letting you leave for the rest of the night.

     As you walked to your room, you couldn't help but think about it. It would be nice to just be carefree and join in, even if it wasn't the greatest dance, it could still be fun. The more you thought about it, the more you did want Charles to be your partner, but you doubted he would ever agree to it, he would have been too busy, or maybe he would be tricked into being a judge. Before you made your way to your room, you looked down the hallway—you were now on the ground floor where some of the other professors at the school had rooms—and saw Charles sitting in his office.

    With a burst of confidence or possibly sheer stupidity, your feet moved away from your dorm room and towards his office. Your knuckles gently tapped against the dark wooden door, bringing his attention from the papers on his desk to you. A smile rose on his face as he ushered you in.

    "How did it go?" He asked, referring to your paper.

    "Good, good." You nodded. "I think I got carried away with how much I wrote, but, I can only hope for the best."

    Charles nodded. "I'm sure you did fine. When I read over it this morning before you left, it seemed perfect." You couldn't help but smile, nodding in appreciation. "I'm proud of you."

    "Thank you, Charles," you breathed out. "And thank you, for, you know, allowing me to live here and use the library whenever I needed to, and for helping me with my mutation."

    "The pleasure was all mine." He nodded back and watched you shuffle on your feet, playing with the ends of your sleeves that covered your hands. "Was there something you wanted to ask?"

    "It's about the dance."

    "What about it?"

    "I was—" Your face scrunched up, rethinking it. "No, never mind," you mumbled, shaking your head.

    "No, tell me," Charles spoke with a light laugh, obviously at the expression you pulled.

     "Well, it's just…" He raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to finish. "Jubilee got me thinking, which I know is never a good sign, but maybe it would be fun to take part, you know?"

    "You're more than welcome to take part, I see no problem with it," he replied.

    A sigh escaped your lips. "I wasn't done."

    "Oh," he commented with a shy smile.

    "I wanted to ask if you would be my partner?" You bit the inside of your mouth, your heart picking up speed as the nerves got the better of you. Which was meant to happen during the contest, not now.

    Charles looked down at the papers on his desk, picking them up to tap them against it, straightening them. "I see," he finally spoke.

    "I was just wondering, you don't have to be my partner if you don't want to—"

    "It's not that." He sighed.

    "Then what—?"

    "My legs," his voice grew quiet. "I can't move my legs, I wouldn't be much of a partner, you deserve someone who has the mobility of their legs."

    With eyebrows furrowed, you moved around his desk to kneel in front of him, placing your hands on the armrest of his wheelchair. "Charles," you whispered, causing him to turn the chair to face you, still not meeting your gaze. "Look at me," your gentle voice made him look up at you. You placed your hands on top of his, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I don't want anyone else."

    "Why?"

    "Because nobody else is you."

    "I don't—?"

    "Just let me show you something, okay?" You asked quietly.

    He nodded. "I'm trusting you."

    "As you should."

    Charles laughed to himself, watching you get up to close the door to the office. "What are you—?"

    You held a finger up to your lips, he got the idea and remained quiet, only leaving a smile on his lips as he watched you edge closer until you sat on his lap, his arms automatically wrapping around you. "Close your eyes," you whispered, leaning your forehead against his.

    When Charles did as you asked, you closed your own eyes, visualising the large empty room that Jubilee had been decorating with Jean for the dance. It was dark, but the large windows across one side of the wall still had the light from the moon shimmer through. Charles let out a breathy, mesmerised chuckle, being able to see what you were showing him. The ceiling in the room began to fade and was replaced by the sky, painted with small stars, shooting stars, and the edge of the moon. With a smile, you visualised him, standing in front of you, his hand outstretched and a loving smile brushed upon his features.

    Taking his hand gently, he slowly pulled you close to his body, one hand around your waist while the other encased your other hand. The sound of soft melodic music began to rise. Charles smiled down at you and began to move with you in his arms. You could hear the thumping of his heart in his chest, underneath the crisp white shirt that he wore. You could hear his breathing, inhaling and exhaling. You could even hear him humming along quietly to the music that played.

     Charles sighed softly, smiling to himself, watching as you showed the two of you together.

    After a few minutes, it changed. He was no longer standing, but instead in his chair. From where your foreheads were touching you could feel him furrow his eyebrows together in confusion. But you didn't stop. Instead, you showed him how the two of you were now, simply holding each other in a warm embrace. His wheelchair slowly moving as if nothing had changed, the two of you still dancing faintly, together. You could hear Charles' breathing falter as you showed him that he didn't need his legs in order for him to dance with you. There was more than one way to dance with him.

    You opened your eyes, slowly having the illusion fade to black. Charles still had his eyes closed, a blissful expression was left behind as you pulled your forehead away from his.

    "Mobility doesn't matter to me, Charles," your voice was soft and barely above a whisper as you watched him reopen his eyes.

    "Thank you," he spoke just as quietly.

    "The pleasure was all mine," you repeated him from before.

    Charles' hand slowly lifted from your waist, gently pushing the hair from your face, resting upon your face. "Thank you," he told you again, pulling your face closer as he pressed his lips to yours.

[itsdaniclayton]

it’s amazing what baking can do

Okay so, this is my first attempt at writing and I’m not even sure myself what is going on here but anyway here it is. A massive shoutout to @elsaclack and @peraltiagoisland for being incredibly supporting and encouraging and for helping me and letting me yell about this.

(Title from “what baking can do” from Waitress)

Amy’s reading is interrupted by a loud clashing sound coming from the kitchen. She looks up from her book and listens, wondering what Jake could possibly be doing. They rarely cook anything, most of their meals consist of takeout or whatever Charles brings them, and when one of them does cook, or at least tries to, it usually ends in complete disaster. It is quiet for a bit so she decides to pay no mind to it and continue with the book as it is finally getting interesting.

No more than five lines later she hears the noise again, this time followed by what sounds very much like Jake cursing. She sighs and puts the book down. It is better to check what he is doing before he can make a mess, or break something, or hurt himself.

She is too late, though. Almost every single pot they own is on the counter, along with some bowls and plates of different sizes. The mixer is there too, all ready to be used, and is that the flour container by the coffee maker? He’s too focused looking for something in the fridge to notice Amy standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

It is only after he found whatever he was looking for, took it out, and placed it on the counter (how he found free space to put it, she has no idea) that he finally turns to her.

“It’s Boyle’s birthday tomorrow,” he says, matter-of-factly.

She knows that. She had gotten him a present, wrapped it, and written a handmade card over a week ago. She stares at him puzzled, not really sure how the birthday is related to the mess he is making.

“I’m going to bake a cake for him,” he adds and turns back to the counter so as to go on with what he was doing.

Amy stares at him for a moment. Knowing him, there can be only one plausible explanation for why he was suddenly so determined to cook something. “You forgot to get him a present, didn’t you?”

Jake sighs and nods. It isn’t that he forgot about Boyle’s birthday, he knows when it is. He just messed up the dates like he usually did and if Charles hadn’t invited them to a birthday dinner he would have probably missed it completely. He shrugs. “I think he’s probably going to enjoy a homemade cake more than anything I could get him at the last moment.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She understands him, she really does, but she is also aware that he does not have the best cooking record (hers is somehow even worse) and things could very easily end up in chaos.

“Ames, chill. I looked up a recipe, see.” He takes out his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and shows her the website where he found it, the article titled ‘Basic Vanilla Cake’. He had spent more time than he is willing to admit looking up something that seemed easy enough for him to make. “I got this.”

Amy watches from her spot in the doorway as he looks at the bowls and chooses the most adequate one for mixing the ingredients. He has a problem then, as there is nowhere to put it. He tries moving aside some of the pans but they fall to the floor making a loud noise, the same kind that brought her into the kitchen in the first place. He moves quickly trying to pick them up, the sudden movement knocking down other pans which then knock down the flour container that he had opened for some reason and in an instant everything is covered in flour, including him.

She does everything in her power not to laugh but she can’t help the small chuckle that escapes her as she watches her boyfriend fighting the kitchen (the kitchen is winning). She can see that he really is trying, though, and the fact that he is putting so much effort in doing something for a friend makes her feel all warm and fuzzy.

“I can help you if you want,” Amy offers.

“Sorry, babe,” he says, as he attempts to clean the flour from his shirt, “but if I want the cake to be edible, you can’t be allowed anywhere near.”

She rolls her eyes and walks into the kitchen anyway. The mess is physically hurting her so she picks up what he dropped, but before she can do anything about the flour-covered counter he stops her.

“Jake, come on, let me help.”

“Fine,” he sighs. He looks at her as seriously as he can, but his mouth shows the tiniest hint of a smile. “This is going to make you incredibly horny,” he pauses in an attempt to create suspense, fishes his phone from his pocket and hands it to her. “You can read the instructions and tell me what to do.”

She can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks thanks to his remark, but she just rolls her eyes at him and snatches the phone from his hand. While she reads the instructions thoroughly he picks the most adequate bowl for the task and then starts putting away the rest. Amy notices that most of them are definitely not going into the right cabinet, but, as much as it irritates her, she chooses to ignore it as she is is currently busy with the instructions (she will come back later and rearrange everything). When she looks up from the phone, he is ready to begin making the batter.

“You know,” she says, rereading the instructions to make sure she got all the steps right, “you actually have to preheat the oven first. And butter the pan.”

“I’ll do that later, tell me what I have to mix first.”

“No, Jake.” One thing she would never do is mess up instructions when she is perfectly capable of following them, and even if she technically isn’t the one making the cake, she will not let instructions be disregarded under her watch. “It says here you have to preheat the oven first.”

“Amyyy.” He stretches the last letter in such a way that makes him sound like he’s pleading her to forget the instructions for once in her life and just tell him what he has to mix.

“Jakeee.” She imitates his tone and he knows then that she is not giving in; she will not read another word until he does what he is supposed to.

“Okay, fine!” He he reluctantly turns on the oven and butters the pan, Amy explaining in full detail how he is supposed to do it. “Can I begin mixing now?” he asks, once he finishes.

“Yes. First, you have to sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt.”

He nods. The flour container is on the counter (for some unexplainable reason there is still flour in it), but the baking powder and salt are nowhere to be seen. He grabs it and starts pouring flour into the bowl.

“Jake, no!” Amy’s sharp scream startles him, almost making him spill the flour again. “First of all, it says you have to sift in the flour, and second, you’re going to make a mess if you don’t measure the ingredients.” She starts searching for the measuring cup and finds it in the same spot where she put it after the last time she had attempted cooking. She can’t believe he was just going to pour stuff and hope he would get the right proportions. The absence of the other ingredients makes a new thought cross her mind. “Did you even check we had everything that you needed before starting?”

“Uhhh… no?”

“Oh my god, you’re unbelievable.”

She immediately starts looking for what they need, the recipe already memorized. It baffles her that they do have everything. She’s not sure when or why she last bought baking powder but it is here and good to use.

From that moment on the cake making process becomes simple teamwork, Amy measuring the ingredients and Jake putting them in and mixing them. Before they know it the batter is done, and both of them are actually thrilled because it looks good.

Jake dramatically pours the batter into the pan while he exclaims things like ‘I’m the best cook ever,’ and ‘Should we retire and open a bakery?’ Amy can’t stop herself from smiling, partly because they actually managed to cook something, and partly because he’s such a dork.

His comments keep coming as he puts the pan inside the oven. ‘This present is going to put all the others to shame,’ ‘Boyle is going to be so excited he’s going to pee his pants,’ ‘Our kids are going to have the best birthday cakes ever.’

Amy freezes.

He is not really aware of what he just said until a few seconds later when recognition washes over him and he freezes too.

A moment passes when they are both silent and looking everywhere except at the other. Amy finds the counter fascinating and notices for the first time the small drops of batter that landed on the cold surface, most probably during the beating of the ingredients. She feels a sudden urge to clean them, if only she could move.

“I, um,” he breaks the silence and she can tell that he is trying to think exactly what to say and not make everything even more awkward. His mouth opens and closes a few times but nothing comes out of it until he finally says “I’m going to wash the dishes and clean up everything. You can go back to what you were doing.”

She nods, and as she turns to leave their eyes meet for an instant and there is so much she wants to say but her thoughts are all tangled up and even if she was able to speak all she’d be able to produce would be a bunch of incoherent phrases.  

She is not really sure how but she finds herself sitting on the couch, her book opened on her lap. She is staring intently at the pages in front of her but the words are invisible. He said our kids, she heard him loud and clear. She’s not freaking out, she’s not. They were going to have this conversation sooner or later, she knew that, but she was definitely not expecting him to randomly mention it while they were baking a cake of all things. She is pretty sure he didn’t even intend to say it, but he did, and they can’t just ignore it and pretend nothing happened. Okay, maybe she is freaking out a bit. How are they even supposed to do this? She does want kids eventually, and from what she was able to perceive in the years she has known him she thinks he wants kids too. But what if she is horribly wrong? However, he did just say our kids, so he must want them because why would he say that if he didn’t? She takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm down because she is most definitely freaking out. She’s not sure why, though. She doesn’t normally have a problem when she has to talk to Jake about anything, and it looks like they are going to agree on this. Still, she would rather have to work a case with Hitchcock and Scully than have this conversation right now.

Amy’s not sure how much time passes, but suddenly he’s sitting next to her and she can feel him staring. She takes another deep breath and turns towards him.

“Listen,” he begins, “about what I said–”

“It’s okay, Jake,” she interrupts. Her heart is pounding and she physically cannot look at him in the eyes, her gaze fixed on his shirt instead. She can still see spots of flour on it. “We had to talk about this at some point.”

“Yeah.”

There’s an extremely awkward silence between them and if she was freaking out before, she is now freaking out times two. She wants him to talk, to say anything, because if this silence goes on for another minute she will explode. It crosses her mind then that maybe he’s just as nervous as she is, and that thought calms her down slightly.

“Look,” he starts again, speaking slowly, as if he was carefully choosing every word. “I’m sorry for freaking you out, I-I wasn’t thinking when I said that, but…” he pauses and sighs in frustration. He curses his brain for not being cooperative. He needs the right words now more than even because he cannot mess this up. “I want– I mean, I stand by what I said, I–”

“I WANNA HAVE BABIES WITH YOU!” She can feel an intense heat on her face the moment she realizes what she just blurted out. She sits still, and after a beat closes her eyes and buries her face in her hands. The darkness is comforting. She can pretend she’s not there, she’s not sitting with Jake, and she definitely did not just scream at him that she wants to have babies with him.

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, but she he is still there next to her. She can feel his weight on the couch, and she would have heard him move. Her eyes turn immediately towards him, and the moment their eyes meet she can feel her face turning a darker shade of red (if that was even possible).

He is smiling a bit, his eyes full of affection; the same way he looks at her when she says or does something he finds endearing. She can feel a warmth slowly spreading inside her the longer he stares at her like that, and this is actually helping her calm down.

He moves closer and puts his arm around her. She rests her head on his shoulder, welcoming the feeling of ease and comfort that immediately surrounds her. Her heart is still beating way faster and louder than normal, but now she can feel his, and she is sure it would tie with hers, maybe even beat it.

“I wanna have babies with you too,” he says after a moment of silence.

A smile starts forming on her face and she moves closer to him, burying her face in his neck. She feels silly for being so nervous. This is Jake. She is not really sure why she was freaking out, she knows how easy it is to talk to him, and that as much as he likes joking around, he can tell when something is serious. And babies is probably the most serious thing they’ve ever discussed (if what just happened can be considered a discussion).

“Our kids are going to be the cutest ever,” she hears him say.

She moves from her position and sits straight, facing him. “I agree,” she begins, still smiling, “but there is something I need to know. When you say kids, how many exactly do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know...” He thinks for a moment, “Like eight or ten.”

“Yeah, that is definitely not going to happen.”

“Why not? You have seven brothers,” he says, as if she had forgotten that piece of information.

“That is exactly why.”

“Oh, come on, Ames,” he protests, “I’m sure it was super fun.”

“More like extremely chaotic.”

“Okay, well, how many do you want?”

She contemplates her answer carefully. “Two?”

“Let’s agree on five.”

“Jake, I don’t think you’re considering how hard raising children can be.”

“Okay, okay, four.”

She can’t really hear his last comment, something else suddenly occupying her mind. “Jake–”

He doesn’t see the abrupt change in her, he is completely immersed  in his own thoughts. “We’re going to be the best parents ever, and our kids are going to be the cutest, and–”.

“Jake!” she almost screams, making him stop talking. “How long has the cake been in the oven?”

“I, uh, I don’t know?”

There is a very strong burning smell filling the apartment. Amy quickly stands up and rushes to the kitchen, Jake following her. She turns off the oven and takes the cake out. What was originally a vanilla cake is now completely black and does not look edible at all.

Amy sighs and turns towards Jake, who is completely clueless about what happened. “Didn’t you set a timer?” she asks.

“Yes, I did!” He grabs his phone and unlocks it to check what happened. The clock app is still open, the timer set for the 30 minutes that the cake required, the start button never pressed. “Oh my god, I’m an idiot.”

She can see the disappointment on his face and it breaks her heart a little. Then, suddenly, an idea comes to her mind. “I think I know how we can fix this.”

Charles is already sitting at his desk when Jake and Amy arrive at the precinct the following morning. No one else from the squad is there yet, though, something both Jake and Amy are thankful for. The less people to witness what was going to happen, the better. Charles turns to face the elevator the moment he hears it opening and is just thrilled to see them walking in together, like he always is whenever he sees them.

Instead of going to their desks, they go straight to Boyle’s. Jake carefully places the box he was carrying on the desk. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

“Happy birthday,” Amy repeats after him.

Charles looks like he could burst from excitement as he opens the box. Inside it there is a tiny cake, the frosting spread evenly, colorful sprinkles decorating it. Amy had cut out the burned parts, which left them with a significantly smaller cake than the original, but it is better than giving him ‘burned garbage’, a term they both had heard Boyle use before, and after decorating it, the cake actually looks pretty good.

Charles gasps at the sight of it, always excited when it comes to food. “Thank you!” He’s louder than necessary, something that makes a few people look in their direction but Charles doesn’t seem to care. “Where did you get this? I don’t think I know a place that makes cakes this size.”

Jake and Amy look at each other for a moment. They know what will happen the moment they tell him the truth, and neither of them is ready. Again, they are thankful that it is still early and the precinct is relatively empty.

“Um, actually,” Jake begins after a moment. They had decided on the car who was going to break the news to Charles. The cake had been Jake’s idea so he has to tell him. “We made it.”

“You WHAT?” he yells, leaping out of his chair. “YOU MADE THIS TINY CAKE TOGETHER?!” He is practically jumping around with excitement. He loves his present, but he loves the fact that they cooked something together even more.

“You should sit,” Amy tells him.

“Boyle are you crying?” Jake asks. He is pretty sure Charles just wiped a tear from his face.

“YES! ALL MY DREAMS ARE COMING TRUE! SOON YOU’LL BE MAKING BABIES!”

[go-redgirl]

Exclusive Excerpt—Charles Hurt: ‘Still Winning: Why America Went All In on Donald Trump—And Why We Must Do It Again’

Exclusive excerpt is from Charles Hurt’s new book, Still Winning: Why America Went All In on Donald Trump—And Why We Must Do It Again.

***

Donald Trump understood from day one that he could never win the presidency talking the way politicians talk. And he could never win by “acting presidential.”

People came to love his hilarious campaign trail shtick where he stands upright behind the podium and woodenly pretends to “act presidential” as he struts around the stage like a toy soldier, muttering meaningless politically correct bromides. It is a still-hilarious shtick that drives crowds wild. But more important, it demonstrates just how utterly useless it would have been for Donald Trump to run as some kind of normal political candidate.

No, this was a man who was out to crash the gates of Washington. And in order to do that, he had to radically upend the way the game of politics is played. He had to start by changing the language.

Such a change would not be easy. And it certainly would not be popular among politicians firmly ensconced in Washington. The royalty of the American political scene— known variously as “the Establishment” or “the elites” or “swamp creatures”—closely guard the language that is spoken in politics. It is a powerful tool in maintaining their grip on power. And the political press slavishly enforces these rules of language. (If you don’t speak the language, you don’t play the game.)

These people have spent decades establishing this vocabulary and hounding from politics anyone who veers outside the proscribed lines. They are forever culling the herd of politicians for saying things that are stupid, thoughtless, strange, or outside the acceptable range of political orthodoxy. The result of this ever-vigilant speech police is a stilted, meaningless political vocabulary that’s poll tested and riddled with preposterous euphemisms that provide for an infinite number of acceptable phrases that Democrats and Republicans yell back and forth—never actually winning any arguments and not accomplishing anything tangible for the voters they claim to represent.

Speech codes are nothing new. They have been popular among tyrants, despots, and demagogues since the beginning of human politics. Such a speech code was made famous, of course, by George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984, published in 1949.

In Orwell’s fictional country of Oceana, the establishment “Inner Party” uses the official language of “Newspeak” to control the lower population of workers. The Inner Party uses all manner of media—two-way telescreens to microphones to spies—to enforce the Newspeak speech codes and report back any “thoughtcrimes” committed by the working proles. […]

The Lexicon of Lunacy

It is chilling to read 1984 today, seven decades after George Orwell published it. His ability to predict how established government authorities would use such “Orwellian” tactics to hold on to power is rivaled only by the ability of America’s Founders to ward off the very same abuses in some of their wisest elements of our Constitution.

In America, obviously, political leaders don’t enforce a “Newspeak” speech code and they certainly do not codify it. They don’t have a name for it at all, because to have a name for it would confirm its very existence. But others—outside the established “Inner Party”—do have terms for it. “Political correctness” is probably the most common description.

I call it the Lexicon of Lunacy.

The list of words, terms, and phrases in the Lexicon of Lunacy runs from the ridiculous to the deadly serious. Take the word “cisgender,” for example. I don’t actually know what it means but I know that we are supposed to use it when we are all tiptoeing around somebody’s severe midlife mental breakdown in which they decide to go under the knife to rearrange the sex organs God gave them.

Come to think of it, this is not at all funny. I feel genuinely sorry for anyone who finds himself, herself, or itself that thoroughly confused and lost in life. The only thing that could be worse would be if politicians decided to take that devastatingly depressing sorrow and weaponize it for political use.

Oh yeah, that has already happened.

So, how about this for an actually funny term from the Lexicon of Lunacy. “Overweight” has become a bad word because we don’t want to “fat shame” or “body shame” anyone. Instead we call the person “under tall.” Or, maybe “height- challenged.” Or “girth-oppressed.”

Those are funny. My children use them against me all the time.

Others are not funny at all.

The fuzzy term “pro-choice,” for instance, is the accepted euphemism for a political stance that favors killing a healthy, live human fetus that is living and developing in its mother’s body. In some cases, the term “pro-choice” can even mean the extermination and dismemberment of a healthy, growing fetus that might even be viable outside the womb. Who on earth hears of such a grisly procedure and thinks of the word “choice”? And, of course, the prefix “pro-”?

Less graphic but devastating in other ways are terms such as “free trade.” “Free trade” has become a mantra for hyperglobalization of the economy in ways that punish American workers, wildly enrich Wall Street and the captains of industry, and obliterate the ideals that have always separated America from the rest of the world.

The only group without a voice in this debate were millions of regular American voters. Until Trump announced his campaign.

Donald Trump saw all of this for exactly what it was. It was a fraud. Whether it was trade, immigration, wars, spending, or taxes—it was all a fraud. The American people were getting taken to the cleaner’s financially, and the American people were getting sold out as losers.

And Trump wasn’t even president yet! He was still just one of sixteen people vying for the Republican nomination. If you polled the media that day, every single reporter in all of politics would have given Trump a zero percent chance of winning the nomination, let alone the presidency.

After the speech was over, I called my office at the Washington Times and told my editor to scrap the column I had filed—that a new one was on the way. I endorsed Donald Trump, something I had never done before in a newspaper column. Because, after all, who gives a crap what I think about anything? But this was clearly something different. The speech was brilliant. It was daring, to be sure, but it also reflected an enormous amount of intentional thought. Trump had been listening very closely to voters. He had also been talking to some very smart people who clearly follow politics closely and understood the political landscape far better than any of the self-anointed geniuses inside the Beltway.

So I picked up the phone and called Steve Bannon, a friend who I knew liked to dabble in the more contrarian world of counterpolitics. We agreed the speech was great and, of course, Bannon told me he had been talking to Trump. A speech had been written. Bannon had seen it as late as the night before, he said. But the speech Trump delivered on live television to the country was entirely different than the one that had been prepared.

“Yeah, he didn’t read the speech,” Bannon marveled. “He got up there and just decided to wing it!”

Even at that point, Trump was not to be handled or scripted or managed or staffed. He was going on nothing but his own raw political instincts. And in the end, voters trusted Donald J. Trump to remain in character more than they trusted any politician to keep his campaign promises.

That turned out to be a pretty smart bet.

READ MORE STORIES ABOUT:

Media Politics 2016 election Charles Hurt Donald Trump george orwell Orwell's 1984

[checkmate-cherik]

I feel like I should add to this???

Charles laid back in the tub and leaned his head back with a heavy sigh.

The breakup still hurt. It’d been a week, but there were still traces all through the flat of Zander. The bathroom, at least, was clean; Charles had scrubbed it from top to bottom (as well as he could) as soon as Zander had cleaned out his things. And they’d only had sex in the tub a few times, so it was safe. It was the rest of the flat he was worried about.

Thankfully, he had help. Help that had ordered him to take this bubblebath to try and relax. Erik was a good friend–the best, in fact–but he still didn’t know how relationships worked. You couldn’t just get over someone by cleaning your flat and taking baths. Although the warm, lavender-scented embrace of the bath was very soothing. And it was nice to have someone else to do the heavy lifting. It’d only been a few weeks since he’d been released from the hospital; he still wasn’t up for much beyond folding laundry.

Zander hadn’t wanted to do any of the things Charles couldn’t do anymore, though. That should have been a sign, that he left the hard chores to Charles, but they were all things that he enjoyed, so he hadn’t batted an eye. And then after the accident the flat started to look horrible, and Charles realized that Zander did absolutely nothing with his day except his transcription work and browsing the internet.

Charles realized his hands were clenched tightly on the sides of the tub. He forced them to relax, and dipped them back under the water to rest on his unresponsive thighs. Even through his anger, he missed Zander. He missed his silly jokes and back massages. He missed his kisses and clumsiness. He missed his everything. Charles sniffled a little.

“Charles?” Erik appeared in the doorway. “Are you alright?”

Charles shook his head. With anyone else he’d force a smile and say he was fine. Erik knew him too well, though. He’d sense a lie immediately.

Erik walked over and sat on the floor by the tub, folding his arms on the edge of it. “He was a dick,” Erik said bluntly. “He used you.”

“He didn’t use me,” Charles protested, sitting up straight and wincing as the sudden movement pulled on his back. Erik immediately reached over and pushed him back, gently. His hand lingered on Charles’ shoulder for a moment longer than it should’ve, but that was probably him being protective again.

“He did,” Erik replied firmly. “He was a leech. You need some more time to see that.”

Charles sighed heavily again. “I don’t expect you understand being in love,” he began, overly-patient, “But–”

“What do you mean by that?” Erik snapped, straightening and scowling thunderously.

“It’s just, you’ve never–never–” Charles frowned, wracking his brain to find the words to articulate his observations. “You haven’t been in a relationship since I met you twenty years ago.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” Erik snapped. Then he looked surprised, and then terrified, and then he blushed furiously.

“A rea–Erik?” Charles automatically raised his hand and grabbed Erik’s arm, anger and alarm rising in his chest. “Did someone hurt you? Did–”

“No one hurt me,” Erik interrupted, still blushing. “I just… there’s a person, alright?”

Charles frowned. “For twenty years?”

Erik scowled, and then his expression turned soft and sad. “Yes,” he said softly. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Charles rubbed his arm gently. “Well… when you do, you know I’ll listen, right?”

Erik looked at him and smiled crookedly. “I know.”

~

Charles couldn’t get out of the tub.

Erik took off his shirt, pulled Charles’ wet arm around his shoulder, and reached into the tub to carefully lift Charles out and set him on the (closed) toilet. Charles watched the muscles in Erik’s chest and arm flex, and resisted the urge to touch them. He’d always been fascinated by Erik. Something about him…

But he’d never shown it, and he wasn’t about to start now. Not when looking at Erik’s bare chest reminded him of Zander’s tattoos and how he could do forty pushups in a row and not break a sweat. Which wasn’t that impressive when he remembered that Erik could do one hundred, but Erik was never so very proud about it.

Erik wrapped Charles in a couple towels, wiped away the tears, and brought him a box of tissues. Then he emptied the bath and set up the shower-seat again that Charles loathed but knew he needed. He loathed everything that showed that things were different, now. Harder. He couldn’t reach the counters very well. He couldn’t reach the cupboards or bookshelves at all. The furniture had to be moved. God, everything had to be moved. And no one was available to help except Erik and Raven, and even Raven had better things to do.

Speaking of which…

“Don’t you have better things to do today?” Charles asked, when he wasn’t crying anymore. Erik had brought him clean clothes and was patting the floor dry with a hand-towel. “I know you have work that you need to finish.”

“It can wait,” Erik answered dismissively. “Do you need help dressing?”

Charles thought about it, then nodded reluctantly. So Erik helped him get dressed. They weren’t shy around each other; or, Charles wasn’t shy around Erik. Erik was still very private, while Charles didn’t really give a damn anymore. Still, there was something slightly humiliating in needing help getting dressed. Charles was sure he’d get the hang of it eventually, but until then… well, eventually he’d get it.

Erik carried him out of the bathroom, careful of his back, and set him in his chair. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it had been the cheapest he could find that didn’t have a million bad reviews. He was saving up for a better one; that would take a while, though, with all the other changes that had to happen first.

Like finding a better flat, for one. Preferably one on the ground floor. He was immensely lucky he lived in a building with an elevator, but he could already tell his neighbors were getting tired of having to share with a wheelchair. Maybe he could just move to a different flat in the same building…

“I found something last night,” Erik said suddenly, following as Charles rolled into the living room (much cleaner, with the furniture rearranged just so and a lunch of Chinese takeaway spread on the coffee table). “I thought you might prefer it.”

“Prefer it to what?” Charles asked, slightly bewildered, as he parked the chair by the couch and levered himself over. It took some maneuvering, and a little help from Erik, but he managed to get comfortable.

Erik picked up his laptop and brought it over, setting it in Charles’ lap. Charles blinked. It was a listing, a house for rent. A house. Modified, in fact, to accommodate…

Charles grinned and looked over at Erik, who had sat beside him. “You are the best friend in the world,” he said warmly.

Erik shrugged, but he was blushing a little. “Thought it’d be better than just trying to make an apartment work,” he muttered, and dug into his beef and broccoli.

Charles scrolled down, reading the descriptions and specifications. One floor, with a ramp from the front door to the driveway, and covered walkway between garage and house; counters and cupboards in the kitchen had been lowered, though the appliances (included) were standard size; both bathrooms, half and full, had been modified; all doorways had been widened. And it was quite spacious; plenty big enough for all of his furniture and books. Charles bit his lip, heart sinking after the initial surge of delight. It was probably too expensive. He could already barely afford the rent here; what would the rent on a whole house be? And indeed, when he checked the price, he felt his face fall.

“I’d never be able to afford that,” he murmured.

“Not in full, no,” Erik agreed, still fixed on his food. Charles looked up sharply, sensing one of Erik’s more reckless moments. “But if you had a roommate, it’d be fine.”

“A roommate.” Charles laughed, a little bitterly. “Right. As if anyone would want to live with me.”

“I would.”

Charles paused, and stared at Erik. The other swallowed his mouthful and looked up to stare back, almost defiantly.

“I have a good income,” Erik explained. “I could split rent with you. If I trade in my car, I could afford a van.”

“Erik, no--”

“As long as you don’t mind getting to work early and leaving late, I could drive you,” Erik continued, as if he hadn’t heard.

“You don’t have to--”

“I don’t mind short counters, I work with those really short ladies who lower the worktables all the time, and I could probably turn your bookshelves sideways for you so they’re easier to reach, and--”

“Erik!”

Erik stopped, looking defensive. Charles took a deep breath and let it out, trying not to let it shake. “You don’t have to do all that,” he insisted. “I can live on my own.”

“I know that. But do you want to?”

Charles opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again. He’d never lived alone before. Thirty-four years, he’d never once been on his own. The very idea terrified him. That’s why he’d clung to Raven for so long. But surely he could manage? Surely he could survive.

With no one else’s crumbs on the counter? With only his own jackets and scarves and hats cluttering the entryway? With no one’s music, no one’s voice, no one’s presence?

He looked at Erik and tried to see any misgivings, any secret hopes that he’d say no, and saw none. Just Erik’s sober, challenging expression. Erik, who’d always been there for him, who’d always come to Charles first with everything, who had dropped everything the moment he heard of the accident (or so Hank said). Not even Zander had done that.

Charles reached out and took Erik’s hand. Erik’s fingers wrapped around his own, strong and warm and there.

“Okay,” Charles whispered. “Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

[thefinalexperiment]

The Final Experiment Chapter 19: Out of Options

A/N: So after that... cheerful last chapter, I’m starting to move the plot along. Here, we find out exactly why Kaitlynn went off the deep end.

Word Count: 

**WARNINGS**: Mentions of murder, brief action, further allusions to insanity.

Previous Parts: 1–2–3–4–5–6–7–8–9–10–11–12–13–14–15–16–17--18

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I didn’t return to the tower that night, or for the next three days. Empowered by this new feeling, I followed the urge wherever it lead me. I wound up in an abandoned corporate building somewhere. Ironically, I realized, it had once been a place for making and storing frozen goods.

Taking in my surroundings, I ran my hands along the walls as I explored. If I was going to stay here, I needed someplace hospitable to my preferred climate that would also serve as a fortress against unwanted visitors. I rearranged the largest office to be a bedroom of sorts, then I set about defending the premises.

I strolled into the lobby, humming thoughtfully as I observed the space. I moved up to the revolving door and placed my hand on the glass. The frost began to spread over the panels, then it seemed to crawl through the cracks of the door to begin consuming the outside of the structure.

This time, when I used my power, it wasn’t as random. I didn’t feel overwhelmed, but rather… in control. With my mind, I directed the icy path of my powers until the building had been sealed off from the outside world.

“Well this is an interesting development…” I murmured to myself. Time to do some redecorating.

~No One’s POV~

Tony frowned, looking over the newest SHIELD report. He was pretty sure he knew who was responsible, but if he was right, that would mean… Yeah, he really didn’t want to go there. But he also had a responsibility as an Avenger. He couldn’t just not say anything.

This kid… She had found a place in the team’s heart in a short amount of time, and now it looked like the Avengers would be facing their biggest challenge yet. If they were forced to take her out, it might just tear them apart. Maybe that had been HYDRA’s aim all along… to make her a time bomb and destroy them from the inside.

Taking a deep breath, Tony turned off the monitor and headed to break the news to the team. He found Steve and Natasha outside the training room, chatting in quiet tones over their water bottles.

“Guys…” He immediately had their attention. The expression on his face seemed to seek volumes. “Yeah… It’s not good.” Best just get it over with. “That murder Fury mentioned a few days ago was committed by a cryokinetic mutant.”

He saw the realization in their eyes as they thought about their young ward who was currently MIA.

“Kaitlynn…”

“Yep, time to go… take care of HYDRA’s mess.”

It wasn’t hard to find out where she was hiding, if you could even call it that. The building was thoroughly and completely encased in a thick layer of ice and frost, despite the 90 degree weather. Not exactly inconspicuous.

None of the Avengers had been looking forward to this. Wanda insisted she could reason with Kaitlynn, but Steve wasn’t letting her anywhere near the girl until they knew for certain what they were dealing with. In fact, he had intended to do it himself, but both Bucky and Tony were firm in their “no way” stance. Maybe it was the shock of the two of them actually agreeing for once, but Steve didn’t argue.

In the end, it was decided that Bucky would go, seeing as he would have the least trouble… compartmentalizing his personal attachments. Of course, the peace between he and Tony couldn’t last for very long, but Bucky didn’t even react to “Haven’t you spent enough time on ice, Barnes?” as he headed into the fortress. There was only one thing on his mind.

~Kaitlynn’s POV~

After scrounging up what my fractured mind considered to be a decent outfit from some room I had stumbled upon last night, I went down to the largest, main room in the center of the building. It wasn’t a lobby; it wasn’t near any of the entrances--another reason I liked it--but it’s ceiling spanned several floors and I had used my powers to make long, large staircases from balcony to balcony, officially making this the center of my domain.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before the Avengers came to me. A few days, at most maybe. The Soldier would probably be the one to approach… Best make things fun. In the main room, I decided for a bit of ironic overdramatics, forming a raised platform with stairs of ice and a solitary chair that resembled a throne.

That’s where I was when he finally made it inside: casually sitting sideways on the chair, my legs thrown over the arm.

“Took you longer than I expected, Soldier… I’m disappointed. I even made it easy for you.”

His dark eyes observed me carefully as he slowly moved around the room, his rifle halfway up. His flesh hand was gloved and his metal arm glinted in the cold light that refracted around me. He was no longer just a caring friend. That was still there too, of course, but now his main objective was to eliminate me as a threat, whether that meant changing my mind… or taking me out. Barnes shifted his weight, murmuring in Russian to himself.

“Come now, Soldier… Enough of that. Do what you came here to do.”

I was boredly examining my nails as I waited for him to do something.

“You killed that boy… Why?”

Smirking, I kicked my legs up and stood, the frozen floor not even slippery under my heels. “Well he was hardly innocent… And it was fun. He attacked me first anyway.”

Barnes shook his head in disbelief. “That doesn’t constitute murder!”

“You’re one to talk,” I replied quietly. “Of all people to give me a speech about morality, you are perhaps the worst candidate.”

He was trying not to let my words affect him, but I could see his jaw clench as he mentally ran through all the implications of my jab. I strode down the stairs, approaching him confidently.

“Kaitlynn…”

“I suggest that you don’t call me that.”

Exasperated, he rolled his eyes. “Then what would you suggest?”

“Hm… Well, Hydra called me the White Witch, but I’m really not a fan of that…” Another smirk spread across my face. “How about Frostbite? Ooh, yes… I like that a lot. Frostbite it is. Frostbite.”

I said it once more just to memorize the way it felt. The Soldier was growing impatient.

“Look, something went wrong with you. I don’t know what, but you were fine yesterday. Or… stable, at least.”

My expression hardened. “My eyes were opened, that’s what happened. This way is so much better… If I hate everyone, I’m not afraid of hurting anyone. Problem solved.”

“I can’t let you keep doing this.”

“Try to stop me, then.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, he lunged forward, grabbing my throat.

“This brings back memories…” I choked out as frost began crawling up his metal arm.

Barnes growled and slammed me into the ground. Barely even dazed, I was confident he’d soon be dead, but the smirk slid off of my face when I saw the effects of my powers suddenly sizzle and evaporate. The metal, once a comfortable temperature for me in the chilled room, was now growing unbearably hot. I hissed in pain and reached for the bare skin of his face, determined to end this here and now. Maybe sending the Avengers his corpse would get my message through to them…

But before I could make contact, there was a sharp prick in my neck. The world tilted suddenly, my vision blurring before fading from gray to black.

~Bucky’s POV~

Whatever Stark had given me was definitely efficient. Almost immediately after I gave her the injection, the girl I thought I knew went limp on the icy floor, her snow-white hair haphazardly splayed around her pale face.

I no longer felt anything regarding her. Initially, it had been a mixture of protectiveness and companionship, but now… Now she was just a reminder, a traitor no better than HYDRA. That made me cold and indifferent. Sighing, I lifted her over my shoulder, alerting the team that I was on my way back.

Once she was secured and we were in flight, I sat off by myself, thinking things over. I didn’t speak to anyone, even when the jet landed. Not at the tower, though. We had all decided she needed to be contained at the main base. A few hours later, we were standing around the containment room where Kaitlynn was still heavily sedated, comatose and restrained in a hospital bed. Helen Cho and Bruce Banner stood next to Steve, Tony, Clint, and I. They said they had news about her condition, but by the grim looks on their faces, it wasn’t good.

“So let me get this straight…” Tony started once they’d explained, “HYDRA put a leech in her?”

“Not quite,” said Doctor Cho. “It’s a non-living symbiotic parasite. Completely artificial, but enough to cause a permanent change in her system.”

“Can you get rid of it?” Steve asked, concerned.

Helen looked over to Bruce, leaving him to deliver the news. The man sighed and pulled his glasses off, rubbing his eyes with his other hand.

“Unfortunately, whatever agent they used has now permanently bonded to her DNA, sort of… latching onto her mutation. If we attempt to separate it, her system will cannibalize and she’ll die.”

I saw Clint go pale at Banner’s words. Stark was staring at the floor, anxiously stroking his beard. Steve’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixing on nothing. I was the only one to speak up.

“So we can either kill her by trying to save her… or we let her destroy herself?”

“Well…” Banner hesitated, “I may have an alternative.”

“What kind of alternative?” Clint finally found his voice.

“A colleague of mine, Professor Charles Xavier, specializes in mutations and he has a scientist in his facility, someone much more knowledgeable when it comes to problems like Kaitlynn’s. The professor runs a school for young mutants unable to control their powers or seeking refuge from society. He’s willing to take her in, to try to figure out what’s going on.”

We all exchanged glances. This option wasn’t quite ideal…

“Setting Frostbite loose in a school full of kids doesn’t exactly sound smart…” I pointed out.

“Professor Xavier assures me that it will be alright. He’s quite confident that they can handle it.”

Steve sighed. “I don’t like it, but… right now, it sounds like the only choice we’ve got.”

Tony looked up, resignation written on his face, weakly covered by joking humor. “Alright then… Time to deliver one teenage assassin to the mutant academy and hope nothing goes wrong.”

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