#like. his gay little mug all of sudden

[tkbrokkoli]

trents gay little mug

[pippytmi]

wrote prompt # 9 from this prompt list for wildmoore: “There is actually no downside to acting like we would be dating.”/ “Yes, except the part where people would think I was dating you.”

_______

“Ryan, I need you to hear me out, and don’t say no until I explain.”

It is as enthusiastic a hello as any, and Ryan doesn’t question it; when it comes to her best friend and her antics (the chicken incident of last Christmas immediately comes to mind), Ryan has learned to pick her battles. “Hi, Mary,” she says, and patiently shuts her front door as Mary walks right in. “It’s nice to see you too.”

By the time Ryan has locked and bolted her door, Mary has already begun to mix white wine and orange juice into two mugs. This is not the first time Mary has tried to ply Ryan with alcohol to get her to do something really, really stupid (again, chicken thing), and Ryan wordlessly takes a seat at the island and doesn’t bother hiding her judgment.

“Okay, this must be serious,” Ryan says eventually, as Mary hands her a drink with one hand and then downs her own with the other. “I’m afraid to ask now.”

“First you have to promise you won’t interrupt me until I finish,” Mary says. “Deal?”

“Sure, fine,” Ryan agrees, and she even takes a sip out of her mug as a show of good faith. It’s absolutely abysmal given the fact that she’s just brushed her teeth, and she quickly sets it down.

Mary takes a deep breath and straightens. “I need a favor,” she says. “Or actually, Sophie needs—”

“Oh hell no.”

“Ryan!” Mary gives her a half-pout, half-frown. “You said you wouldn’t interrupt!”

“Well you didn’t mention it would involve Sophie Moore.” Taste be damned, Ryan does need alcohol for this conversation, so she says fuck it and grabs her poor man’s mimosa again. “Whatever she wants from me, tell her to forget about it.”

“Technically,” Mary says, raising a finger in the air, “she doesn’t know I’m asking you. So you can rest assured your little arch-nemesis-rivalry or whatever is still intact. And if you would let me finish, I could actually tell you the situation we’re in.”

“You mean the situation she’s in,” Ryan corrects, and Mary levels her with a stare that Ryan has come to recognize as a wordless bitch, please. “Mary, you know I love you, and I overlook your fraternization with the she-devil—”

“Oh my God, you two are so dramatic,” Mary says. “Can I speak now, or are you going to keep rehashing pointless lesbian drama? Because I’ve aged two years trying to explain that all Sophie needs is a date.”

Ryan just about chokes on her wine.

Mary ignores her spluttering and continues, “Look, Sophie called me because she was invited to her ex’s wedding, and she desperately needs a date. I mean, it’s common practice right? If you go to your ex’s wedding, you need to show up with a hot date on your arm. And normally I would’ve done it, but it just so happens that it’s my sister’s wedding…” 

“Your sister?” Ryan feels like this conversation is occurring underwater all of a sudden. “Alice, or Kate?”

“Kate, obviously,” Mary says. “Alice isn’t gay. Well, maybe a little bit, no one knows what to make of the Safiyah thing.” She visibly pauses, and then grimaces. “So not something I want to remember. The point is, Sophie already told Kate she was bringing a plus one before she found out that Kate was my sister.”

“So she lied. I don’t see why you’re over here asking me to—I don’t even know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I’m asking you to be Sophie’s wedding date,” Mary says. “But not for real, since you two are clearly too stubborn to talk to each other.”

“Hold on, what is there to talk about?” Really, at this point it’s the principle of the thing to hate Sophie Moore, who is stuck-up and standoffish and just a general stick-in-the-mud. Ryan can't be faulted for wanting nothing to do with her.

“Don't get all defensive.” But Mary laughs when she says it, and she holds out the wine bottle like it's a peace offering. “Just think about it, okay? Imagine if it was Angelique getting married and Sophie was your only option for a date. She'd do it for you.”

“No she wouldn't,” Ryan counters, but she needs no deliberation in order to accept a swig from the bottle. “And how do you know I'm her only option?”

“Because Sophie told me she's planning on skipping the wedding since she can't find another date!” Mary cries, and she’s clearly distraught at the very idea; she's worrying her bottom lip insistently, a habit Ryan knows she's trying to break. “Come on, Ryan, please? If not for Sophie, then for me. I really think Kate will be sad if Sophie doesn't go, they're in such a good place now.”

“You’re going to pull the do-it-for-me card now?”

“Yes,” says Mary without a lick of shame. “And as your best friend, you're contractually obligated to do anything for me.”

“Even if I said I'd do this,” Ryan starts, and when Mary squeals in excitement, Ryan stresses again, “Even then, Mary, Sophie won’t agree. She hates me as much as I hate her.”

“Just leave that part to me,” Mary says with all the cadence of an evil mastermind, which means it’s probably time to cut her off from the alcohol.

Thankfully they change the subject to whatever Mary is planning on wearing for said wedding, and Ryan is relieved; if this actually were a serious proposal, she is sure the world would have been ending.

.

.

.

The first time Ryan met Sophie Moore, it had been as ordinary a night as any other.

In a way it was reminiscent of the first time Ryan met Mary; Kate Kane would occasionally DJ at the bar, and Ryan met Mary on the first night she’d come in to support her sister.  Like Mary, Sophie had shown up to watch Kate DJ. Unlike Mary, Sophie had been a total asshole all night. She’d ignored all of Ryan’s attempts at small talk (which was a thing Ryan did with everyone in the interest of tips, it was not flirting, no matter how Mary described it). Then when Sophie’s sister Jordan told her to “flirt back with the cute bartender” (which Ryan still objects to every time she thinks about it), Sophie—who was in earshot of Ryan—replied that Ryan wasn’t her type.

And honestly, Ryan could’ve overlooked all of that. She could have! Sophie Moore had no obligation to find Ryan attractive, or even be polite when Ryan served her, so long as she paid her bill and didn’t cause trouble. But at the end of the night Sophie—still in earshot—had remarked to Jordan that the drinks were subpar, and Ryan was pissed. This went beyond poor consumerism; it was just plain rude! And clearly, Sophie had intended for Ryan to hear it, so it just went to show that Sophie Moore was a snob.

Which is why when Mary comes sweeping into the bar and announces, “Guess what, Ryan—you have a date Saturday night,” Ryan almost drops the glass she’s cleaning.

“Oh no no no,” Ryan hastily interjects, setting the glass aside before she uses it as a weapon. “Do not tell me you actually told Sophie I’d do it.”

“You’re doing your best friend a favor and I love you,” Mary says without a hint of remorse, and she completely ignores Ryan’s slack-jawed response, just happily takes a seat at the bar and lifts a menu as if she doesn’t already have it memorized. “Hey, can you bring me some mozzarella sticks?”

“We’re not open,” Ryan says, snatching said menu back. “Mary. Tell me you didn’t do it.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you?” Mary squints at her for a second. “I’m sorry, did you or did you not say you’d do it if Sophie agreed?”

“I said Sophie wouldn’t agree, even if I said I would.”

“Well she did agree, and I said you would, so…” Mary looks far too expectant for a dead woman walking. “I think it’s time you two buried the hatchet anyway. This isn’t Family Feud, you know. I feel like the child of a divorce sometimes.”

“You’ve never watched Family Feud in your life, have you?” Ryan shakes her head. “You know what, forget it. I just can’t believe you right now.”

Mary gasps. “You listened to me explain! Are you seriously acting like I’m springing this on you?”

“You made me listen to you!”

“Okay, I feel like you’re missing the point here, Ryan.” Mary says, “Which is why I am trying to promote healthy forgiveness.”

Ryan narrows her eyes. “Did you rehearse that?”

“Forgive me for caring about two of my friends finding mutual respect,” Mary says dramatically. “I guess I’ll just tell Sophie that you flaked, and that she’s going to have to return the dress she bought, and my dad will be devastated because he loves Sophie more than all of us combined…”

“You’re seriously trying to guilt-trip me now?” Ryan groans, and she stares longingly at the bottles on the shelf that she can’t consume. “Fine. Fine! If this really means so much to you, I’ll pretend to tolerate Sophie. But you’re going to have to lend me something to wear, because your family’s too rich to be around.”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Mary beams, throwing her arms over the counter to drag Ryan into an uncomfortable half-hug. “And did I mention there’s an open bar?”

“Well damn, you could’ve led with that,” Ryan says, and Mary swats her with a newly-stolen menu.

“So does this mean you’ll get me mozzarella sticks now?”

“No, Mary, we are still closed.”

.

.

.

What does one wear to a date with the devil?

Ryan ponders this once, then twice, and ultimately goes with the black dress stashed in the very back of her closet that she bought for a funeral she never attended. It’s not fancy—modest enough to wear in a church if that was her thing—which suits her just fine. The last thing she wants is Sophie getting the impression she’s trying to dress up for her, or anything.

She is pairing her casual outfit with some silver hoops when her phone rings. It’s Mary, for the hundredth time today. For as desperate as Mary made Sophie sound, Sophie hasn’t made an actual effort to make sure Ryan was coming; no, that honor is apparently all Mary’s.

“Hi, Mary,” Ryan says, putting her on speaker so she can toss her phone to the side. “What’s up?”

“Hey! I just wanted to call and make sure you’re not escaping out a window right now.”

Ryan has to bite back a scoff. “I'm not a fucking runaway bride,” she says. “Wait. Unless this is all some sick, twisted way to get me married to Sophie Moore and you're lying about your sister's wedding.”

“God, you're the most dramatic person I know.” There is rustling on the other end, like Mary is shuffling through paper. “This is why I did not rule out jumping five stories to get out of this.”

“That’s a very tempting offer now that you mention it.”

“Ugh, you’re going to be insufferable all night, aren’t you?” More rustling. “Okay I did actually have a reason to call you this time. I sent a car over to your house—the driver said he’d get there in fifteen minutes. You guys will stop to pick up Sophie on the way.”

“How romantic,” Ryan quips. “Just me, Sophie, and our Uber driver.”

“Come on, I had to make sure you didn’t kill each other before the wedding even started,” Mary says. “Just be nice to the chauffeur. There’s no amount of money in the world that I could pay him which would compensate him for sitting through your drama.”

“Of course, I’ll be a saint to the chauffeur.” Ryan rolls her eyes. “This might be some pretentious rich people shit but I do have manners, you know.”

Mary exhales. “If I hang up,” she says, “will you promise to behave?”

“Really? That is a serious question you're asking me?”

“I need a yes or no answer,” Mary remains stubbornly steadfast.

A beat. “...yes, I’ll behave.”

“Then I will see you at the party. Love you bye!”

Ryan shakes her head to herself. “Bye,” she says to absolutely no one in particular. Well, disastrous situation aside, she makes the most of her fifteen minutes of freedom: she finishes her makeup, takes a quick shot of vodka for liquid courage, and makes her way downstairs to wait for the car so the driver doesn’t have to deal with the conundrum that is her apartment gate.

The chauffeur is a nice, older guy who holds open Ryan’s door and doesn’t try to make her talk. Instead, he plays jazz music and remarks ever so often about traffic and the weather. The vodka is doing just enough to make Ryan relaxed until, well…they reach Sophie’s door. 

As much as Ryan will fight tooth and nail to admit it, Sophie Moore is unfairly attractive. She emerges in a fitted orange dress, hair swept over her shoulder, and with a grim expression that Ryan can’t even take pleasure in when she knows her own face is practically a mirror.

“Hi, Ryan,” Sophie says stiffly.

“Sophie,” Ryan acknowledges just as formally. And then, they sit in complete silence.

Their chauffeur undoubtedly picks up on the tension; he checks on them from his mirror once or twice, but doesn’t ask if they’re okay, he just plays his music louder. When they arrive at the venue, Ryan pops open the door before he can even walk around to get it, already itching to escape.

Sophie lets him open her door, though, and she tips him even though Ryan knows Mary has already done the same ahead of time. Begrudgingly, Ryan can respect that. 

“I…wanted to thank you,” Sophie says once they’re alone. “For doing this.”

Ryan shrugs. “Well, Mary asked me to,” she says. “So.”

Sophie purses her lips. “Either way,” she says, in a manner that is clearly quite annoyed, “I appreciate it.”

“Mm-hm.” Ryan watches as other guests steadily trickle past them, and she sighs, ready to accept her fate. “Should we go in?”

“Yes, but…” Sophie stops Ryan with a hand to her shoulder before she can actually walk inside. “Can you at least try to look like you want to be here?”

Ryan blinks. “What? Am I not believable enough for you?”

“Not if you walk in there like I’m leading you to a guillotine, no,” Sophie replies, brow crinkling. “You know, there is actually no downside to acting like we would be dating.”

“Yes, except the part where people would think I was dating you,” Ryan huffs, and Sophie’s expression twists into an offended glare.

“Why did you agree, then?”

“Because there was a whole thing with Mary, and—” Ryan stops before she’s ahead. “It doesn’t matter. I showed up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Sophie mutters without any sincerity, and Ryan follows her inside dreaming of that open bar.

.

.

.

Ryan meets the bride just as she’s two drinks in, a third flute of champagne raised to her lips as Sophie not-so-subtly elbows her to pay attention.

“Hi,” Kate Kane says, holding out her hand which Ryan belatedly realizes is for her. “Nice to finally meet the elusive girlfriend.”

“Yes, we were starting to think you didn't exist,” Alice, the other Kane sister, chimes in; she's staring Ryan down with an eerily searching gaze, and Ryan subtly shifts closer to Sophie.

“Well, here I am,” Ryan says, unsurely resting a hand on Sophie's waist. Sophie clearly isn't expecting it, because she starts, throwing Ryan a sharp glance over her shoulder.

“How fun,” Alice says gleefully. “What a nice big, happy family we’ll become. When are you two getting married? I can officiate now that I’m ordained.”

“Alice,” Mary hisses. “You can’t just ask people when they’re getting married.”

“Why not? This wedding is basically a parade of Sophie’s exes. If Ryan doesn’t marry her after all this, it’s a waste of a date.” 

Ryan twists to look at Sophie at the words “parade of Sophie’s exes.” Sophie, at least, looks adequately mortified. 

“She’s kidding,” Mary laughs, high-pitched and nervous as Alice just shrugs. “Hey, we should go take a picture with Dad. Just the Kane sisters! Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Okay, but if I have to hear another passive-aggressive rant about the ceremony, I’m going to kill myself and everyone in the room with me,” Alice’s voice fades away as Mary frantically shoves her (and Kate) along.

Sophie clears her throat. “So that was my ex,” she says. “Kate, I mean.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Ryan should be taking delight in the way Sophie is clearly uncomfortable, but in a strange turn of events, she can’t. In fact, she feels kind of bad.

“I need a drink,” Sophie sighs, and Ryan wordlessly holds out her glass. Surprised, Sophie eyes it up and down, but accepts it all the same. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ryan cranes her neck to peer at Mary, who is indeed wrangling her sisters towards Jacob Kane. “Hey. Question: Mary said that Jacob Kane pretty much loves you?”

Sophie half-coughs, half-sputters her next sip. “That’s…not entirely accurate.”

“But not untrue?” Ryan quirks an eyebrow, and Sophie’s shoulders slump like she’s lost a battle she hadn’t begun.

“I used to work with him,” Sophie confesses. “That’s how I met Kate. I guess I was kind of his favorite employee or whatever, but—that was a long time ago. It’s embarrassing.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who gets embarrassed easily,” Ryan notes, and Sophie tilts her head, pursuing her lips like she has to think about it.

“Maybe,” Sophie finally admits, “but showing up today dateless would’ve for sure hit the limit.”

Ryan nods thoughtfully. “So that’s why you were so desperate to bring me,” she says. “Even though you don’t think I’m your type.”

This time, Sophie fully chokes on her champagne. “W-what?”

“You don’t have to pretend.” Ryan rolls her eyes. “I heard you tell your sister that. I’m not, like, offended. It was still rude, but—”

“I didn’t know you could hear us,” Sophie says, and in a perplexing turn of events, she looks quite apologetic about the idea. “I didn’t mean it. I just…said it to get my sister off my back.”

“Oh.” Even as the words sink in, Ryan’s brain can’t seem to form a rational response to this information. Or stop the fact that when Sophie bites her lip in anticipation, Ryan’s eyes are automatically drawn to Sophie’s mouth. “I thought you kind of meant for me to hear it.”

“Is that why you think I’m an asshole?” Sophie blinks. “Seriously?”

“Well why did you think I was so mad at you?”

“I thought you just had a problem with police!”

Ryan sucks in a breath. “Oh, no, I definitely do. I guess my reaction was warranted.”

“Real mature,” Sophie says, narrowing her eyes ever-so-slightly, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips so Ryan knows she isn’t taking it personally.

“No, for real, do you still work with the police? Because this is so not going to work if you do. My acting skills can only go so far,” Ryan says.

Sophie scoffs. “You’ll survive,” she says, and twists to peek back at the busy bar. “Should we join the line for another drink?”

Ryan follows her line of sight and resolutely shakes her head. “I have a better idea.”

.

.

.

“You seriously brought a flask to a wedding with an open bar?”

“If you’re going to keep complaining, I’m going to take my whiskey elsewhere,” Ryan threatens half heartedly, but she gets a heady rush when Sophie tilts her head back to take another drink, and knows then and there she’s going nowhere else besides this coat check closet.

“I feel like I’m in high school,” Sophie says, passing the flask back; her fingertips brush against Ryan’s for longer than necessary. “Was the hiding necessary?”

“Duh,” Ryan says, taking another sip. “Mary would never let me live it down if she saw. She’s already given me so much shit about—” She pauses, not sure if she should continue, and Sophie gives a disbelieving laugh.

“You really didn’t want to be my date, did you? God, you’re so petty.”

“Fake date,” Ryan corrects her hastily. “And you seriously can’t blame me when you were the one being rude as hell in the first place.”

“But it wasn’t really what I thought!”

“Oh so I am your type,” Ryan challenges, and Sophie looks away, blushing.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to bruise your ego.”

“That is the worst apology I’ve ever heard.” Ryan feels the whiskey like liquid warmth, settling right in her chest, and she grins when Sophie groans. “Come on, Sophie. I’m going to make you work for it.”

“Fine, I’m sorry for…being rude. Even if it was a little white lie and you weren’t supposed to hear it.” Sophie holds out her hand for the flask again, and Ryan is feeling magnanimous enough to let her have it. 

“Still not the best, but I’ll take it.” Ryan leans her head against the wall and sighs, a little sleepy and a little tipsy but otherwise quite content. “You know, you’re not that bad. Even though you don’t have an actual chance with me since you work for the Gotham PD, I think we can be friends.”

“Oh my God, I don’t even work for them anymore,” Sophie says. “I’m—between jobs.” Ryan watches her wince, like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and Ryan closes her eyes and just hums.

“Been there,” she muses. “Mary saved my ass by getting me a job. If you want some pointers, I’m sure I can make a bartender out of you.”

Sophie gives a huff of a laugh. “My mom would actually die if I told her I was training to be a bartender.”

“Hey, it takes a lot to do what we do,” Ryan says. “Not many people can perfect the art of a Long Island Iced Tea, let me tell you.”

“Except for you?” Sophie is already sitting close to share the whiskey, but when she turns to whisper this teasingly, Ryan is struck by how close their faces are. Like if they shifted even two inches, their noses would be brushing.

It takes Ryan a beat to recover, but she manages: “Obviously. It keeps all the customers coming back.”

Sophie’s mouth twitches like she wants to laugh again, but she settles for a smile, amused and plainly unconvinced. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she says, and she turns away, their closeness vanishing in an instant. “Do you think anyone is missing us?”

“Mary probably assumes I’ve killed you by now,” Ryan says. “But everyone else probably thinks we snuck off for a hookup.”

“At someone’s wedding?” Sophie sounds positively scandalized at the idea. “That’s…crazy. And us? Do we give off that vibe?”

Ryan watches Sophie squirm and finds it, strangely, very cute. Fuck. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but, couples generally hook up. And weddings are pretty much the #1 place where they do it. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Because you go to so many weddings, or is this just a statistic all bartenders know?”

“Don’t hate the player,” Ryan says, waving the flask to make her point, and Sophie finally breaks down into real laughter.

“Oh, God,” she exhales afterward, “what time is it? I think you’ve somehow managed to keep me at this wedding longer than I wanted to. I had a plan to stick around for like an hour or two just to be nice, but…”

“But I’m just that great of a date, I know,” Ryan says, if only to make Sophie blush again.

“Fake date,” Sophie says pointedly. “Remember?”

Ryan bites her lip. “Right,” she says, and just as Sophie is shifting like she’s about to stand up and ruin the moment, Ryan blurts out: “But what if it wasn’t fake?”

Sophie freezes. “What?”

“We could make this a real date,” Ryan says, heart working so hard it feels like it’s about to race out of her body. “If you wanted it to be.”

“Seriously?” Sophie’s mouth falls open slightly, and she says nothing else, just looks at Ryan with those big brown eyes and heart-shaped mouth agape.

“Unless I’m really not your type and you’re just trying to save my feelings,” Ryan tries to quip, but as Sophie seems to struggle through every conflicted expression known to man, Ryan’s hopes fall into the pit of her stomach. “You know what? Never mind. Obviously that’s not what this is and I’m—” She blindly shoves her flask back into her jacket so she can stand.

But before she can even get away (and fall into the beckoning embrace of the open bar), there’s a hand tugging her back down, and then Sophie Moore is kissing her. It’s a rushed, chaste kiss during which Ryan is definitely too stiff, but it does the trick; Ryan stumbles right back down, and Sophie jerks away, fingertips curled into the collar of Ryan’s jacket without letting go.

“You were talking too much,” Sophie breathes, and Ryan nods at her dumbly.

The only thing her brain can possibly formulate a thought for is: “Wait, so this whole time I really was your type?”

“Shut up,” Sophie says, and when she yanks Ryan back in for another kiss, Ryan is already leaning in at the same time, kissing Sophie as well as her smile allows.

(She’ll have to thank Mary for this later. Much, much later).

[dustpileofherown]

“See, that’s the trouble with you,” Ahbel slipped the flask back into his jacket. “All business – no play. Loosen up a little. A friendly amount of small talk isn’t going to kill you. No wonder you’re already turning gray under that dye job.”

“It’s the stress from dealing with aggravating citizens,” Fox returned with a pointed look.

The Tholothian huffed. “Well, then maybe you deserve a long over-due holiday.” He snapped his fingers at a sudden thought. “You should come by the Palace. I’m playing a gig there tonight. Give yourself a chance to relax a little.”

“The Cerulean Palace? No, thanks! All do respect to your skills with the Tholothian fiddle, but an evening surrounded by that crowd is far from what I would call relaxing.”

Ahbel scratched at the scales on his head. “I will grant you that it can get a little rowdy in the later hours, but it’s not so bad earlier in the evening.”

“A little rowdy?” Fox snorted. “Once her midnight patrons hit, the Cerulean Palace makes 79’s look like a jedi meditation retreat. Besides, half of those patrons my men and I have probably personally booked into a jail cell at some point.”

Ahbel Gai laughed, making his tendrils dance. “Fair enough, I suppose. But you really should take some time for yourself once and a while.”

“Now that sounds like something Cilya would say” Fox finished his mug and set it down, the shadow of a fond smile ghosting across his face.

“Well, she’s a smart girl, my daughter.”

Thank you Nonny for participating in

Snippet Sunday!!

[dustbummy]

CHAMOMILE DREAMS

Jinx x fem! kirraman! reader

Ofc reader is written to be of any color or body type

And I apologize if you don't like chamomile tea

And you are hinted at being taller than jinx (blink and you'll miss it type hint)

(Name) is adorable and oblivious and very gay.

I don't own shit

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

╾დ╼

(Name) rests her head against the balconies steel bars. The young woman sets down her heated mug, opening her leather book again to read the words.

The calming scent of chamomile wafts through the silent air, for once all of piltover settled in for a quiet night. (Name) knows she shouldn't be out here, if her mother or sister were around they'd both rightfully scold her. "What if the jinx was watching?!"

Right now she doesn't care. The night breeze felt nice against her skin and the moon looked beautiful from her spot by the balcony. Jinx or not nothing would ruin her alone time.

The (haircolored) girl laid her palm upwards on her crossed thigh, the other holding her book still while she read the tiny inked words.

Her bottom lip catches in her teeth, biting back a smile, legs shifting out from under her and lifting soundlessly up into the air. The young woman forcing down the fat squeal that almost rips from her throat. Not wanting to disturb any poor lurking people nor reveal her location to her mother.

But she was just so happy! The two main leads had just shared their first kiss after such a strenuous and exasperating miscommunication.

(Name) in her joy, let's out a barely heard giggle, swallowing it back down instantly and embarrassesly covering her lower face with her hand. Idiot! Mother definitely heard that.

The sudden sound of scurrying feet and scattered rocks is heard. (Name) immediately pauses on the balcony. Going completely still in fear and embarrassment as she strains her ears to listen only to the almost silent wind. The book is closed (and bookmarked thank you very much) in her lap, she closes her eyes, expecting at any moment for Cassandra kirraman's disappointed voice to fill the already tense air.

Instead, she hears a raspy teasing one. "I didn't know pilities came out after dark."

At the sound of her voice, (name) lifts her head, her (eyecolor) irises falling on the figure of a woman who narrowed hers slightly, she looks to be around (name)'s age. The woman before her isn't very tall, maybe a little shorter than average, and (name)'s on her knees, though her stance and general untouchable demeanor definitely added on some height. Her long azure hair looked carefully braided into two perfect plaits, thrown around her shoulder, strands slightly touching the ground.

A smidge of what looked like ash or cinder had been wiped into her cheek, as if she ran a dirty hand along the tough pale skin.

Upon looking at her, (name) couldn't help but feel a dash of envy, she's so pretty. Her nose, straight and buttoned uniquely patterned freckled covered the expanse of it, (a nose (name) would have KILLED for in when she was younger), lips downturned and perfectly pouty, beautifully suited for her face. Who was this woman?

(Name)'s eyes quickly rove up her figure, not able to see much due to the obscure moonlight, eyes instead shooting up to her magenta shining ones. The unnamed woman before her quirks a dark eye brow up in question, sidesteping a little and placing something that name couldn't see behind her back.

What's the-Oh- Get it together (name) she asked you a question.

(Name) shakes her head, ridding herself of any further clustering thoughts and clears her throat. "Um, h-hi?" The girl curses herself mentally for stuttering, she never stutters.

"H-hi." The blue haired girl mocks her with a shake of her head, her hand raises slowly to give her a small finger wag.

(Name) closes her fingers around the book. Holding it to her chest as she struggled to think of what to say.

"I can practically see the cogs turnin' in your brain toots don't even bother." The woman in front of her gives a small huff of a laugh, enclosing her hands around her arms in a hug as she stared down at the poor girl.

"You're really pretty." The words slip out before (name) can stop herself, forming quickly on her tongue and fumbling out of her lips faster than she could've taken them back. (Name) wants to crawl in a hole and die. The bewildered look the woman gives her alone is almost enough for her to build up the courage to jump off the balcony.

The (haircolored) girl tightens her hold on the book in her grip. Screwing her eyes shut as she waited for something, anything from the individual in front of her.

Muttering is heard in front of her, low and rapid, almost too fast for (name) 's brain to comprehend.

"Of course!-"

"No i didn't forget-"

"Shut up!"

The last one is more if a whispered shout. Her voice grew slightly louder, (name) winces hoping neither of her overprotective family members heard the sudden noise.

The bluenette notices (name)'s movement rather quickly. And seems to calm down at that, growing quiet as a tense silence filled the air.

Twenty seconds later, the girl speaks up. "Thank you." Her voice was so, different. Soft and harsh at the same time. Raspy as if she'd been holding herself back from throttling the closest person to her. Angry, she sounded forever angry. (Name) can't help but wonder why. She's obviously from the undercity, she was most likely just another poverty stricken kid that slipped through the proverbial cracks. Or literal. But it was soft. As if it broke years ago, and had been scattered ever since. Distant and almost, hollow.

(Name) opens her mouth, forcing her brain to draw any semblance of a thought together. Ask her her name, how old she is, something!

Sadly, getting choked up before she could get a word out. Embarrassment flowing over her as she shut her mouth again. The woman doesn't notice.

"Hm." The bluenette tilts her head, almost as if she had been responding to someone else's words. Keeping her flaming pink irises trained on the night gown clad (name) in front of her.

Her cheshire hues stare into names (eyecolor) and reflect a sense of, drowning? Like the mysterious girl had been beautiful siren that (name) had knowingly gotten too close to. Now sinking under the waters surface silently with only the light bubbles escaping her screaming throat. Though, they give her a sense of relief as well, a sense of calm before the literal storm. As if in her last moments she'd been comforted by the very same murderous monster, her lithe pale arms encircling around her whilst she shushed her into an eternal sleep, dragging her body further under the fuschia colored waves.

To (name)'s disappointment, the blue haired woman slowly starts to back away from the terrace. Slinking into the moonlights darkness with only the clinking of metal alerting name that she was even there.

(Name) watches her leave, silently wishing for her to come back. She's gone all to quickly, a quiet laugh being the only thing left of her soon enough.

The (hair colored) girl finds herself outstreching her arm to were the strange girl just stood. A sense of sadness filling (color)ette at the thought of never seeing her again.

Though, she doesn't let that show, instead picking up her book, furiously searching for the previous page, a soft sigh leaving her once she reaches it. This is all a dream. She thought. You'll wake in your bed the next morning finding that you've been there all along.

The surprisingly ambrosial mixture of bubblegum, gunpowder and gasoline that stayed there long after she left begged to differ.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I don't know of I'm all that confident in this but I delivered!

This will might have a follow up, might not.

[definesanity]

One of The Many Tales of The Tomo Family.

Or: One Of My Tutors Wants To Know About My Lore.

Philip's day started, and he then heard someone falling down the stairs.

By this point, he has developed something of an additional sense to figuring out who fell down the stairs. But this time, a deep, feminine groan of pain told him it was Gunn.

Getting up, he made his way over to do his morning routine. Shower, brush his teeth, do his hair, put on his clothes; and as he looked at his mirror, and his reflection gazed back.

He was skinny. Nearly anorexic. Yet, his white hair fell back gracefully down to just above his knees, as deep purple eyes gazed back, little lavalamp earrings glittering. His everyday ensemble was extravagant to some; a greyish-purple tailcoat suit, with grey pants, boots and a large, purple cape.

The cape kept a little something he has as a surprise tool in check. But he'd have worn one anyways. If a bit smaller. Because he looks like Batman and not Ezio.

Philopator Agronium Isekaiden Tomo. And yes, his father was drunk while naming him. And everyone else.

He went downstairs, where he saw M'Gunnhildr Midorri Misstral Tomo, or Gunn, on the floor sprawled out. Short, dyed green hair and damp green eyes looked at Philip, herself dressed in a casual ensemble of pants and a t-shirt that says, 'yes i'm gay, was it the vibes that told you?'.

"Having fun?" Philip dryly asked.

"Oh, an amazing time." came Gunn's equally as dry reply. "Mind helping? I really can't be bothered this early in the morning."

Roll his eyes he did, but Philip still helped her up. Gumi's long ribcage expanded around her body, similar to an endoskeleton, and gave her the defence of a brick wall. Thankfully, not the intelligence.

"So, what's your work for the day?" Gunn called from the table, as Philip started to make breakfast. And with Gunn, it's always milk and cereal. In that order.

It's 2026 AMV, give her a break.

"A sudden Cocen meeting; I have to find Llo'Llo and An."

The Coven is the unofficial government of Diianas, and more of a talk show. Llo'Llo, the pint sized Ghoul Huntress, is a member, with her daughter Llo'An, or just An, as a guest, her daughter a Ghost Soother.

The point is, they have yet to come home after a late night ghost hunt. Normally, it wouldn't be a concern, but it was one ghost.

From behind the frame of the door, Malikuth Jiyuux Lilliean Tomo, her Marfan Syndrome riddled body coming into line of sight, looked at Philip, light blue eyes dead and her long blue hair in loose twintails lifeless.

Philip pushed the coffee mug to her and she nearly drank it all in one gulp. After a moment, and a silent "'Scuse me", Maliku looked up, eyes now less dead inside, as she tried to smooth out her creased suit and trousers.

"Thanks, I feel like I just hit by a bus." Maliku's voice wasn't as deep as Gunn's, mostly part to her being born female sans having the male reproduction organ, and more due to her tiredness in the morning. Usually, she sounds like someone who gets things done.

"Didn't you, though?" Gunn asked, a small quirk of her lips at Maliku, who blinked and sat down at the long table.

"'Bout a year back."

Another yawn, and as Philip exited the kitchen, T'hœmaas Makalinotol Tomo sat down, dark blue hair short minus the long wolftail at the back, along with dark blue eyes on an effeminate face. He wore his usually outfit, a suit over a blouse, and took a sip from his Darjeeling tea.

"Ah, excellen'. 'Ow are ya'all?" he sounded suspiciously like Mòrag from Xenoblade Chronicles 2. And that wasn't even a joke, he literally just sounds like her.

"Just about to head out, Thomas. I should be back in... call it an hour or two maybe."

"Righ', righ'. Off ya trot, troublemaker." that wry grin came upon his face, and Philip rolled his eyes, but a small smile was on his face.

"Sure, sure."

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

He first checked out the Bridge of St. Sophie. Llo'Llo is short, about 4'0, and her skittish personality off work doesn't help show she's 59 years old.

He did, however, find a short, black-haired girl and a taller, brown-haired girl.

Saiori, now called Heir Saiori of Haravin, and Nakitchi, the disgraced noble of Obliviution.

"Kcantro, lovebirds." a simple wave was all that was needed. "Enjoying the morning sun?"

That was something of a inside joke; Diianas was in the Frozen North, and many mountains, including Mt. Kiiriel, blocked out most of the sun. In this, enjoying the morning sun was more akin to, enjoying when it starts getting slighter brighter and before the Luxz turned on.

"Philip. And, eh." a nod and a shrug from Saiori. "The heck are you doing up so early?"

"Coven meeting in two hours; trying to find Llo'Llo."

Saiori's eyes, a molten gold, squinted. "You have got to be aljiralfrin joking me."

"Omaru, language." Nakitchi quietly spoke up, pink eyes glittering as she looked at her fiancé. Turning to Philip, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but no. Last I heard was she was in the Garden."

"That helps, and nice talking to you both. See you later on, Saiori."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever..."

They're nice, really. Just not in the mornings, heh.

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

Next was Llizel's Garden.

Finding the pale green of Llo'Lo's hair is difficult enough, even when her yellow eyes glow like traffic lights.

Even then, he next came across the stranger visitors of Diianas, from the neighbouring Minor City of Twerkana.

Trisha, X, and Ar'qil. Trisha was a regular human, with X an alien and Ar'qil on the same boat as X.

He quickly walked past them No offence to them, he just needs someone who gets around a lot and not just around the bedroom.

Which led to the blond magician and her black-haired helper, Marie and Mary.

Marie was very... flamboyant. Mary was quiet. And also very gay for each other.

It's 2211008 AD, give them a break.

This then led Philip to the Neon Streets, and to Katrinka, the debt collector, who actually had seen Llo'Llo earlier that day. Following the trail then led to Charlie, a newreporter from the other City, Will, who is Charlie's father and has a relationship with his son that Philip realky doesn't want to try and figure out, Shovai Noir, the resident goth, and Reii, the person who might be the eldritch being, Omega, but that's a story for another day.

Finally, he reached a small building, and inside was numerous supplies. Philip himself was no Ghoul Hunter, but he could tell that the two were pulled into an illusion cast by the Ghoul.

Quickly and efficiently, he used the limited resources--Thank you, paranoia of Llo'Llo--and made a door. The goal of the door was to appear in the illusion and get them out.

And a moment later, Llo'Llo and An came tumbling out.

"W-WHY DO I KEEP THIS JOOOOOOOOB?!" came Llo'Llo's cry.

An shrugged. "More fool us, heh."

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

They sat around in a circle of chairs.

Professor Kanae Severus, Dynol Cyn, Roshiua, Xaltrin, Llo'Llo, and Saiori.

"Everyone here?" Cyn's calming voice echoed throughout the room. Nods were given.

"Excellent." she smiled. "And then, with this, The Coven shall converse."

[inkwell-and-dagger]

[Refuge: Part 2]

A/N: @paranoia-exe requested part two for my most recent post, and I shall deliver!! vesker again belongs to eros lmao- I love evelyn so much she does not deserve to be this girlipop

CW: surprisingly, no content warnings!! woohoo!!

DYNAMICS:

Rayan Hyacinth (he/it) — Whumpee

Evelyn Larkins (she/her) — Previous Caretaker

Vesker Faithern (he/him), (mentioned) Madison Maguire (she/her) — Current Caretakers (in canon)

—> —> —> —> —> —>

Thankfully, the next evening, Rayan did explain the reasoning behind his sudden show up at Evelyn's house in the early hours of the morning. He spoke timidly, as if embarrassed to talk about it, staring down at a coffee mug clasped securely in his grasp. "Uhm... I'm- first off I'm so sorry for—"

"There's no reason to apologize, kiddo," Evelyn interrupted gently with a soft pat on his shoulder, earning a small smile in response to the nickname "kiddo".

Rayan nodded. "Okay, okay, if you say so. So uhm- there are these.. times, where I get angry, like- really angry, to the point I just- I can't control it. Right?"

"Right."

"...And- And I've never told you this but I have a fiance. He's called Vesker- I'm gay, so. Y'know."

Evelyn cracked a smile. "Oh, congrats. When's the wedding—? Oh, I apologize, I'm getting off track already—" She chuckled, Rayan following along with a shaky snigger— "Go on?"

"So.. we- we get into arguments a lot, and during the times when I'm angry, I.. get violent. It's.. not the first time that's happened, too."

"...Well, have you considered going to—?"

"Anger management classes, I know the spiel, Vesker and my own sister go on and on about it. I just- I dunno. I don't see the point in it." Rayan mumbled bitterly, eyebrows furrowing.

"Alright, I'm sorry for bringing that up, then. Did.. did you become violent towards Vesker last night?"

"Yeah.. yeah, I did. He drove to my sister's place, 'cause that's where he usually goes if I get too angry at him. I'm- I'm completely fine with all that, by the way. So, I uhm.. since the house was empty except for me and our dog because our son is also at my sister's, I uhm... I decided to come here."

Evelyn nodded along, a little taken aback by the sudden insight to Rayan's personal life. He had a fiance, a son, and a dog... Well, good for him!

"I see."

The two remained silent after that, simply enjoying their mugs of coffee and listening to the soft hum of the television. Evelyn had given Rayan a couple hand-baked biscuits for him, as he said he only really needed something to satisfy the hunger that was gnawing at his stomach.

She broke the silence with a gentle sigh. "If.. If it's not any trouble, I could drive you back to your house?"

Rayan immediately nodded, a thankful smile breaking across his split lips. Evelyn hadn't seen that beforehand...

"That would- that would be amazing, thank you. Thank you, Evelyn."

She aww'd softly at him, which made a tiny hint of pink bloom in his pale cheeks. "You're welcome. You wanna finish the coffee and biscuits and then head out?"

"...Yes. Yes, please."

→ → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → →

Rayan leaned back in the passenger seat of Evelyn's car with a content sigh, the sound of the wheels gliding across the motorway being a distant hum in his ears, a background noise to the music playing in the car to break the silence.

"Your car smells like cinnamon..." He mumbled almost absentmindedly, coaxing a chuckle from Evelyn.

"I've got a scented.. what's-it-called, in here, kiddo."

"A scented car freshener thing?"

"Mhm, exactly that. My cousin gave it to me."

"Oh, really?" Rayan grinned at her, and she momentarily turned away from the road to exchange the expression.

"Indeed. I've got a few extras back at home, y'know. If you visit again, I could let you have one to give it to that fiance o' yours?"

Rayan chuckled. "If that's not too much of a problem."

"It never is, Rayan."

The music continued to quietly play as they made it off of the motorway, trees flashing past them.

→ → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → →

Vesker had no clue where Rayan was. He'd tried calling him, only to find out he'd left his phone at home. That was totally reassuring.

He could only feed and pet Buddy, Rayan's fluffy Newfoundland whom he absolutely adored, whilst he clung onto the hope that Rayan was okay. His fears were extinguished at a knock on the door just as when Vesker had gotten home from walking Buddy. He opened it to reveal Rayan, alongside a blonde haired and grey eyed woman.

"Sorry to disturb you," the woman began, but Vesker held up a hand to interrupt.

"Don't worry about it." He said tiredly, the voice muffled behind his mask. The woman instead gently nudged Rayan forward, who gladly wrapped his frail arms around Vesker's waist.

"...So uhm- I'd best be off." The woman chuckled nervously, waving at Rayan — who waved back, smiling — before walking back to her car. Vesker waited till she drove off to close the front door.

Rayan paused, hesitating. "...I'm- I'm so sorry, Vesk, I shouldn't have left the do—"

Vesker slid his mask off to kiss Rayan's forehead, eminence purple hair mixing with coffee brown. "It's okay, bunny. Let's talk about it over dinner, okay?"

Rayan couldn't help but smile, nestling his face in the taller man's hair. "Okay."

—> —> —> —> —> —>

[nadja-antipaxos]

ALL MY PICTURES OF YOU - PART ONE

previously - masterlist || next -  part two

Title: If only I’d thought of the right words, I wouldn’t be breaking apart

Rating: Teen

Warnings:   some swearing and mentions of sex, but nothing explicit, pregnancy, brief mention of infertility, eventual character death cause it's in the movie

Note: I had planned this out forever ago and finally got around to it. I had to dream up who Callie's mom was. I absolutely adore Jade and wouldn't mind exploring more of her with Egon, even in an AU setting (where he doesn’t leave) but I want to see if there's interest. Please leave kudos and comments if you enjoy it. Thank you so much. Art by @lilvicsart​ send her all the commissions.

Word Count: 6,640

Exhausted, everyone shuffles into the house. Podcast and Lucky are picked up by their parents who were overwhelmed by the sudden ghosts in town. Gary stays but sits next to Phoebe, so he’s not crowding her mother. Callie finds some hot chocolate mix and booze to dole out in an age-appropriate fashion for this little Ghostbusters reunion. It’s when they’re all sitting at the table that Callie actually really looks at them.

“You look familiar.” She takes a sip and tries to remember where she could’ve seen them. Her childhood memories are too fuzzy. She spent such a long time trying to forget her father she forgot everyone who wasn’t her mother.

“We were at your mother’s—Jade’s funeral,” Winston explains.

Callie remembers talking to him. He gave her a card and some flowers. He was very kind on the worst day of her life.

“I didn’t stay long—couldn’t.” Ray sighs.

“My wife, Dana, talked to you. Tall, redhead. Gorgeous.” Peter can’t help but smile.

“Oh. Yeah. She said she was friends with my mom in New York.” Callie takes another sip.

“We all were.” Winston nods. “We loved Jade.”

“So, you knew—Egon—when he was with my mom?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Know ‘em? We were witnesses at the courthouse.” Ray laughs.

“No big wedding?” Callie asks.

“Your grandmother—Jade’s mom—wanted one. It wasn’t really their style. They settled for that reception at the Waldorf.”

“That was a fun night.” Winston grins.

“Nobody made Spengs smile like Jadie.” Ray looks at his mug.

“Nobody but Jade.”  Peter corrects with a raised eyebrow.

“He smiled!” Ray pipes up, defensive.

“Barely.” Peter rolls his eyes.

“Remember when that photographer woke Callie up in her stroller?”  Winston skillfully changes the subject.

“Yeah, Jade nearly got arrested for destroying that camera.” Peter snorts.

“That sounds like Grandma” Phoebe nods with a small smile.

“Definitely.” Trevor grins. “She told me the best way to deal with a bully was to break their nose.”

“She was a special lady. “ Ray sighs.

“She sure was.” Winston looks from the kids to his former Ghostbusters. “Remember when she attacked Walter Peck with that hair clip?”

“Shouldn’t have called Egon a ‘bug-eyed nut’.” Ray raises his eyebrows.

“Tiniest woman I knew that could kick everyone’s ass.” Peter smiles.

Trevor and Phoebe nod in agreement. It had been 3 years and they still missed her terribly even more than their dad because she never meant to leave.

“Why couldn’t he tell her the truth? She was always willing to listen. Hell, when I found out I was having Trevor, the first thing she said was ‘This would’ve never happened if you’d been gay.’ He should’ve said something.” She tries to hide the anger in her voice. If her mom had known the stakes. If he had taken the time to explain it. Things could’ve been so different. Winston’s large black hand over her small white one pulls her from her thoughts. His eyes stare into hers.

“Because your mama would’ve gone after Gozer with her bare hands. I think he’d rather she hate him than keep her and lose her.”

“I wish she knew why he did it. To save everyone.” Callie bites her lip.

“Maybe she knows now,”  Gary speaks up. She had almost forgotten he was there.

“Did she know about this charming fixer-upper?” Peter asks, looking around the cluttered farmhouse.

“Yeah. I remember she got a bill once and forwarded it to him. I was so mad she knew where he was and didn’t give him a piece of her mind.”

“What did she say?” Ray asks.

“She wasn’t gonna chase after someone who left. She had other ways to spend her time.”

“You were always her number one priority.” Ray looks into her eyes and Callie notices they’re different colors. It’s charming. “Until your kids came along. She sent me a Christmas card every year.”

Callie laughs. Her mom always chose the silliest photo for Christmas. The idea of dressing in the same outfit and posing creeped her out. She’d rather send one out where they were all piled on the couch. She was unabashedly authentic like that.

The dusty old farmhouse has enough room for everyone who isn’t a Spengler to stay the night. They’re exhausted enough and Callie doesn’t even want to look up the drive from New York City to Summerville. She tries to sleep. She does. She closes her eyes. She takes deep breaths. She stares at the ceiling. Finally, she gets up. She pads down the stairs to the living room and finds a box labeled “Mom’s”.

Her mom was so organized she had all of her journals labeled by year. Callie grabs the ones from ’84-90 and ’90-93.  She couldn’t bear to read these after she died, but now, in the middle of the night after seeing the ghost form of her dad, she needs her mom too.

Dear Diary,

Dana wants to set me up with one of Peter’s friends. Those guys that got fired for being nuts and then saved the city from a giant marshmallow man. Ghostbusters.  Yes, this is a sentence I am writing truthfully in the year 1984.  She promises he’s nothing like Peter who is hilarious but I would never have the patience for him as a partner. I heard enough about Venkman at school and we’re not even in the same field.

Dana throws the party in her new building. She couldn’t stay in the old one after the whole portal to the supernatural thing. I’m polite to Peter because he’s always been nice to me and until he hurts my dear friend, we’re on good terms. I meet Ray Stantz. I meet Winston Zeddemore. Both pleasant and charming and taken. Ray is seeing someone and Winston has a wife, Annie, who is gorgeous.

One Ghostbuster. Two Ghostbuster. Three Ghostbuster. No four.

The party is fun. To stand out from the boring housewarming gifts, I give Dana a fire extinguisher and the painting she’s been eyeing at the studio. She offers to pay and I refuse because at least I know it’s going to someone who enjoys it. The party ends as it began with only three Ghostbusters. Whatever. I’m sure Egon Spengler is probably weird and I have shit to do.

Dear Diary,

I cannot believe I am writing these words: there is a ghost in my art studio. It started with paint cans getting knocked over.  Then tarps went missing. Paintbrushes would reappear on light fixtures. One night I swear I heard something playing Harry Belafonte on the paint cans. Okay, so I have an invisible guest. For what I’m paying for this space, I can be welcoming. Until it tried to push an easel onto me and then smother me with a tarp. Not fucking cool.

Peter arrives with the mysterious Egon Spengler who runs tests on the studio and all my supplies.  I do not know how he is friends with a walking pickup line like Peter. This guy is all business. He only talks to me when he needs to ask a question or give me directions for his tests. It’s a fucking shame because he has the deep baritone of a phone sex operator. Like Peter, he’s a foot taller than me and has to bend down or have me sit. He has dark eyes hidden behind rounded glasses. His hair is dark brown and perfectly coiffed. It looks thick and soft even with whatever product is in it. Okay, maybe Dana knows me after all because I’m intrigued.

He concludes that the space is in indeed full of ghost energy and I follow willingly back to their firehouse turned office and let him hook me up to all sorts of equipment I’m pretty sure he made himself. He studies—actually studies—my face when he asks questions. I’ve never been studied before. He says he’s going to research the history behind the studio with Ray and that they would like to do an overnight to observe. I agree under the condition that I stay with them. Dana’s beau or not, it’s my studio and I’m not leaving it alone to brief acquaintances.

It’s just me and Dr. Spengler.  And the man is a professional. Ray is researching my building. Peter? I don’t even know anymore.  Winston has the night off. So I go about my routine. I’ve been working on this big canvas lately, so I get on my ladder. Done this so many times. It’s a good ladder. It’s stable. I’m fine. Out of nowhere, it starts to wobble. I hear it crash to the floor but I’m not with it. I look down and see two big hands holding my waist. Egon has me in his arms off the ground. He moves like a cat. I didn’t even hear him. He clears his throat and sets me back down. I say thank you because I’m polite and glad I didn’t smash my face into the floor. He nods.

Ray comes barging back in with all sorts of information about how my studio used to be a famous cathouse. That’s his word. I could’ve done with whorehouse, but he’s being historical. The man who owned it hated women (big shocker) and Ray believes my presence is causing him to act up. I guess he can’t handle an independent woman.  Spengler asks me what I was doing when I was attacked by the tarp. I was on the phone with the landlord arguing about fixing a drafty window. He thinks that because I was standing up for myself against a man, it angered this asshole ghost.

They enlist Peter to stage an argument with me. It feels silly at first but then Peter mentions the ERA and we have an actual argument. He’s all for it but he doesn’t know why it has to be an amendment. I’m pulled back by my hair and Ray shouts that he can see the ghost in whatever visor he has on. I feel a hold around my throat and I’m not a fan of this. I’m clawing at whatever I can and suddenly I’m let go. I land on the floor but get to brace myself a little. I see this grey, translucent figure with a very dark mustache being lassoed between Ray and Spengler’s…ghost guns? They pull it into something they call a trap and lots of smoke fills my studio. The ladder is singed and they’ve scorched some of the tarps, but it’s better than being choked.  Ray sprays it down with the fire extinguisher before any paint catches on fire.

To my surprise, Spengler comes to check on me first. He helps me up and inspects the bruises on my throat. He frowns and suggests I go back to the firehouse for him to take a proper look at me. I agree.  He delicately applies a salve on my throat keeping those dark eyes on me to gauge my reaction. It makes me feel bad that I nearly spit water in his face when he tells me the bill will be $2000. I argue him down to $1500 and we settle on $1750 since I was indeed attacked for the sake of bait.

I ask about paying tomorrow because I’m exhausted and it’s 2 am. Ray offers his bed because apparently there are rooms upstairs for sleeping. I try to convince him to let me go home, but Spengler suggests I stay in case there are any complications from ghost choking. I camp out on a couch they have upstairs and drift off to sleep. I don’t remember anyone placing a pillow under my head or a blanket on me, but I’m grateful when I wake up and realize it.

In the morning, I’m able to go back to my apartment to shower, eat, and write a check. Thankfully, I have many tasteful scarves to cover my neck. When I come back, I hand the payment to Janine (their very cute secretary with killer fashion sense). I ask if they’re all out and she tells me Spengler’s in his lab. Of course, I want to see him again but I’m not gonna invade his space. I’m at the door when he comes up from the basement and asks how I’m feeling. He’s definitely not the social one but he’s trying. His concern seems genuine and I can’t help but think about how quickly he picked me up from that ladder. He asks about my neck and I show him. He beckons me down into the basement to give me some of that salve he made.

Now that I’m no longer a client and just a curious acquaintance, I actually take a look around. He has a workbench and soldering equipment. There are all sorts of junk food. Cheese Its. Twinkies. Crunch bars. Microscopes. No acid or bubbling formulas. I don’t see any reanimated corpses but I do see an alarming amount of mushrooms and other fungi. I wanna put this man in a jar and study him. He explains his hobby and all I can think to ask is if he’s ever gotten high on any of them. He hasn’t, but he doesn’t seem opposed or offended that I asked. I can’t help myself and suggest it. He decides to make it into a tea and away we go.

I’ve tried mushrooms before and these aren’t very strong. No fun trips or hallucinations. I’d give anything to know how much he regrets letting me talk him into this. Instead, he jots down some notes in his book, asks me how I feel, and writes down my answer too.

He just keeps those dark eyes on me and comments on how large my eyes are. I don’t know what that means. I know I have big brown eyes. But they’re just there. He isn’t being mean. I can tell. He’s just observing. He holds in his breath and looks me over again and says clear as day: They’re captivating.

I take the leap and ask him if he wants to go to dinner with me this week. He suggests Thursday. HOUSTON, WE HAVE A DATE!

Dear Diary,

This man is something else.  I pick one of my simplest blue dresses because I have no idea what we’re doing. He takes me to a nice, but not a too nice place for dinner. We make modest conversation.  I can tell he’s nervous and doesn’t do this dating thing often. I throw him a bone and tell him I haven’t been on a real date since I finished my master’s program. With the Ph.D. program looming ahead, I don’t see much of social life. He tells me that he had a brief thing with Janine, the lovely receptionist, but he might’ve been a little too quiet for someone as bold as her. They work better as friends. I just don’t date. I’ve always loved art more than any person.  He apologizes because he doesn’t know much about art and I don’t know much about…ghosts? I make a deal that I can tell him if he tells me and then we’ll both know. A strong eyebrow quirks at that and I think that means he likes it. His eyes light up over the dessert menu and I smile because someone has a sweet tooth.

My usual radar is off. It’s broken around him and that’s kind of exhilarating. He asks me to take a walk with him and begins to explain the different haunted spots in the city. He’s much smarter than me in the traditional sense. My mom would’ve loved it if I was good at math and science. He gets very focused on a certain topic and honestly, I could listen to him all night. I feel a little like Sally in Peanuts trailing after Linus. I’ve never felt so affected by someone. I don’t even notice the bike messenger, but for the second time he picks me up out of harm’s way. To my surprise, he curses at the bike messenger who stops. Spengler straightens up and when the guy realizes how tall he is, he mumbles an apology and leaves. HA! Spengler checks me over and I’m absolutely fine. His big warm hands are on my shoulders and I know I’m smiling like an idiot up at him. He’s staring right back. I wonder if I should ask if I can kiss him, but I don’t. It’s a first for me. Instead, he tells me I have perfect teeth and raises his eyebrows when I tell him it’s because my dad is a dentist. He asks if he can hold my hand as he walks me home. I’m a goner.

Dear Diary,

Can you like someone too much? I really am Sally running after Linus. I swear little cartoon hearts could float around me every time he talks. What the hell is this feeling? I just adore being around him. He asked me to call him that when we talked after the date. He kissed me on our second date at a museum. I could’ve melted into the floor. I swear an orchestra was playing. The first kiss was very sweet. Picture perfect.

I, Jade Margolis, have never felt this way in my entire life. All the other times it was just sex. I can’t stop thinking about him. His nose. His eyes. His neck. His giant brilliant brain. His hands. Not only is he smart but he’s funny too. Not in the way Peter is funny. Egon is very dry. Yes, he’s Egon now. We don’t get many formal dates because we’re both adults and people have ghost problems at any hour of the night. Instead, we just kind of fit into each other’s busy schedules. We get dinner while working. I often bring my coursework over to the firehouse to work on in his lab. The fact I have a free pass is a big deal according to Janine and Winston. He does not like people in there especially when he’s working and he’s always working. But now if he can hear me talking from down there and I don’t greet him after ten minutes, he will get impatient and march up the stairs.

Sometimes, we catch a movie. Other times, he just wants to listen to me talk about my art history classes. It’s like I’m Dorothy in technicolor and didn’t even know I was in black and white before. THIS MAN!! I feel like a schoolgirl. The man keeps insane hours so I’ve fallen asleep in that lab. I told him I was going to start heading back earlier and the next day there was a couch. A comfortable and simple couch. Just for me to be with him. Now, I wake up with his lab coat draped over me. It smells just like him.

I know he’s weird and strange but I adore it because I’m not normal either. I mean, I knitted myself a skeleton sweater that I will wear all year round. He complimented my craftsmanship and accuracy.

I have never wanted to fuck someone so badly in my entire life. I’m dying to know if sex with such a meticulous scientist is going to be super clinical. Will he name my anatomy as he licks it?

“Jesus, Mom.” Callie puts down the journal and grimaces. Her mom had never talked like that to her. She really hopes she isn’t about to be scarred for life as she turns the page to the next passage.

Dear Diary,

The universe is against me having sex with Egon Spengler. And I have tried. We’ve made out dozens of times and he is an amazing kisser. He must take mental notes because each time gets better. I swear he knows how good he is cause I felt him smirking. My mad scientist. We only rounded two bases and god, I want a home run.  Every time something happens. Someone needs his help. Something breaks. They have a call. I swear there are ER doctors getting more action than we are.

Tonight, he had me pinned on one of the work tables when that fucking alarm went off. He ignored it and kept kissing me senseless. Peter called his name at the top of the stairs. He actually growled when Peter threatened to come down there.  At least he’s as sexually frustrated as I am.

Callie sighs. It isn’t as bad as she thought. She just hopes there’s no details.

Dear Diary or Should I Say Playgirl,

I am ruined. This man has ruined me. I was up late studying when he came to my apartment. He had finished a bust and wanted to see me. No, he said he needed to see me. He was still in that jumpsuit when he kissed me. He picked me up like I was nothing and carried me to my bedroom. It was fantastic. Absolutely fucking fantastic.

Sometimes I wake up and he’s touching my back. Drawing constellations. Solving equations. He says it relaxes him when his mind is running wild. That’s how he first told me he loves me. He wrote it in between my shoulder blades and then whispered it into my neck. He thought I was asleep. I have never been more awake. How is this real?

When I told him that morning I loved him too he looked shocked.  He moved closer to me so that our noses touched. I said it again and he kissed me. He held me in his arms and told me he loved me. He loves me!! I love you, Egon Spengler.

Dear Diary or Should I Say Playgirl,

I am ruined. This man has ruined me. I was up late studying when he came to my apartment. He had finished a bust and wanted to see me. No, he said he needed to see me. He was still in that jumpsuit when he kissed me. He picked me up like I was nothing and carried me to my bedroom. It was fantastic. Absolutely fucking fantastic.

Sometimes I wake up and he’s touching my back. Drawing constellations. Solving equations. He says it relaxes him when his mind is running wild. That’s how he first told me he loves me. He wrote it in between my shoulder blades and then whispered it into my neck. He thought I was asleep. I have never been more awake. How is this real?

When I told him that morning I loved him too he looked shocked.  He moved closer to me so that our noses touched. I said it again and he kissed me. He held me in his arms and told me he loved me. He loves me!! I love you, Egon Spengler.

The entry has a polaroid photo taped at the bottom with “JM + ES = L-O-V-E” written under it. He’s hugging her pressing her back into his chest. She looks so small in his arms. His chin rests on her hair and she’s smiling up at him.  They look so happy.  The version she knew of her mom was loving but guarded. She only opened up to Callie, Trevor, and Phoebe. This woman was completely different.

There are sketches of him reading the newspaper in bed or peering into a microscope with the caption “My mad scientist has no idea why I stare at him all the time. How is he so smart and so dense?”

Dear Diary,

Let me say I think Louis Tully is a perfectly nice man. He was nice as he was Dana’s neighbor and he’s nice now as the Ghostbusters’ accountant. He invited us all over for a party. I saw it as an excuse to wear my new glittery silver dress. Egon didn’t say much when he saw it but this dress is for me anyway. I think my legs look great.

I’m more social than he is which is fine. We both have our strengths. But this one guy is really social. Like he won’t leave me alone social. I’m polite and friendly because I don’t know who he is to Louis. He keeps talking about snorkeling and how I have to try it. Any time I try to gesture to my boyfriend—he cuts me off. He will not let me talk. How is this supposed to seduce anyone? I’m nodding so much that my braid is coming undone. This guy actually reaches forward, fixes my hair, and keeps his hand on my face. I was stunned. Before I can yell at him though, Egon picks me up and plants one on me. The man who will never do anything but hold my hand in front of his friends is kissing me in front of everyone. And not a Disney kiss. My mad scientist used tongue. I’m in heaven.

He tells me we’re going home which is good because my legs have turned to jelly. He notices and swoops me up. My gallant hero carries me out of the party and I love every second of it. I ask him if he likes the dress and he just stares at me. Needless to say, I was extremely sore for the next few days. I found out from Ray that the entire time that guy was talking to me, Egon was fuming. Winston pointed out that I didn’t look very comfortable and touching my face was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Dear Diary,

I’m not surprised when Egon shows up at my apartment without any warning. It’s why he has a key. I am completely surprised when he bursts in, gets on one knee, and tells me his logical argument for marriage.

It will make it easier to buy property as a couple.

Co-habitation is not an issue because we’re always together and he spends most of his nights at my place.

I will no longer be bothered by over-eager men if I have a ring on my left ring finger. It will signal to others that I am spoken for and should prevent further awkward situations.

We balance each other out. Right brain. Left brain.

Most importantly: he loves me.

I can barely speak. He did not need to convince me, but the fact he wanted to is everything I love about him. The ring is a beautiful jade oval jewel with a gold halo of diamonds.  I recognize it immediately from the little shop in Soho we passed two weeks ago. I told him it was beautiful but I had no reason to buy it especially since it was just a jewel. Now, he’s soldered it into a ring.

Of course, I accept. The ring is so gorgeous. I can’t believe he made it for me. God, I love him.

Callie recognizes the ring. It’s one her mother kept in a jewelry box, but never wore. She let Callie grab it whenever she played dress-up with her makeup and shoes. She even wore it to prom because it matched her dress. She assumed that her grandmother bought it for her daughter’s namesake.  After she died, even when money got tight, she never wanted to sell it. She’s glad now that she didn’t. And he made it for her?

Dear Diary,

Jack and Jill went up the hill

Jack knocked up Jill

And a baby came tumbling after

Dear Diary,

My mad scientist has been so attentive these past nine months. He’s such a darling and yet when I feel that first contraction I nearly punch him. I am so scared I decide maybe I’ll raise our baby girl from inside my body for the rest of our lives. He says that isn’t possible and I remind him that none of his degrees are as an OBYGN. Fuck it hurt and I was promised drugs. I practically yell this at him and he assures me that the drugs are coming. He tries to encourage me but I beg him to let me punch him. I am not a big woman. Why did I think I could have his giant baby? He gives me a kiss and I just want him to let me kill him for just a second. The nurses think he is so sweet. Traitors. He’s the one who did this to me. Then the glorious drugs hit.

I am a fucking rockstar. I gave birth to a BABY! Those Ghostbusters got nothing on me.

I have to say if my Callie had not come out of my body, I would be very confused as to why she is blonde and blue-eyed. Both of her parents are Jewish. I mean, my mom is a Catholic, but that can’t do much, right? I would demand a refund, but she’s just so fucking cute we’re gonna keep her. And she glared at Peter in a way that lets me know she’s 100% mine.

Dear Diary,

Callie is the best four year old I’ve ever met. She cracks me up every day and she’s doing well in pre-school. She’s very smart—no surprise. Sometimes, I miss how wild our lives used to be with the Ghostbusters, but Egon seems to be enjoying his work back at Columbia. It does make it easier with my PhD program to have more normal hours from my mad scientist. I see the way some of his assistants look at him, so every once in a while I like to pop over with Callie to remind them that he’s taken by a certified smoke show. Not my words, Brian, one of the assistants asked Egon how he landed “such a smoke show” the first time I came by. Egon told him “Because the smoke show wanted me”. Damn right I did.

Dana tells me about some freaky thing that happened with Oscar on the street. I suggest she talk to Egon. Callie loves Oscar because he’s a living version of her dolls. I see Dana more now that she works at the museum. I was too busy to take the position and after I showed her the ropes, she was easy to vouch for.

Dear Diary,

Callie is the best four-year-old I’ve ever met. She cracks me up every day and she’s doing well in pre-school. She’s very smart—no surprise. Sometimes, I miss how wild our lives used to be with the Ghostbusters, but Egon seems to be enjoying his work back at Columbia. It does make it easier with my Ph.D. program to have more normal hours from my mad scientist. I see the way some of his assistants look at him, so every once in a while I like to pop over with Callie to remind them that he’s taken by a certified smoke show. Not my words, Brian, one of the assistants asked Egon how he landed “such a smoke show” the first time I came by. Egon told him “Because the smoke show wanted me”. Damn, right I did.

Dana tells me about some freaky thing that happened with Oscar on the street. I suggest she talk to Egon. Callie loves Oscar because he’s a living version of her dolls. I see Dana more now that she works at the museum. I was too busy to take the position and after I showed her the ropes, she was easy to vouch for.

Dear Diary,

The boys are back thanks to some weird emotional slime in the sewer and a lifted court order. I don’t know what any of it means. They’ve run all sorts of tests and Dana’s run right back to Peter. I hope they work it out this time. I never thought I’d be married before they were. I doubt it bothers Oscar because he’s far too little to know his parents are on and off.

Egie suggests an experiment involving this…slime and I think it’s the last time I’ll be involved in something like that. It was quite an experience but I think it’s too exhausting to happen all the time. Maybe for his birthday.

My, my, the Ghostbusters need my help.  Ray and Egie need some information regarding art. It has to do with that creepy old man painting at the museum. I dig up what I could since I can access archives they can’t and mark it off into different categories. Apparently, it’s exactly what they want and I’m rewarded with a very enthusiastic kiss right in front of Ray. Who says romance is dead in married life?

Dear Diary,

Callie saw her dad on the television riding the Statue of Liberty and would not stop screaming. That’s not a sentence I can really wrap my head around. Either way, on New Year’s Eve, I bring my child to the museum, insult useless government officials, and wait for my man to save the world. He does, no surprise but god, he comes out covered in that slime. It makes him quite handsy. Welcome to the 1990s.

Dear Diary,

As my Ph.D. program comes closer to the end, I’m wondering if we should give Callie a sibling. Egon’s not very close with his brother and I never had any siblings. It’s quite lonely being an only child and I don’t want that for Callie. His schedule is less hectic between Ghostbusting and his research at Columbia. I hate the idea of giving up my beloved cigarettes again, but if it means more little Spenglers, I think I can do it. It’s certainly fun to try.

I’m not even 30 so it shouldn’t be a problem, but my body has other plans. Egon says he’s perfectly happy with Callie and that if I really want another baby, we can adopt. That’s a little too much wishful thinking considering how his application will look. I love Callie and she’s all I need. I just wish I could’ve made that choice for myself. We let Callie sleep in our bed that night and I know I’m gonna be okay.

Dear Diary,

Something wicked this way comes. I’m not Janine. I’m not psychic, but something is going on with my mad scientist. He’s a little more mad than usual. He’s downright obsessed. And he won’t tell me what’s going on. He’s so withdrawn. It’s not like him at all. He loves to tell me about his research. I know he doesn’t sleep because he’s always having nightmares and he won’t let me comfort him. He just looks scared. I hate this. Of course, our relationship has its ups and downs but he knows deep down I’m here for him.  Callie asks me if Daddy’s upset and I know I have to confront him.

We’ve never had such a bad fight. I had to block the door in our bedroom to get him to talk to me after Callie went to sleep. He looked exhausted.  I didn’t recognize him. I was so angry and so desperate for answers I was gonna try anything. I didn’t care if he thought I was too stupid to understand. He’s my husband and this is hurting my family.

Finally, he saw how upset I was and tried to explain that something bad was going to happen. I told him that it already happened. My best friend and the love of my life has been shutting me out. He tried to say that all the big events like Dana and Gozer and Vigo—it was all connected to a larger end of the world. He said he had to stop it. He had to make sure I was safe. That Callie was safe. I just burst into tears. Was he losing it? What was I supposed to do? How was he going to stop it? What did that mean? I freaked out. He put his arms around me and held me until I calmed down. He brought me to bed and told me how much he loved me. How much he loved Callie. How he never thought he’d have this kind of life. That he would never stop loving me. He kissed my hair and rubbed my back and I felt safe again.

When I woke up, he was gone. He left a note. It was short:

Jadie, I know you’ll never understand and you’ll never forgive me, but I have to do this for you and Callie.

Forever yours,

Egon

He fucking left me. He left us. I broke every beaker and vial in that fucking lab and I still can’t say how bad this hurts. What am I going to tell Callie?

--

I got a job at the Art Institute in Chicago. My parents are there and can’t wait to see us. As much as I love my friends, I can’t stay here. This city just reminds me too much of him.  We all promise to stay in touch and I want to. I don’t have anything against them. They didn’t leave.

Callie wipes the tears from her eyes. She doesn’t have it in her to relive all her mom’s pain especially now when she knows the truth. Instead, she picks up her final journal.

Hello, old friend,

Been a while, huh? Yeah, life’ll do that to you.

I think if he was dead I would know. Not in some mystic sense. That was never my thing. Honestly, if you told me that all of the strange things that happened from 1984 to 1993 were because NYC had drugged the water I’d believe you. Or maybe we all had some great pot. I’d believe that over what really happened. It’d be a lot funnier.

I think someone would’ve called, right? I know Callie and I are still next of kin. Janine told me some rotting shack is left to me and Callie. Hey, Ma, he left me a house. I’d have to get out an ouija board to tell her that one.

I found my old journals. I was so young. Absolutely consumed with that man. Years earlier, they would’ve been firewood, but not now. I wonder if Ray is still angry. Egon called him once and Ray phoned me after.  He really hates him. I don’t think Winston could ever hate anyone. Venkman’s moved on. Dana told me right after he left she wished she hadn’t introduced us. She felt guilty. But she shouldn’t.  I gave it my all and it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have tried.

Callie asked me why I never remarried. As much as I’ve enjoyed my other lovers like Sam or Tatiana, it never was the same. I knew it was special when I had it. He was my lover and best friend. He knew me in a way no one else did. We just fit together. Left brain. Right brain. It didn’t work out as I wanted and even though his leaving felt like he ripped out my heart, I loved him utterly and completely. I’m not ashamed of that. And for a while, he loved me too.

I don’t regret it. I don’t know if I still love him, but I don’t hate him anymore.  Isn’t that funny? You’d think I’d know, but I don’t. Because of Callie. Because of Trevor. Because of  Phoebe (who reminds me so much of him sometimes I can’t breathe). The loves of my life. My beautiful band of freaks is led by Grandma Freak.

Callie closes the journal and puts it back in the box. She doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

“Mom, I found something.” It feels like a blink of an eye later when Phoebe walks into her room.

Phoebe’s face is bright and excited. It’s enough to pull Callie out of bed immediately.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Kassandra x Fem!Reader - The Most Peculiar Wingman

Can be found on AO3 here.

Summary: You recently moved into a new flat and you’re hearing some rather unusual sounds from your next-door neighbour’s abode. You’re worried the mysterious woman next door is involved in something dangerous. Kassandra is worried that you’re the landlord about to bust her for her lease violation.

(Sorry if you don’t like coffee and/or you speak fluent Greek.)

Word count: 2568

.

Damn, you’ve lucked out with your new flat. The area is pleasant, the décor is tasteful – the windowsills could use a bit more greenery, but you’ll get to that – and the letting agent wasn’t a dick. Zero hassle with bills, minimal scuffs on the walls…it’s bizarre how simple your moving process has been.

But nothing can be perfect, can it?

Over the few days you’ve lived in your new home, you noticed some rather disconcerting sounds coming from the apartment next door. Nothing that disrupts your sleep, thankfully, although your post-unpacking nap was interrupted by a very loud thud against the thin wall connecting the two flats. Thumps, crashes and very disgruntled cursing in a language you can’t quite place tend to crop up in quick succession once or twice a day. Today, though, the odd sounds seem to be omnipresent.

The strange symphony is starting to get alarming; you’re beginning to ponder if the seemingly perpetually angry woman next door is involved in violence…or, forbid, organised crime? That would certainly explain the forceful thuds and grumbling. God, what if she manages to rope you into her shenanigans? What if she is armed?

After a loud bang and an exasperated “oh, fuck you” reverberates into your apartment, you decide to investigate.

Anxiously, you pop on some slippers and step into the hall, locking the door behind you (‘I’m not about to get robbed less than a week after moving,’ you think to yourself, ‘Oh, shit, I need to get insurance…’). Stomach churning with speculation, you make the arduous four-metre trek to your neighbour’s door. Biting your lip, you rap your knuckles against the wood.

A chorus of panicked shuffling echoes through the door, causing your throat to tighten. Footsteps sprint from one side of the room to the other, the sound of shattering ceramic shrill against the heavy thudding. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the woman hisses, muffled by the walls, followed by some shushing and the rattling of something metal. Who is this woman, what the fuck is she hiding, why am I doing this—

Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing…oh, wow.

Your neighbour is an amazon.

Flawless bronze skin, chocolate hair strewn into an unruly braid, tall and shredded with lean muscle. Her eyes are a gorgeous tawny brown, the split second of alarm disappearing from her gaze, replaced by a sparkle that makes your heart hammer against your chest. Very kissable lips upturn into a charming smile, bringing your attention to a small scar above her upper lip quirking adorably. A deeper scar sits on her nose, and the pang of anxiety returns, but your eyes need only flicker back to hers and it melts away.

“You’re not the landlord,” she says with a rich accent and curious lilt. Your cheeks feel warm.

“Uhm, hi.” You fiddle with your thumbs, mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry, I moved in a few days ago next door. I just heard some loud noises and was wondering if everything was alright?”

Lips curving furthermore, she braces her arms on the doorframe above and, fuck, are they nice arms. Sun-kissed, bulging against her white t-shirt, three gnarly rings cutting into her right bicep that just scream to be touched. Is this her distraction tactic?

“Oh, sorry about that. I hope I wasn’t too much of a disturbance?”

When you finally pry your eyes from her arms, a tiny smirk registers on her handsome face. Bashful, you stammer, “No, it’s fine. But, uh, what caused it, if I may ask?”

The woman cranes her neck to scan the hall. “Can you keep a secret?”

Mob boss? Arms dealer? Axe murderer?

Clearly, your nervous speculations are apparent, because her eyes widen slightly. “Don’t worry, lovely, it’s nothing dangerous. I just have a pet bird.”

Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, you run a hand through your hair. Just a bird. Just a bird. Her face relaxes back into a casual smile. A fresh wave of warmth caresses your cheeks at the name she gave you.

Chuckling, you joke, “Must be one big bird.”

“He’s…an eagle.”

You blink back your shock. “How on earth did you manage to get a pet eagle?”

She laughs, the melody warm and addictive. “Poor fucker followed me all the way from Kefalonia. I didn’t have it in me to say goodbye, even if it violates the lease.” Her tone is affectionate, despite her less-than-endearing name for the bird. Pushing back from the door frame – hands flexing wonderfully while she does so – she gestures for you to step in. “Come and meet him, if you’d like.”

Everything about this woman is so inviting, you can’t help but gravitate into her apartment.

“I don’t think I caught your name?” you ask shyly.

“Kassandra,” she replies, flipping the ‘r’ in her buttery accent. “And what can I call you?”

Anything you fucking want. “(Y/N) is fine,” you manage, debating whether her flat is hot or your face is akin to a beetroot.

“That’s a lovely name. Suits you perfectly,” she winks. She saunters over to a shelf with a blanket hastily thrown over it. You can’t help but observe her firm-looking behind through her jeans. Kassandra tugs away the blanket, revealing a large eagle sitting grumpily in a cage. It remains put when she unlocks the cage, standing almost defiantly.

“Don’t be like that, Ikaros,” she chastises. The eagle – Ikaros – begrudgingly flies out of his confines, perching atop the sofa in the middle of the open-plan room. “He’s gentle, I promise.” You’re doubtful, but he isn’t making any sudden moves.

“He just likes winding you up?”

“Loves it,” she grins. “He’s a little bitter I put him on a diet since he was getting a bit fat. That’s why he’s been throwing some tantrums lately.”

You smile as she scratches the top of his head before heading to the kitchen. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Kassandra asks, giving you another heart-melting beam. “I have coffee, orange juice, I might have some tea somewhere—”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.” She asks your preference and you state it, taking in the layout of her apartment. The place gave off a very homely, Mediterranean vibe, with warm colours and white furnishings. A few hand-painted ceramic vases were dotted about – maybe she did pottery – alongside some family photographs. Atop the dining table was a woven basket brimming with ripe fruits, as well as a laptop with a pile of messy papers next to it.

“Have a seat, get comfy,” she calls over the whirring of an expensive looking coffee machine. Shyly you take the chair by the unoccupied end of the dining table. Feeling nosy, you scan the documents by her laptop, but the handwriting was all in Greek.

A minute later, Kassandra joins you with a steaming mug in her hand. “Your coffee, madame,” she announces with a pantomimic bow, evoking a laugh.

“Merci,” you thank her. “How would I say that in Greek?”

“Efharistó,” she replies. You test the word hesitantly, wincing on the second syllable, making her laugh. “Not bad,” she chuckles.

“I butchered it.”

“Try it a little softer,” she smiles, lowering her voice, giving it a sensual cadence that made your head spin. Oh, she knows she’s attractive.

“Efharistó,” you border on whisper, gay little brain surging with the overwhelming instinct to do whatever she tells you.

“There we go!” The proud quirk of her lips is all you need to see.

Feeling your cheeks flush, you bring the coffee mug to your lips, hoping the steam from the beverage will help mask your fluster. You blow on the liquid and take a sip, immediately regretting the decision as you scorch your tastebuds, repressing the urge to hiss in favour of looking cool for the hot Grecian.

“Do you, um,” you start, ignoring the numbness of your tongue, “work from home?” You wave your hand at the paperwork by her seat.

“As often as my job lets me.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a museum curator,” Kassandra beams, evidently proud of her job. “A glorified history nerd who couldn’t be fucked with the extra academia, basically.” You snort against the mug, nearly spluttering coffee over her. Smooth.

“What time in history?” Her eyes sparkle at the question, passion shining through her irises.

“Mostly the classics, ancient Greece and Rome and all that. But I did my thesis on the evolution of weaponry.” You prop your chin up on your hand as she talks, eyes lazily focused on her lips. If not for the conviction in her tone, you would have zoned out and chased some daydream about kissing those lips. Kassandra reclines back in her chair. “Enough about me, though. Tell me about yourself.”

“You sounded really passionate, though. I don’t mind if you keep talking about your job.” God, you sound like a dizzy schoolgirl who’s hot for teacher. You scald yourself with another sip of coffee in reprimanding.

Kassandra’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t usually invite beautiful women into my home to ramble about cool swords.” You blush and set down your coffee.

The two of you talk for quite some time, getting to know each other, peppering in the occasional flirtatious remark. In her company, you somehow simultaneously feel comfortable and skittish. She’s so relaxed and easy-going, but her physique and seductive demeanour fills your stomach with butterflies.

An irritated squawk cut your conversation short.

Kassandra shoots Ikaros a look before turning back to you. “Sorry about him.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine, really. Damn… What was I saying again?” you ask sheepishly.

Squawk.

“Nevermind, I was probably babbling anyway,” you dismiss, sipping on your now cold beverage.

Kassandra chuckles softly. “Don’t be silly, you have the voice of an angel. You could read me the dictionary and I’d still be interested.” She probably said this to every woman she took a liking to, but you can’t bring yourself to care, far too flustered and feeling, for once, special.

Squawk.

Her eye practically twitches in anger as Ikaros flies over to the windowsill, makes unwavering eye-contact with his owner, and shits on the wood.

Kassandra looks like she wants to be euthanised.

“My god,” she mutters as you burst out laughing. She awkwardly rubs the back of her neck and grimaces, mouth parted as if trying to form some kind of apology for her eagle’s behaviour.

“I’m guessing you’re used to being the only one doing the flustering?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Her disgraced expression shifted back to a playful one. “If I say yes, do I sound like a whore?”

Grinning, you shake your head. “A little cocky, perhaps.”

“I’ll take cocky.” She winks and gets up. “Your coffee is probably cold, can I get you a fresh one?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.”

“The finest,” she smirks.

“Real smooth,” you roll your eyes, smiling regardless.

Ikaros caws from the windowsill, as if mocking Kassandra’s advances. Once again, her effortless charm dissolves into a look of frustration. She grabs kitchen towels and a bottle of disinfectant from by the sink and walks over to the window, nudging the eagle so he’d move out of the way. “Maláka,” she groans, cleaning up the mess from the surface. “Μη μου το χαλάς αυτό,” she mutters to Ikaros, earning a confused look. Kassandra sighs. “Usually I wait until after the first date before introducing a beautiful lady to this little shit. That way people don’t immediately think I’m just a weird bird lesbian.”

Testing the waters, you remark, “I happen to quite fancy women with an affinity for animals.” You bite your lip and add, “And, well, you’re…very attractive.”

Smugly, Kassandra finishes disinfecting the windowsill and walks to the kitchen with a little more vigour, your compliment proving to be an ego boost.

Once again deprived of attention, Ikaros decides to flap over and join you at the table. Instinctively, you flinch as the large bird flies in your direction, but all he does is stare at you, trying to analyse the stranger in his home.

“Does – does he bite?” you ask, hesitantly standing up.

Kassandra discards the kitchen towel in the bin, washing her hands. “No, he’s very kind to everyone who isn’t me.” She flashes you a wicked grin. “I only bite when asked.”

Stammering, you choke on air, struggling to find a response. Ikaros gives her a disappointed look.

“Shit, too forward?”

You shake your head. “Not at all,” you blush. “I’ve just…never met anyone quite like you before.” Ikaros seemingly gives you a judgemental leer, and you swiftly find yourself adding, “I-in a good way, that is!”

“Oh?” Her brow is upturned, her interest piqued.

“It’s…exciting.” The eagle shuffles towards you and nuzzles your hand, apparently deciding you’re worthy of his affections. The dark feathers atop his head are surprisingly soft to touch. Smiling, you give his head a few pats, inhibitions to the wind when cute little coos vibrate from his throat. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“I think it’s adorable,” Kassandra says softly.

You look up. “Really?”

“Really.” She joins the two of you and plucks a damson from the fruit bowl, feeding it to Ikaros while you pet him. “You’re the loveliest person to have ever set foot in this building, that’s for sure.”

Ikaros cocks his head in agreement. His beady eyes meet yours, damson juice dribbling from his beak. Do it, he’s silently telling you.

Screw it, let’s shoot our shot.

You clear your throat, mustering up some courage. “Are you free next weekend?”

Kassandra beams amorously. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” she grins. “How does dinner sound?”

Fuck yes. “Really good,” you blurt out excitedly.

“There’s this great Persian restaurant a couple streets over. I’ll book us a table?”

You gasp, having seen the building on the drive when you were moving in. “The place with the garden and the pretty lights, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds amazing.” Red in the face and heart pounding, your eyes dart about the apartment, fearing that you’ll combust if you look at Kassandra any longer. They settle on Ikaros, who gently butts his head against your hand, almost like a fist-bump. “Well, uh, I have a home insurance company to ring up, so I should probably get going,” you stutter.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Kassandra says, a tinge of disappointment in her tone. Ikaros squawks sadly.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for staying,” she winks. The eagle coos in agreement. You give him one last pat before walking to the front door.

“Oh, before you leave, there is something you should know…” Kassandra calls, moving over to you. She delicately takes your hand, frying your brain, and leans down to your ear. You feel faint. Lowly, she whispers, “…Our Hermes guy likes to drop-kick our parcels.”

Snorting, you look up at her in disbelief. I mean, what was I expecting? A kiss? Get a grip, woman. Kassandra laughs at your expression. “Use the amazon locker down the road instead.”

“You’re amazing,” you murmur, grinning. “I’ll probably see you before next weekend, but bye, I guess?”

“Chaire,” she bids softly, opening the door for you.

When the door closes behind you, you let out a ragged breath, excitement coursing through your veins.

You are so glad you moved here.

.

( The Greek clause is meant to say "Don't blow this for me" but I used 5 different translators and all 5 came back with slightly different things and I sort of ip-dip-doo'd it and chose one at random...sorry. )

[archived-kin]

diluc ragnvindr and the secret spouse

note from kin: i was running around dawn winery looking for any chests i might have missed when this idea suddenly popped into my head. honestly i was tempted to do this similarly to the obey me solomon piece i did a while back and give diluc a husband but then i figured i should probably keep it gender neutral for both the girls and the gays

this is super short but i’ve had writer’s block for AGES so at least i got something out! i hope this isn’t so awful it burns your eyes out :,) i tried my best okay

fandom: genshin impact

character(s): gn!reader, diluc, aether, paimon

pairing(s): diluc/reader

warning(s): none

genre: fluff!!

You wake to the distant buzz of household conversation and a distinct absence of the usual presence beside you. Slightly disoriented, you sit up, rubbing at your eyes as the morning light peeking around the edge of your heavy velvet curtains casts the creases of the sheets around you into sharp definition.

A still-steaming mug sits on the bedside table, indicating that it hasn’t been long since your dear husband got up and made you your usual morning cup of tea. There’s a little red flower sitting on the saucer - a Windwheel Aster, which, if the flower language the two of you have developed over time still stands true, means that he’s still at home. He’d have left a Snapdragon if he was going out, a Calla Lily if he’d be gone for the day, or a Cecilia if he’d be away for an extended period of time. Of course, he tells you these things in person when he gets the chance, but, well - duty calls, and duty certainly doesn’t wait for a sensible wake-up time.

You throw your arms up and stretch, limbs trembling slightly as all the knots and cramps that have built up throughout the night finally straighten out. Windwheel Asters usually herald a good day in your household - though with Diluc, they can become Snapdragons and then Calla Lilies in the blink of an eye - and you’re looking forward to spending some time with your husband. It’s been a busy week for the both of you, what with an unexpected increase in the number of Abyss Order attacks cropping up around Mondstadt as well as several sudden unexplained deaths of hunters from Springfield, and you’d really like to have twenty four hours to just relax.

Diluc’s usual coat is still draped over the chair beside the desk, so, after a moment’s thought, you pull it on over your nightclothes. You have the weekend off, anyway - all your pending cases have been essentially solved and are ready to go - so you don’t see any need for donning your usual detective garb, though you do feel tempted to put on your trademark scarf to ward off the morning chill.

You take a few minutes to make the bed and open the curtains before you sit down in the armchair by the window to enjoy your tea. You can see several of the usual workers milling about between the grapevines, as well as what looks like a carrier balloon being docked just by the road. That’s new - deliveries to Dawn Winery usually come by carriage, but then again, the fact that the balloon also appears to be smoking extensively and is being accompanied by a very dishevelled-looking man who looks close to tears indicates that this probably isn’t a delivery,

On further inspection, you realise that your husband is standing nearby the smoking balloon, conversing with a young man with long golden hair tied back in a braid that you’re not particularly familiar with. You’re sure you recognise him from somewhere, though - in the same way that you might recognise the general composition of a painting you’ve seen in passing.

You don’t have time to continue contemplating the boy’s identity, though, because next thing you know, Diluc is leading him inside. You drain the remainder of your tea to the dregs with one gulp and pull yourself to your feet, resolving to go down to greet the two.

While you don’t bother with changing into something more formal, you do take a moment to wash your face and freshen up your breath with some of the mint-water Diluc keeps in the bathroom. You’re not fussed about keeping up a ‘respectable’ image, but you do at least want to be presentable.

Diluc is sitting with his back to you when you slip into the front room, still dressed in just your nightclothes and his overcoat, now with your feet tucked into a comfortable pair of slippers as well. The boy he’d invited in is the first to notice you, looking up from the map in his hands and face steeling slightly as he registers your presence.

An odd little fairy of some kind is bobbing about behind him, chewing on what looks like a large slice of cake. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers as she spots you, exclaiming so loudly that she sprays crumbs all over her unsuspecting golden-haired companion.

“Who’s this?!” she shrieks, alarmed in an almost comically exaggerated way. Her shock sends her even higher into the air, and she threatens to hit the ceiling head-on. “Y-you don’t look like a maid!”

You raise an eyebrow, mildly amused. “That would be because I’m not a maid.”

Diluc finally turns around, eyes lighting up slightly when he sees your choice of attire. A small smile curls at the corners of his lips as he moves to the side, leaving enough room on his seat for you to settle down beside him.

His young friend’s eyes dart between the two of you rapidly as Diluc continues droning on about something to do with transport balloons and the influx of monster activity in the area without a word as to your sudden appearance. He’s certainly quick-witted, you’ll give him that - he seems to deduce your relationship almost immediately.

Still, he asks about it in a polite and roundabout way - bless the boy. You can imagine that he’s a little afraid of making assumptions, especially about a man like Diluc.

“Is that your coat, Master Diluc?”

Diluc pauses in the middle of his explanation, eyebrows lifting slightly. You don’t know why he seems so surprised by the boy’s question - after all, the impression of the prideful Darknight Hero he has probably doesn’t incline him to think of him as a relationship-y sort of man.

“...yes.” He says finally. You don’t miss the way he steals a glance at you through the messy fringe of his red hair.

“Why so surprised?” You chime in, smiling at the boy as he straightens up slightly at the sound of your voice. “Surely you’ve deduced our relation already?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Are you two… partners?”

You laugh. “Well, you could certainly put it like that.”

“You’re so clueless, Aether!” complains the boy’s fairy companion. “They’re obviously dating or something!”

Aether shoots her an unimpressed look. “That’s what I meant, Paimon.”

“Your name’s Aether, then?” You note. He nods. “Good name, Aether. You seem like a smart boy.”

“Hey!” The fairy glares at you, but it doesn’t really have much effect when she’s got the face of a baby lamb and crumbs still decorating her lower face to boot. “Don’t forget about Paimon!”

“Paimon’s a lovely name too,” You comply with a smile. “Very trustworthy.”

She looks appeased by the compliment, crossing her arms with a smug grin aimed at her taller companion. “See? Paimon’s trustworthy.”

“I heard them, Paimon,” sighs Aether, wearing the kind of expression that tells you he has to put up with this sort of thing a lot.

“What are you doing up so early?” Diluc asks you, and you start slightly at his sudden question. “Normally you sleep til noon on Sundays.”

You shrug and give his thigh a firm pat, taking great enjoyment in the way his ears flame up slightly at the gesture. “Guess I just missed your lovely face.”

The red of his ears darkens. “...you’re ridiculous.”

“You’re cute,” you counter with a smile, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose. He chuckles in spite of himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile that he rarely lets anyone but you see.

“You’re both gross,” Paimon decides with a pout, and the two of you suddenly remember the presence of the two other people in the room. Aether is pointedly staring at a painting on the wall, but at Paimon’s words, he hurriedly turns back.

“No, no, it’s fine,” You laugh, waving off Aether’s apologies for his fairy friend’s comment. “The maids often say the same thing.”

“The maids wouldn’t say such things if you didn’t insist on being so affectionate everywhere,” Diluc comments, though the smile still tugging at his lips tells you that he definitely doesn’t consider that a bad thing. “If you don’t want them to talk, perhaps you should take it down a notch or two.”

“Who said I didn’t want them to talk?” You counter, inching closer to him again. You'll refrain from kissing him right in front of Aether and Paimon, but that doesn’t mean you can’t tease him a little. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re the one always hanging off my shoulders whenever you get the chance.”

Diluc, however, doesn’t seem to have the same qualms as you about abstaining from affection in front of guests. His smile widening almost playfully, he gently lifts a hand to your chin. “Oh? Are you complaining?”

“Who said that?” is your response, and you lean in and kiss him.

It isn’t until the two of you pull away that you realise that Paimon has started making gagging noises as Aether frantically tries to shush her, all the while determinedly refusing to look in your direction. You almost feel bad for the kid - he clearly isn’t the best with affectionate couples.

“Sorry, sorry,” You say airily, moving away from Diluc, though you keep a hand resting on his knee.

“Is this what all married couples are like?” Paimon says, still wrinkling her nose in disgust. “If so, Paimon doesn’t want to get married, ever!”

Aether, still avoiding direct eye contact with both you and your husband, mutters an exasperated, “Bold of you to assume anyone would want to marry you.”

She immediately kicks him in the head, nearly knocking the poor guy right off the sofa. “Paimon heard that!”

“What a rowdy pair,” You comment cheerfully as Aether retaliates by flicking Paimon hard in the head, sending her spiralling halfway across the room with an indignant yelp. “You really do make strange friends, Diluc.”

He makes an odd chuffing sound in response to your words. “They aren’t any stranger than you.”

You shake your head. “You still married this strange detective, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did,” He smiles softly again, setting his right hand over the one you have on his knee. “I wonder if I made the right decision?”

You give his knee a reproachful pinch and he gives short, sharp laugh in response - something that you don’t hear nearly enough from him. “Of course you did!”

You move to jab him in the sides, knowing exactly where all of his sensitive spots are, but he stops you quickly, seizing both your hands in his and firmly refusing to let go. You struggle for about a second before giving up and slumping against him with a dramatic huff.

“You’re too strong,” You complain, though your affectionate nuzzle into the side of his neck directly contradicts your pseudo-annoyed words. “I don’t like it.”

Diluc chuckles, knowing full well that you love the fact that he can lift entire tables without breaking a sweat. “Whatever you say, darling.”

The look that you give him as you raise your head nearly knocks all of the breath out of him. The adoring grin on your face doesn’t relent as you lift a hand and brush his cheek, your touch feather-light and sending shivers down his spine.

He finds himself leaning in again, overwhelmed by your presence. You smile knowingly and reach up to meet him - only to be interrupted with a start.

Paimon complains, half-disgusted and half-resigned, “They’re doing it again!”

[voiceless-terror]

Recognition

@aspecarchivesweek Day Five: Something New

Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Season One

In which Jon and Martin are more alike than they thought.

Jon, in spite of himself, was starting to get used to Martin living in the Archives.

Offering him shelter had been almost instinctual- after listening to his story, who wouldn’t? Terrorized for almost two weeks and no one, no one noticed. There was also the matter of Jon’s guilt; Martin thought he needed to put himself in danger to be thorough, to please Jon, and now he was homeless. Jon owed him this at the very least. No matter how much Elias disapproved of the situation.

And despite the occasional trouser-less wanderings, his presence was...appreciated. Late nights in the Archives were wearing him down: the statements were getting to him, and the unshakeable feeling of being watched when he knew he was alone was putting him on edge. Now he can blame that feeling on Martin, who he’d caught staring on more than one occasion. Jon was not surprised; he hadn’t been looking or feeling his best, highly unprofessional with his three-day stubble and rumpled clothes. Not a good look.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t enjoy the cup of tea when Martin joined him in his worst bouts of insomnia. He would sit on the tiny couch in his office, nursing his own mug and chattering away in a low tone that Jon was starting to find soothing instead of irritating. At first Jon clammed up, uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion on his late night routine, but he soon found Martin didn’t expect him to respond or contribute, save the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. Sometimes Jon even craved the company, the familiar rhythms of Martin’s voice had become an unconscious comfort. 

Tonight he was looking particularly exhausted, slumped in his seat with deep purple bags under his eyes. It sent an unwelcome pang through Jon’s chest; Martin should be sleeping, not entertaining him because he chose to stay late. He said as much.

“You don’t have to stay up on my part.”

“Hm?” Martin looked up from his lap, eyes finding Jon’s. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I like the company, to be honest. Unless…?”

“I don’t mind,” Jon assured him. Shockingly, he found he meant it. Still, it didn’t ease his guilt. Martin was always here, never leaving the Archives for more than an hour to get food or other necessities. He considered his next words. “That being said, I hope you know you’re allowed to have a life outside of the institute. I won’t judge if you want to have a...late night, or go out. It’s not my business what you do in your free time.”

Martin squinted his eyes as if he didn’t understand the words Jon spoke. Christ, do I really seem that out of touch? He knew he could be severe and well, a bit of an ass at times. The stress of the job got to him more than he cared to admit. But he didn’t want his assistants to think they should follow his example. He was Head Archivist, it fell on his shoulders to get this place in some semblance of order. 

“I’m not really one for nights out, Jon,” Martin gave that familiar, self-deprecating laugh as he leaned back in his chair, an almost defeated-like set to his shoulders. “Well, besides the occasional drink with Tim and Sasha. And even those are sort of...I don’t know. They have their own thing going, and I feel like-”

“A bit of an outsider,” Jon provided before he could activate his ‘word to mouth’ filter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“No,” Martin cut him off. “You’re right. Feels like I’m intruding.”

“Their banter can be overwhelming for the, ah, uninitiated.” On the few times he’d gone out with them in research, he’d felt more lonely than included. His awkward attempts at interjecting could make a conversation fall flat and he felt the need to accept every drink they handed in him the hopes of ‘loosening up.’ It never worked. They were never mean about it, no- or at least had the decency not to do it in his presence. 

“Tell me about it.” Martin gave Jon a tiny little smirk that sent his heart stuttering in his chest for no particular reason. “I’m used to it, is all. This isn’t much of a change in routine, worms notwithstanding.”

“You, er, don’t have friends you can meet up with? Or maybe a partner?” Christ, why am I prying? What’s gotten into me? Jon felt curious, the man practically lived with him and yet he barely knew him.

The bark of laughter he got in reply was sudden and more than self-deprecating. “A partner? Are you kidding me?” Martin’s tone threw him off-balance; it was jaded, bitter, not like him at all.

“I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No, it’s- to be frank, I don’t think I’m cut out for all that.” Martin toyed with the mug in his hands, gazing into it like it held the answers he needed. “I’ve uh, tried to go on a few dates, meet people, that sort of thing. But they all expect something at the end and it just never feels right, I can’t explain it. Like there’s something missing. ”

Jon paused; the words and their sentiment were not unfamiliar to him. In fact, they resonated quite deeply, if Martin meant what Jon thought he did.

“It’s always been that way- I get a crush, I get to know them, they want to, y’know, and I-I don’t know what's wrong with me, but I can’t-” He cut himself off, sitting up straighter as if suddenly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this-”

“It’s fine.” And it was. Martin looked at his hands and Jon recognized the sadness in the set of his shoulders, the lines etched in his face. He never thought the two of them would have much in common but that- that was a feeling Jon knew all too well. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

Martin somehow managed to deflate even further, curling up as if trying to disappear. “Yeah, well- I think it’s time to admit that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.”

The words hit Jon harder than expected. His fists tightened in his lap; he was sixteen again, wondering why the kiss he stole in a backroom felt more invasive than intimate. He was reading romance novels, understanding the words but not the feelings they were supposed to invoke. He was in college, being called a ‘tease’ or a ‘prude’ when he pulled away at the end of the night. And it was all accompanied by that deep, crushing fear that he’d never be enough. 

No, you’re not that kid anymore. 

And Martin shouldn’t have to be either.

“What’s that look for?”

He was drawn from his thoughts at Martin’s words, looking up from the scratched wood of his desk. “Sorry?”

“You’ve- you’ve got that look on your face, like you’re const- like you’re thinking really hard.”

Jon tried to think of a way to word his query delicately, but ‘delicacy’ had never been his strong suit, according to Georgie. Come to think of it, it was never hers either. “Have you ever considered that maybe- that you’re- you’re of the persuasion, that is-”

Martin shot him a deadpan look, unimpressed. “Yeah, I know I’m gay, Jon.”

“That’s not-” He sighed in frustration, fuming at his inability to communicate. “It’s okay to not feel that way. I never have. It’s normal.”

Martin blinked. “Sorry?”

“Asexuality, that is,” he said, finally managing to get out the words. “I was...in a similar position, I guess you could say. I didn’t feel the way you were ‘supposed’ to feel, like how all the books and TV shows describe it. Zero interest in anything sexual, and I thought...well, I thought something was wrong with me.” Jon felt a lump building in his throat, much to his horror. “But being able to put a name to it, an identity, it just felt right.” Martin’s face was unreadable- had he spoken out of turn? Did he have this all wrong? 

He tried to clarify. “What I’m trying to say is that I know what it’s like, that...feeling you described. But it doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for love. You...you shouldn’t have to feel that way about yourself. You’ll find people who accept you. You’re not doomed to be lonely.” Now you’re just getting sentimental. Jon wasn’t one to dole out advice. He attempted to reign it in, get himself back on solid, familiar ground. “Maybe don’t take me for an example, though. I assure you, my isolation is very much self-imposed.”

Martin didn’t laugh. For a brief, panicky moment Jon thought he might have offended him, assumed the wrong thing, taken him out of context. But Martin met his eyes and Jon saw it- a look of dawning understanding, of comprehension and knowing and as much as Jon wanted to look away he couldn’t, because for the first time in a while he thought he might have said the right thing. 

_____

He watched as Martin puttered about in the break room and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Martin hadn’t said much after their conversation, just thanked him in a choked voice and mumbled some excuse about going off to bed. Jon felt a bit conflicted- he now had time to ruminate on the conversation, pick it apart and wonder if he said anything wrong. He didn’t think he had, but his instincts had been proven wrong before.

Still, the thought of helping one person, sparing them from that crippling self-doubt and inadequacy, made any embarrassment or awkwardness well worth it. So here he was, shuffling his feet and holding a stack of paper, stapled and neat and in some cases, annotated. He cleared his throat and Martin turned away from the sink to face him.

“Oh, g-good morning, Jon.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel, throwing it lightly on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

He’d gotten two hours tops on the lumpy couch in his office. I need to invest in another cot. But he nodded anyway, walking forward and thrusting the pile out for Martin to take. Martin looked down at it quizzically but took it all the same, his face softening as he flipped through the pages.

“I, um- I printed out some articles that I thought might be of interest,” Jon rambled, feeling more awkward by the second. Was this too forward of me? “I’ve always found it easier to read on paper instead of the screen. For ah, concentration purposes. This- this isn’t required reading, or anything. Just might be helpful for, uh, figuring things out.”

Martin didn’t look up from the pages in his hand, instead zeroing in on them with a more intense stare. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with sincerity. “Thanks. It uh, it means a lot.”

“Yes,” Jon replied nonsensically, having no response to the emotion in Martin’s words. “You- you don’t need to talk to me about this, if you’d rather not. But I’m available if you’d like to.” He paused. Best to keep this somewhat professional- it was almost nine. “Outside of normal working hours, of course.”

“Of course,” Martin echoed, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he finally met Jon’s eyes. He fought down the urge to smile back, instead muttering an excuse and turning to flee the room. I think I’ve filled my emotional quota for the week. 

They don’t talk about it again, but a few days later a sticky note appears on his desk. Thanks- MB. Underneath the clear script he’d doodled a small flag- black, grey, white, and purple. 

Jon puts it in his right-hand drawer next to an old polaroid of the Admiral, where it stays.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782318

[duckymcdoorknob]

SUBMISSION P2 FOR Birch’s 12 Days of Cheer!!

I just had to steal another slot because my first fic was so much fun to write!

Another song lyric fic!!!

Maybe a few flashbacks idk? But this is what it will look like just in case!

Lyric text!!

Merry and Bright.

Ships: Izuku Midoriya x gn!Reader

Warnings: absolutely None!

Prompt: Spending Christmas morning with your lover never fails to make you fall in love with him all over again.

Tags: the lovely @lostinwildflowers for letting me do not one, but T W O submissions for the collab!!

PLUS General taglist: @lisiwalker, @fushigum, @koushismatchalatte, @danibby, @rachi-roo, @rebloging-everything, @littlebbyleesfw

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

The gentle sunlight peeked through your living room window, illuminating the glistening snow in your front yard.

You stood before it, arms crossed, watching the snow fall in satisfaction.

It was a peaceful, quiet morning. The smell of cinnamon rolls filling the air, the sound of the fireplace crackling, it was just perfect.

Let your heart be light.

As if the morning couldn’t be better, your lover appeared behind you with a mug of your favorite warm drink.

“Merry Christmas (Y/N).” Izuku said softly, placing a sweet kiss on your cheek.

“Merry Christmas, my love.” You reply, turning to catch his lips.

From now on our troubles will be out of sight

Izuku giggled through the sudden kiss, breaking away to pepper your cheeks and forehead with his own.

“Izuku! We have to get the cookies out of the oven soon!” You stated firmly, laughing at the antics of your lover.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

“Alright, alright.” He finished with one last kiss to your lips.

“You’re lucky I love you so much. It was impossible making 6 dozen peanut butter blossoms.”

Izuku lifted his brows in disbelief, as he bit his upper lip to contain a chuckle, “six dozen??”

“Cookies for six people are more than you think! And with the people we have here at home, I think I made too little!”

Make the Yule-tide gay.

You make your way over to the radio, gently turning the dial to sound a gentle Christmas melody.

Your lover takes you by the hand and spins you around the kitchen as the music chimed away.

From now on our troubles will be miles away

The sudden sound of childrens’ laughter rung through your ears, making you avert your gaze toward the source. You looked fondly upon your neighbors’ children, who were playing in the freshly fallen snow.

You smiled with great satisfaction, watching intently at the snowman they were building. It had a beautiful top hat, a fluffy scarf, button eyes and, well, buttons. It was only missing a carrot for the nose.

“Hey, love? Do you remember our snowman adventures when we were kids?” Izuku asked, a hand falling down to caress the small of your back.

You chuckled sweetly, “How could I forget your greatest innovation, Mr MacGyverr?”

—

Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore

“Guys! Our snowman has to have a nose! We gotta find some l carrots!” A young Kirishima’s voice rang out.

“Oooooh yeah!” Your child counterpart cooed in reply.

You and Izuku began to go door to door, asking if any of your neighborhood families had some carrots leftover.

To your dismay, not one house had a spare carrot!

As your toddler friend group whined in sadness, you noticed Izuku thinking diligently for the solution.

Soon, the young boys eyes glistened like the snow you were playing in. He knew what he could do!

“Guys! Guys! I’ve got it!” He chimed, beaming his group a cheerful smile.

With a great effort, young Izuku(yOUNG MIDOR-) climbed up the green electrical box by the lamp post, and stood on his tippy toes, grabbing a large icicle from his house.

His friends cheered behind him, only making himself more proud.

“Izuku! Great idea!” You cooed, quickly grabbing his hand and leading him to the snowman once more.

You two have been side by side ever since…

—

Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more.

The two of you chuckled at the sickly sweet memory, reminiscing your youth and friend group.

Speaking of friend group…

“Why the hell are you extras up so damn early? And why did we decide to have Christmas at your place?” Bakugo…

“Bakugo that is a very unkind thing to say on Christmas morning, the best view of the sunrise are seen this early anyways!” Iida…

“Guys!! Let’s open presents!” Ochako…

“Let’s go back to bed.” Shoto…

You and your boyfriend chuckled as they all appeared in the matching pajamas, that the two of you had picked for everyone.

“Well? Who’s opening the first gift?” You chimed, holding a platter with mugs of hot chocolate.

—

Through the years, we'll always be together, if the Fates allow

A single box remained under the tree, wrapped neatly from edge to edge. It was rather small, quite cute.

You had overheard Bakugo talking about how he had pranked Kirishima during your groups’ secret Santa. He had taken a small box, similar to this size, and put a packet of Taco Bell mild sauce in it.

You figured this was the same thing.

But, when you tore open the wrapping paper, it revealed a jewelry box. So, you opened it. To your confusion, it was completely empty.

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

You looked up as to interrogate Izuku, but your eyes focused on your boyfriend, who was now on one knee, and holding a shimmering diamond ring.

“(Y/N) (L/N), would you be so kind to marry me?”

You could only wordlessly nod as you smiled behind your hands, tears pattering onto your fingers.

So have yourself a merry little Christmas now…

As your friends congratulated you both, you finally got your Christmas wish:

To spend as many years with your lover as you could.

—————♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎—————

[hrh-prince-butt]

lazy mornings

have some disgusting tooth-rotting fluff. as a treat <3

-

“We should probably get up.” 

Alex groans, making no effort to move. He is laying so comfortably, his head resting on Henry’s chest, one arm draped across his body. Henry’s hand is in his hair, following his curls in little circular motions with his fingers. Alex doesn’t see a reason to get up, ever. 

“Alex, love,” Henry tries again, though he doesn’t seem thrilled at the prospect of starting the day, either. “We can’t stay in bed all day.” 

“Why not?” Alex demands, his voice muffled as he presses his face against Henry’s bare chest. Neither of them is wearing any clothes, he notices with delight. 

Henry sighs, tugging playfully at Alex’s hair. Alex opens his eyes, squinting at the sunlight pouring through the bedroom window. 

“It’s 10 AM, already,” Henry notes, lifting his hand from Alex’s head to look at his watch. 

Alex lifts his own hand to Henry’s, lazily intertwining their fingers. “So?”

“Our friends are coming over later.” Henry moves both of their hands to his lips and gives Alex’s a soft kiss. “Did you forget?” 

“Ah, fuck,” Alex swears under his breath. He had, in fact, forgotten all about that. “That’s not until much later, though,” he argues, lifting his head slightly to look at Henry. He lets his non-occupied hand glide over Henry’s chest, giving him his best and most charming smile. To his satisfaction, Henry practically melts under his gaze. “We can stay in bed a little while longer, can’t we, baby?” 

Henry huffs and tries to look annoyed, but he can’t quite stop the smile tugging on his lips. It makes Alex smile too, and he has the sudden thought that if he isn’t kissing Henry on those beautiful lips within the next two seconds, he will drop dead. 

He hoists himself up on one elbow and leans in to kiss Henry, who drops his hand in favour of wrapping his arms around Alex and pulling him closer. Once they’re both out of breath from kissing, Alex lets himself fall down onto the bed again, regarding his boyfriend with a giddy sort of grin. He looks so fucking beautiful, sprawled lazily on the bed, aesthetically grazed by the sunlight that fills the room.  

I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, Alex thinks to himself, his grin only growing wider. I get to wake up next to this beautiful fucker every day. He is about to open his mouth and offer some embarrassing sentiment about how lucky he is, when Henry sits up, rubbing his face with a yawn. 

“I really do need to get up now,” he says, smiling briefly at Alex before standing up. “Nature calls.” 

While Henry is in the bathroom, Alex manages to untangle himself from the sheets and get out of bed, though it’s in a much less graceful manner than Henry. He rolls over the edge, and lands on the floor with a thud that startles a disgruntled yelp out of David, who had been blissfully asleep until now. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, before immediately feeling stupid for talking to a dog. He swore he would never become like those crazy pet-obsessed white folks who celebrate their dogs’ birthdays, but there are pictures on his phone of a certain beagle in an adorable birthday hat that proves just how badly he has failed at this. He 100% blames his boyfriend. It’s kind of incredible how many little quirks and habits he and Henry are accidentally picking up from each other. 

He can hear the water running from the shower, so he figures it will be a while before Henry is out. An excellent opportunity to surprise him with breakfast. Not that he really wants to get up and cook right now, but the smile on Henry’s face will be worth it. 

-

By the time Henry comes into the kitchen, his hair still damp from the shower, Alex has set the table, ready with scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages, and is pouring a cup of tea into Henry’s favourite mug. The mug itself is really nothing special, but he knows the value it holds to Henry. It was custom-made by Bea, and sent to him during this year’s pride month - the first pride month where he was able to be openly and authentically himself. It has the words gay as a maypole written underneath an illustrated rainbow. 

“God, this smells bloody incredible,” Henry says, and there’s that smile Alex loves so much. 

“Morning, sweetheart.” Alex sets down Henry’s tea, as well as his own cup of coffee, on the table in front of them. Henry sits down, eyeing the sausages hungrily, but before he can scoop any food onto his plate, Alex comes up behind him, putting both arms around him and leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Love you,” he mumbles against Henry’s still-damp hair. 

Henry leans his head back to look at Alex, with eyes that are a fucking bottomless ocean Alex can’t help but get lost in. “I love you too.” 

They eat breakfast mostly in silence, but it’s the comfortable sort of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. Henry frowns a little when Alex gets out his phone to check the news, but seems to decide it’s not worth arguing about, and instead pulls over a book from across the table and starts reading. He’s still reading when Alex has finished skimming headlines for anything interesting. 

Alex watches him silently for a few pages worth of reading. Henry is too focused to notice, his brows knitting closer together in concentration. Every once in a while he chuckles or sighs or rolls his eyes and Alex’s heart swells with affection. 

It gets a little frustrating eventually, though, not being paid attention to, so he reaches out for Henry’s hand, the one that isn’t holding the book. “Baby,” he whines, and Henry looks up, with an eye-roll that’s now directed at him instead of the book. 

“Oh, sorry, love,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “I forgot you go into panic mode when you go ten minutes without receiving attention.” 

Alex huffs indignantly, but he doesn’t really have anything to say in his defence. “So, give me attention then,” he says.

Henry finds a little flap of paper - a post-it note with a short to-do list scribbled on - and puts it between the book’s pages like a bookmark. “You’re a menace,” he says fondly, putting down the book.

“Thank you, darling,” Alex says, winking dramatically. 

That earns him a laugh from Henry, soft and crystal-clear and the most beautiful fucking sound Alex has ever heard, and he’s once again overwhelmed by the feeling of holy shit, I am so fucking lucky. This time he doesn’t waste time, he just says it, not caring if it makes him sound stupid and sappy. 

“I’m the luckiest person in the world,” he says, realizing with embarrassment that he actually does care a little bit about sounding stupid and sappy. He can feel his cheeks go red and he quickly looks away, down into his empty coffee mug. “I mean, you have a nice ass,” he mumbles. 

Henry touches a hand to his chin, nudging it up so he’s looking at him again. To Alex’s annoyance, he’s grinning smugly. “You have a nice ass, too.” 

[eliemo]

What Matters

Summary: It’s not that Virgil thought the dream would ever become a reality. It’s just that sometimes, it’s nice to see the flaws in his logic laid out plainly in front of him. 

Notes: past abuse mention, past violence mention, nightmares, sympathetic dark sides and light sides

Taglist:  @self-taught-mess @itawalrus @mygenderisidiot @a-very-gay-raccoon @dawnfire7 @cr4zyart @ray-does-stuff @whydoifeeltheneedtoorganizestuff @bunny222  @the-blue-recluse @bisexualdisaster106 @basilthefourth @snowtrashowl @thefingergunsgirl @trashtm @stubbornness-and-spite @kieraelieson @alias290 @darkch1ld @craz-ewaters @damy-02 @frogdog145 @gattonero17 @madamedraconis @stoicpanther @@love-to-read02 @that-spider-fan-over-there @thatoneloudowl @rich-flower-17 @demigodbookdragon @i-gobymanynames

Masterpost

Virgil stumbled into the hallway, shivering under the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, breaths coming in panicked, shuddering gasps as tears blurred his vision. 

“It was an experiment, Virgil.” 

“It seems the others were onto something, after all.” 

Logan’s voice kept ringing in his ears (it wasn’t Logan’s voice, he knew that. He knew Logan would never say those things), cold and calculating, but smiling through the nightmare, relieved for things to finally return to how they were supposed to be. 

It was a dream. Just a stupid, stupid dream that his idiotic brain had decided to torture him with tonight. 

He’d never...had a dream like this before.

Virgil paused at the top of the stairs, hesitating with his arms wrapped around himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to decide what to do. 

He knew it was ok to get someone after a nightmare. The others had practically insisted after they had learned how frequently he had them. 

They all helped in their own way. Patton would chase away memories of the past, holding him close with promises that he was safe, that he would never be trapped again. 

Roman offered distractions from his fears, colorful stories and grand reassurances, the prince swearing to fight off anything that might threaten his safety. 

And Logan...Logan brought him back to reality. Logan calmed him down, grounded him, reminded him where and who he was. He pushed aside irrational fears and worries with his usual logic, his reasoning slowly putting Virgil’s racing mind at ease. 

Logan was who he should go to now, after his dreams had warped reality, made him question his own safety in the waking world. 

But...

A flash of pain, a hand grabbing the collar of his shirt and slamming him to the wall, hard enough to leave him wheezing. 

It hadn’t been Logan. Logan would never. He’d promised, and proved his good intentions time and time again. Virgil wouldn’t be where he was without the logical side’s help through his recovery. 

He trusted Logan. He loved him- he loved all of them more than he knew how to say. He owed them everything. So there was no reason his stupid brain should come up with something so horrific. 

The things he’d been told hadn’t even made sense. It was just exhausted, paranoid thoughts that had unfortunately come to life in an incredibly vivid nightmare. 

It was something he’d used to worry about, back when the others had first accepted him, Virgil’s terror and confusion convincing him that their kindness was fake, that they would turn around and hurt him too as soon as they were fed up. 

He knew better now. They showed him every day, over and over and over again, that he was safe. That they loved him as much as he loved them. That he wasn’t the only protector in the mindscape. 

That he didn’t deserve the pain. He never had. 

His mind played tricks on him all the time. Hell, sometimes it liked to torment him just as much as the Others used to. He should be used to dreams like this by now. It shouldn’t be leaving him so shaken. 

But the feeling had been so familiar, the dream so eerily vivid, digging up old, long buried fears. It had been confirmation that the Others had been right, that he’d deserved it all, that no one had ever actually wanted him to feel protected. 

It was so stupidly unrealistic. And so, so terrifying. 

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, held his breath to make as little noise as possible, and descended the stairs by himself. 

Besides, if he told someone about this particular nightmare, he’d only end up upsetting them. They didn’t deserve that. 

So that was how Virgil ended up pressed into the corner of the couch, wrapped up in a blanket and willing himself to stop his violent trembling. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, unfairly realistic dream. 

He didn’t turn on the television, despite knowing the sound would help distract him. His hands refused to move, still clutching tightly at the blanket around his shoulders. 

He stayed where he was, distantly aware the other sides would be up in just a few hours, staring blankly at the wall, letting the awful dream replay over and over again in his head.

The first rays of pale sunlight had begun filtering in through the mindscape’s windows by the time Virgil heard movement upstairs, the familiar creaking of someone moving through the halls. 

He didn’t move, despite how his back protested the way he’d been hunched over for quite a while now, watching warily as Janus made his way downstairs. 

Virgil wasn’t sure if he should be terrified or relieved, but he couldn’t help but smirk at the way Deceit did a double take when he saw the anxious side huddled up on the couch. 

He knew Janus had only recently learned what had happened to Virgil, the beatings always happening when his back was turned, and since Virgil hadn’t actually been the one to say anything, he had no idea how much Deceit knew. 

It still made him uneasy sometimes, the worried, guilt ridden looks he occasionally caught the snake watching him with, the glances he and Remus would share, the less than subtle attempts to give him his space.

Virgil seemed to be the only person Remus was actually careful around, the Duke sure to lower his volume and tone down his movements when the anxious side was in the room (which wasn’t saying much considering the energy Remus had, but Virgil appreciated it regardless), and ever since the panic attack in the kitchen, Virgil hadn’t seen his Morning Star anywhere in sight. 

It was a work in progress, Virgil still wary and unsure around him, but the two of them were gradually learning to coexist and understand each other. 

Janus was...a different story. 

A blind man could see the guilt Deceit was carrying onto, the denial, shock, and anger that never seemed to give him a moment's rest. 

Or maybe Virgil was just able to pick up on it because he’d gone through the exact same thing. He still was. 

Deceit, self proclaimed lord of the lies, hadn’t picked up on the violence and abuse the others had put Virgil through, never once allowing himself to pick up on the little white lies thrown around to keep Virgil helpless. 

And as much as he wanted to sometimes, Virgil couldn’t blame Janus. It wasn’t his fault- the others had known what they were doing, and they’d known Janus would put a stop to it the second he found out. Kicking Virgil around was a pastime they were far too invested in to lose. 

But there were days when pain and sickening fear from memories that wouldn’t leave him alone, when flashbacks and nightmares and panic attacks became too much to handle, that Virgil wished, more than anything, that Janus had intervened. That he’d let himself look closer. That it all could have stopped sooner. 

And he knew Janus wished the same thing. It was probably why he was awake at five in the morning looking like death warmed over. 

Janus was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, and Virgil offered a shaky peace sign in greeting.

“Hey,” he said, grimacing when he realized that it absolutely looked and sounded like he’d been crying for the past hour and a half. Great. “You’re up early.” 

Janus seemed to visibly regain his composure, quickly straightening his back and offering a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Look who’s talking.” 

“I’ve been up a while.” 

He saw Janus frown at that, fiddling with his sleeves, uncertain. “Are you...alright? Do you want coffee?” 

And yeah, that was as much of a heart to heart as either of them were going to have this early in the morning. Virgil wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk about how one of the most ridiculous nightmares he’d ever experienced had left him trembling and crying like a child afraid of the dark. 

“Fuck, yes please. Go get me caffeine.” 

It was enough to get a genuine smile this time, some of the tension seeping out of Deceit’s shoulders as he made his way to the kitchen. 

He was fine. He was home, he was safe, and things were good. The nightmare would fade, as dreams do, and in a little bit they would all eat breakfast together like a family. Like they always did. 

There was absolutely no reason he should still feel so scared. He should be looking forward to everyone waking up, not feeling like he was being led down to the gallows with every tick of the clock. 

Janus was back in just a few moments, two plastic mugs in his hands, and Virgil tried to ignore the way his stomach dropped at the sudden thought of what would happen if he spilled on the couch after he was handed his drink. 

Nothing. Nothing would happen and no one would be mad. God, he needed to get a hold of himself. 

Nothing was going to change. And yet…

“Janus?” he asked quickly, the other side stopping in his tracks. “Where...where are you going to be today?” 

He could feel Janus staring, but Virgil now kept his gaze firmly on the steaming coffee in his lap. 

“My room, most likely,” he said. “I have some things to attend to today.” 

“Could you-” God, this was stupid, this was so needlessly stupid. “Could you like...leave your door unlocked? Just- um...just in case?” 

“Just in case...what, Virgil?” 

“Y-you know.” And really, what was he supposed to answer with? Just in case he’d suddenly been granted the gift of prophetic dreams and he needed a place to hide when Logan started beating him? “Just...in case.” 

He risked a glance up, relieved when there was no ridicule or annoyance in Janus’s eyes, just gentle confusion like he was trying to silently pick apart Virgil’s thoughts. 

“Alright,” he said quietly. “My door isn't open if you need anything.” 

It was...new, Virgil realized, having these careful, honest conversations with Janus. He wasn’t about to drop all his defenses and retell the details of his nightmare, and Deceit knew that, but they were still miles better than they’d been just a week ago. 

“Thanks, Janus.” 

Janus made his way back upstairs, hopefully to get some more sleep, and Virgil settled back against the couch, significantly less shaky than before. It was just a stupid dream. He’d be ok. 

Virgil was aware he was being a complete asshole. 

He’d made the mistake of assuming the paranoid jumpiness from his dream would fade as soon as the mindscape came to life and everything continued on as normal. He hadn’t expected it to get worse. 

He was pretty sure Roman and Patton could tell something was up, but Virgil managed to plaster on a nervous smile and force himself to breathe easy as he was seated at the kitchen table, listening to Roman ramble as Patton started cooking breakfast. 

And then Logan was walking in, muttering a quiet greeting, and the panic had hit full force. 

Which was completely ridiculous, especially as Logan just offered him a warm, tired smile and made his way over to the pot of coffee. 

It was the same Logan he saw every morning- welcoming and safe, and a very large part of the progress Virgil had made over the months. 

Logan would never hurt him, nobody would...no one was going to…

“Come here, Virgil.” 

There were hands grabbing at him, nails digging into his skin, overpowering and so painfully familiar. 

“Virgil!” 

“Virgil?” Logan was looking at him now, brow pinched, and suddenly they were all staring at him and Virgil couldn’t breathe- when had it become so hard to breathe? 

He stood up from the table, the chair scraping against the floor and nearly tipping over in his rush, stuffing his hands deep into his hoodie pockets to hide the way they were shaking.  

“I- uhm, I’ll be right back.” 

He didn’t have any other excuses. No good ones at least. But the panic was wrapping around him like a vice, cold, cruel hands squeezing his neck, and Logan was taking a cautious step towards him--

Virgil sank out without another word, his mind momentarily set back to the old, terrifying mindset, screaming at him to get out, to run and hide before someone grabbed him…

God, what was wrong with him? 

He ended up locking himself in his bathroom, turning on the sink so the rushing water would drown out his rapid, panicked breathing, turning harshly away from his reflection in the mirror. 

He was fine, he was fine, he was...trying really hard not to plan out escape routes and hiding spots in his head. 

It was an old habit that had practically been second nature to him before living with the light sides, and even a few weeks after. It had helped him feel at ease, pinpointing places he could keep himself hidden and out of the way, even if it often proved to be pointless. 

It was how he’d ended up in the closet, covered in blood with shards of glass coating his skin, so deep in his panic he’d been convinced his family was hurting him. 

He couldn’t risk falling back into old habits. Not now, when he’d been making so much progress. Not over something as meaningless as a dream. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave the bathroom. Not when so many eyes would be on him the second he stepped back into the kitchen. 

So he took extra time to do his makeup, layering on black eyeshadow to cover up how utterly exhausted he looked from his restless night, and took another few moments to stare blankly at the wall when he still wasn’t quite ready to come out. 

When Patton came to check on him, Virgil blamed it on a bit of queasiness and promised to eat something later. 

The guilt became suffocating when he realized the panic didn’t return with Patton’s voice, but it definitely was back with a vengeance when he heard Logan walk down the hallway a few moments later. 

Logan didn’t deserve this. Everything the logical side had done for him, the endless patience, assistance, and careful compassion, and Virgil was right back to being a pathetic mess. 

So maybe that was why he didn’t bother to be subtle about trying to avoid Logan for the rest of the day. Besides, even if he did try to hide his uneasiness, the logical side was always able to pick up on the little things. It would just be a wasted effort. 

Virgil stayed cooped up in his room as much as he could, blasting music in his headphones to drown out any sounds. 

When he did leave (at Patton’s gentle insistence that he eat something for lunch) he was sure to never end up in the same room as Logan, quickly retreating or sinking out whenever the logical side walked in. He resolutely ignored the twisting guilt in his gut at Logan’s small frowns when Virigl would blurt out some half hearted, see-through excuse each time. 

He just needed a day or two. Just a little bit of time for the residual panic to fade and for things to go back to normal. It wasn’t logical, maybe, but...Logan would understand if he knew. 

Except he wouldn’t, and that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? 

Virgil was well aware how difficult he was to deal with, especially earlier on. Logan had sacrificed so much time and effort to teach him, and the others, how to gradually undo the mindset Virgil had been conditioned to have. 

All that work, all that trust, and Virgil was letting one night of nightmares influence him more than any of it. Logan...Logan would probably be furious with him. 

But not enough to hurt him. Never enough to hurt him. 

Virgil wasn’t...afraid of Logan. Despite proving the exact opposite every time he so much as caught a glimpse of the logical side today, Virgil was still coherent enough to know Logan wasn’t going to turn his back on a year’s worth of progress to strike him. 

It was just...instinct taking over. Besides, in the nightmare, Logan’s reasoning for needing to hurt Virgil hadn’t been completely unreasonable. 

Hell, before Logan had explained otherwise, Virgil had thought it was totally understandable that he needed to be hurt. He hated it, but it helped Thomas. That was a fact. 

And like Logan always said, numbers didn’t lie. If Virgil being in pain was beneficial, then Virgil would stay in pain. 

But Logan had been the first one to tell him that was false. He’d been the one to lay out the real facts and evidence to show how Virgil hurting would only worsen Thomas’s health, and his own. 

They’d all helped Virgil realize, for the first time, that he never should have been hurt. He’d never deserved it. Any of it. 

That was why he just needed to wait it out. He couldn’t talk this one out with the others, couldn’t face Logan just yet. It would just end up hurting him (that was what Virgil did best, after all) and Logan didn’t deserve that. 

Unfortunately, Virgil was starting to really wish he’d had the courage to ask for reassurance when the sky grew dark and the mindscape quieted, and he quickly realized he was far too on edge to go to bed. 

He was right back on the couch where he’d started the day, somehow even more jumpy and paranoid than he’d been that morning. He stared blankly at his phone, wondering if the dream would return if he fell asleep. 

Great. He’d probably be pulling an all-nighter. Maybe multiple if he couldn���t get a grip. Patton was going to kill him when he found out. 

“Virgil?” 

Virgil’s anxiety skyrocketed at the voice from the staircase, breath catching in his throat as he dug his nails into the couch cushions. He didn’t look up, even as he felt Logan’s eyes on him, completely frozen under the weight of his gaze. 

“Virgil,” Logan said again, steady and emotionless, impossible to read. “May I speak with you?” 

Virgil’s heart was beating in his now tightening chest, and he furiously told himself to calm down. But his body wasn’t cooperating with his mind, panic overpowering reason, and Virgil desperately searched for an excuse before Logan could realize how terrified he was. 

“I- um...I was just heading to bed, so--” 

“I only require a moment of your time,” Logan said. “As you usually sleep at a much later hour than this, I’m sure that won't be an issue.” 

Virgil took a shaky breath, wincing when he realized how obviously unsettled he must look. Logan didn’t sound angry, but...well, it was always so hard to tell. 

But there wasn’t a way out. He just hoped he could play it off long enough for Logan to give up. “Ok. Yeah, what’s...what’s up.” 

He tried not to think about how eerily similar this was to the nightmare. How Logan had calmly asked to speak with him. How he’d pulled out his notebook and presented neatly recorded data of Virgil’s health paralleled with Thomas’s. 

“It seems Thomas’s productivity has only decreased since we began treating you as an equal, Virgil.” 

“It seems the Others were right, your pain does make life easier.” 

“We will, of course, have to return to that method. You understand, I’m sure.” 

Virgil resisted the urge to flinch as Logan sat down at the other end of the couch, careful to keep his distance. 

He wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering under the phantom feeling of hands grabbing him, so tight it bruised his skin, both from nightmares and memories he could never let go of. 

“You’ve been avoiding me today.” 

Virgil did flinch this time, curling into a tighter ball. “N-no I haven’t.” 

Yeah, that was convincing. He could practically picture the exasperated eye roll Janus would give him if he were here. He kind of wished someone else would show up- anything to cause a distraction. 

Logan wasn’t here to hurt him. Logan would never hurt him. No one would hurt him. 

“I can...see my presence is causing you some distress,” Logan said, and Virgil felt like crying. “I do not wish to force you to speak with me, but I’ve clearly done something to trigger a reaction.”

He paused, obviously waiting for some kind of response or confirmation. Virgil squeezed his eyes shut, and Logan sighed before continuing. 

“It was never my intention to do anything to upset you. As is always the case, I only wish to identify the trigger so it does not happen again, and offer my sincere apologies. But I cannot do that if you won’t talk to me, Virgil.” 

God, why couldn’t Logan just be angry? He wouldn’t go back for anything in the world, but sometimes…

Sometimes it felt like being screamed at, punched and kicked and thrown around until he couldn’t move had been easier. At least then, he knew what to expect. 

Nobody had cared about him back then. And now...now Logan, Patton, Roman, Janus, and even Remus just wanted him to be ok. It scared him sometimes, how much he loved them. 

“It...it’s not that,” Virgil said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s...fuck, you didn’t do anything Logan. You...you’re fine.” 

Logan was silent a moment before responding. “I find that hard to believe. You are currently under visible distress, which didn’t begin until after I made my presence known. This has happened every time I have walked into the room today. You skipped breakfast after I--”

“Look, I’m sorry, ok?” Virgil winced at his own outburst, now looking anywhere but at Logan. God, why was he always such an asshole? “I’m...sorry. I’m really sorry I didn’t mean to...it’s just me, ok? I’m being stupid like always and--” 

“You are not stupid,” Logan cut in, that stern but gentle tone he always used to talk Virgil out of a self deprecating spiral. “You tend to overthink and jump to often unrealistic conclusions, but as I have told you many times that does not change how intelligent and thoughtful you are.” 

Virgil shrugged, the praise just making him feel more guilty about what he was putting the logical side through. “I’m still being stupid, though.” 

“Falsehood. Something has frightened you, and clearly I am at the source. I only wish to assist.” 

Well. Now he was going to have to tell Logan. Even if he was upset afterwards, annoyance was far better than Logan walking around, weighed down by guilt and blaming himself for something he didn’t do. 

But apparently Virgil hesitated just a second too long, and Logan was suddenly speaking again. 

“Perhaps we can try a different approach,” he offered. “Could you...explain why you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?” 

Virgil took a shaky breath. “You’re...gonna be mad.” 

“At you?” Logan asked, and Virgil nodded. “I sincerely doubt that. Why do you believe I’m going to be angry?” 

Virgil hunched over himself, and suddenly everything came spilling out. “Because...because you’ve done so much. I owe you all everything and I still...I’m still letting myself panic over a stupid fucking dream. After everything! And you...you don't deserve that. I-I’m sorry for avoiding you I didn’t mean to- to make you think--” 

There was a hand on his shoulder, barely brushing the cloth of his hoodie, but Virgil still flinched back before he could stop himself, and Logan quickly pulled away. 

“Sorry,” Virgil muttered. “I- I’m not--” 

“No apologies necessary,” Logan said, sounding much more calm than Virgil would have expected. “There’s no shame in being affected by a particularly bad dream.” 

Virgil scoffed, glancing up just enough to see Logan’s worried frown. “Sure.” 

“I mean it, Virgil. Especially considering your past. I understand if a vivid nightmare was enough for you to revert back to an old mindset. Staying vigilant and avoiding threats is what kept you safe back then, isn’t it?”

Safe was a strong word- he had never really been safe before, but...avoidance had been a survival technique. If he thought someone was angry, the only thing he could do was stay out of their way and hide. 

“But it’s you,” he argued. “I...it was so stupid you- you were saying that they were right. When...when they said that hurting me helped Thomas, and then...and then you showed me all this- this fucking data or whatever that me being safe hurt everyone and I...y-you all said I had to go back to how it was and I…” 

He trailed off, face burning when a few traitorous tears slipped down his cheeks, and he furiously wiped them away with his sleeves, breathing deeply. 

“Virgil--” 

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I’m...I know it’s dumb, ok? It’s just a stupid dream and you would never...I mean, if any of that was true you would have said something months ago, right?” 

For the first time, he looked up to meet Logan’s gaze, suddenly finding himself speechless at the sheer amount of emotion behind his glasses. Warm but worried, calculating and understanding. 

And then, slowly, he was standing from the couch. “Please wait here just a moment, Virgil. I believe there is something you should see.” 

And then just like that he was gone, hurrying up the stairs without another word. For just a second, Virgil considered retreating, and apologizing for this entire conversation tomorrow when he was more put together. 

But he didn’t need to make this any more unfair for Logan than it already was. Besides, the logical side was back in less than a minute, something held tight in his hand as he returned to his spot on the couch. 

“What’s that?” Virgil asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray just how sickeningly nervous he felt. 

Logan held it out to him, slow enough that Virgil didn’t flinch at the movement. He took it in his hands, realizing it was a plain black spiral notebook, and his heart clawed its way up to his throat. 

“What’s--?” 

“Flip through it, please,” Logan said calmly. “I believe you’ll find it interesting. And it may do something to set your mind at ease.” 

So far it was doing the exact opposite, but Virgil obeyed and slowly began turning the pages. 

It was clearly well-used, the some of the pages bent or wrinkled, but other than that it was still pristine and organized like everything that belonged to Logan. 

Some pages had hand drawn graphs or what looked like data tables, others had written entries in Logan’s writing. Virgil skimmed through them, catching glimpses of his name, and occasionally the other’s, all of the descriptions of events and conversations vaguely familiar. 

He had...absolutely no idea what the hell this was. 

And Logan apparently picked up on that, the logical side suddenly clearing his throat and scooting closer, still far enough away for the couch to not feel crowded. 

“It’s, uhm...well, you see when we had first learned of your past I wanted to ensure that we found the best methods to help you feel...safe. And at home. I suppose I should have told you, I completely understand if you’re--” 

“Wait a second,” Virgil said, the pieces falling together. “This is...you kept notes on me? On...my recovery?” 

It was Logan’s turn to avoid his gaze now, and Virgil’s heart sank when he realized Logan looked nervous. 

“I apologize if it is invasive,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t my intention. It’s a bit of a habit, I suppose. I tend to take extensive notes on things I find...important. And finding the best way to help you was incredibly important to me, Virgil.” 

Virgil felt like crying again, but for an entirely different reason this time. “Lo, that’s...god, that’s so fucking sweet.” 

Logan’s head snapped up, eyes widening when he saw Virgil’s widening smile. “I- you believe so?” 

“Dude, are you kidding? I’ve never...sometimes I just...can’t believe how much you guys care.” 

Logan matched his smile, and carefully, slowly enough that Virgil could pull away, scooted closer to see the open notebook. 

“I’ve been sure to document all of your progress at least once a week, no matter how small. And there has been a lot of it, even if you don’t always think so.” 

“Logan--” 

“But the reason I wanted you to see this today,” he continued, reaching over to turn a few pages. “Is because I occasionally compare your progress to Thomas’s productivity and overall wellbeing.” 

Virgil had absolutely no idea what the graphs and symbols Logan was pointing at meant, but the other side was right there to explain it to him. 

“Your progress, as well as how safe you began to feel around us, directly parallels Thomas's increased mental health. You being safe and healthy makes him better, Virgil. You being happy makes us better.” 

And...yeah, there was absolutely no way for Virgil to stop himself from crying this time. He didn’t really have any intention to stop, anyway. It was a nice change of pace to cry from happiness for once. 

Logan, unfortunately didn’t seem to know the difference. “I am...so sorry, I didn’t mean to--” 

Virgil cut him off by pulling him into a hug, holding on tight and squeezing his eyes shut. Logan relaxed against him, and slowly moved to wrap his arms around Virgil’s back. 

“I was going to offer you space and time to recuperate,” Logan said, and Virgil tightened his grip. “I’m pleased to see you are considerably less afraid of me now.” 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Virgil said quickly, not yet ready to pull away. “I’m not...and I wasn’t, I promise I just...my stupid brain is always--” 

“Your brain is not stupid,” Logan chided, and Virgil dropped his arms when he pulled back. “It’s had to learn to keep you alive under very unfortunate circumstances. It’s a survivor.” 

Virgil snorted, despite the way his chest felt light at the words. “I mean...I guess so.” 

Logan leaned back against the couch, the notebook still open in between them, and he drummed his fingers against his thigh before speaking again. 

“Something I need you to understand,” he said. “Is that in the grand scheme of things, the contents of this notebook don’t matter.” 

“But it’s--” 

“We were correct in assuming that helping you would, in turn, help Thomas. But even if we were wrong, it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter if there were benefits, and it wouldn’t matter if keeping you safe negatively affected Thomas. You would never, ever be struck. You would never be beaten or grabbed or screamed at or threatened. No matter the situation. It would never be an option to us.” 

There it was again, like he’d heard so many times before but so, so much more intense tonight. The compassion, the dedication, the emotions Logan denied while feeling so strongly. 

Virgil blinked away a new wave of tears. “I...I don’t ever want to hurt Thomas.” 

“Then it is a good thing this is only hypothetical,” Logan said. “You very clearly do no such thing. I only wanted you to understand that no matter the circumstances, your place with us will never change. You will never have any reason to fear for your safety again.” 

Virgil didn’t know how Logan did it, how the side who claimed to be the most alienated when it came to emotional responses, always seemed to be able to make everything right. 

The jumpiness and awful paranoia had already almost completely faded, leaving behind a soft blanket of soft fatigue. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and Logan smiled. 

“Of course. I’ll remind you any time you need. Would you like to be alone, or would you like to stay with me tonight?” 

Virgil smiled, wiping his eyes again. “Can I stay? Please?” 

Logan reached out a hand, his own smile gentle and warm, and Virgil knew they’d both be passed out to some old space documentary like they usually did when Virgil had a bad dream. 

“Of course, Virgil.” 

[luna-eclipse2000]

Baby, it’s cold outside.

Marco Bodt x Reader

“God, why did I think it’d be a good idea to leave my house without a hat? Or a scarf?” I ask myself as I leave the school. “-20° (-4° F) outside with snow and wind… But the forecast is usually wrong because the meteorologist is horrible at their job.”

I rub my hands together to try and warm them up a bit, but they’re already going numb. I sigh but that just causes my teeth to chatter. I decide to tuck my hands under my arms to try and get a bit of warmth back when I hear a car drive up beside me but I don’t look to see who it is because I’m too focused on not becoming a popsicle. “You look really cold.” The person says from their window. “Yeah?” I ask rhetorically. “I wonder why? Maybe it’s because there’s blizzard and I’m in a stupid little coat that I got on sale from Marshall’s.”

Upon realizing how rude I just was, I immediately back peddle. “I’m-I’m sorry. I’m just really cold and trying to preserve my energy in order to make it back to my dorm.”

“I could give you a ride if you’d like?” The person offers. Before I say anything else, I look over to see who’s in the car. “Oh, hey, Marco.” I greet him properly. “That’d be great, thanks.”

I quickly shuffle my way over to the car, open the door, and hop in. Marco turns up the heating and takes his hat off to put on me so my ears warm up faster. “You know, you should prepare for any kind of weather during the winter.” Marco says. “Yeah, I know.” I agree. “I was just in a rush this morning and I knew about the weather but I was already down the hall, and I decided that I’d be fine.”

The radio then starts to play Idina Menzel and Michael Bublè’s version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside. Marco starts to laugh as I pout. “Don’t mock me, radio.”

“Why don’t I come inside with you and make you something warm to drink while you get a million blankets to pile on?” Marco offers once he’s stopped laughing. “Sure,” I agree. “I’d really like that.”

~~~~~

“Here you go.” Marco says as I sit on my small couch. I have a blanket across my lap, as well. “Thank you.” I say as I take the mug. It’s hot chocolate but he decorated the hell out of it. There’s whipped cream, marshmallows and a candy cane. “Holy crap, Marco! How’d you learn to do this?”

He laughs. “I’m the oldest of four. My youngest brother’s just about to turn 10 so I’ve learned how to make things look cool. Hot Chocolate’s kinda my specialty during the winter.”

“Well it looks like it should be in a commercial or something.” I say as I take a sip of my drink. “Thanks.” He replies as he takes a sip of his.

~~~~~

“Well, I think I’m gonna go now.” Marco says as he stands up. “Gotta study for a test next week in a unit I suck in and I still live at home which is 20 minutes away.”

“Oh, ok.” I reply, kinda sad that he has to go. “We should do this more often, I had fun.” Marco tells me. I nod. “Me too. Bye, Marco!”

“Bye, (y/n)!” Marco says and just as he reaches the door, the power goes out. “What the hell?” I ask. “I don’t know,” Marco replies. “I guess so many people had their heating units up so high that it caused a power outage.”

“Oh… that’s not good.” I say. “I think I have a radio in my closet. We could find out how far the blackout went and when the power could be back on.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Marco says.

I get up, head to my room, and start to search my closet for the radio I got a few years ago. “Ok… it was blue with silver…” I mumble the description to myself like it’ll help me find it faster. I move a set of boxes and find the old dusty thing so I pick it up and bring it outside to the living room. “And we pray that it works.”

Marco crosses his fingers as I press the on button and we hear some Christmas music playing. “Yes!” We cheer happily. I press one of the buttons to get to a news station so we can hear what’s going on. “The National Weather Service says that this is one of the worst storms to hit our area since 1953.” The broadcaster says. “The blackout ranges from 54th Street West all the way to Diana Road in width, and from Reiss Drive to Appleby Street in length.”

“Holy crap!” Marco exclaims. “Damn, that’s a big blackout.” I gasp. “The cause of the blackout was a mixture of people cranking up the heat and piles of snow falling on transformers.” The broadcaster says. “We advise everyone to stay inside until the power comes back on as it will be safer then going out on the roads. However, we don’t know yet just how long it will take for the Power Company to fix this.”

“Man, this sucks.” Marco groans. “You don’t wanna stay here?” I ask him. “That’s not it.” Marco tells me. “It’s just that my brothers are gonna be worried because my parents are out of state on business. I’m here. And I don’t wanna intrude on you.”

“Marco, you’re not intruding on me.” I assure him. “Besides, I think I’d prefer to have someone here than be by myself. The snow’s making it kinda dark in here.”

“Do you have any candles?” Marco asks. “We could use them for light.”

“Good idea.” I say. “I should have a few in the closet cupboard. You can go grab those and I’ll find a lighter or matches, or something.”

Marco nods and then goes down the hall. I walk into the kitchen and go through my junk drawer. I find a highlighter, turtle shaped silly band, pens galore, a battery, and finally my lighter. “Got the lighter!” I announce as I re-enter the living room. “I got four candles.” Marco says as he comes in a second later. “I got Ocean Breeze, Caramel Apple, Holly Jolly, and Honey Wildflower. It’s gonna smell interesting in here.”

I laugh as Marco takes the lids off each and I light the wicks.

~~~~~

It’s only been an hour since the power went out and it’s already getting pretty cold in here. I’m currently shivering my ass off as I have four blankets and a coat on. All of a sudden, Marco stands up and walk over to the radio. He clicks through the channels when Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas comes on. He walks back over and offers his hand to me. “Maybe dancing will warm you up a bit.”

I blush a bit and take his hand. I stand up and follow Marco a few steps away from the couch where he then places his hands on my waist and I place mine on his shoulders.

🎵 Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

From now on

Our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Make the Yule-tide gay

From now on

Our troubles will be miles away

Here we are as in olden days

Happy golden days of yore

Faithful friends who are dear to us

Gather near to us once more🎵

“Starting to warm up a bit?” Marco asks. I nod. “My hands are still freezing, though.”

“Don’t you have gloves?” Marco asks. I smile sheepishly at him. “I usually just put them in my pockets.”

“That’s why you didn’t have some earlier?” Marco asks. I nod slowly. He laughs and then grabs my hands. “Here, my youngest brother used to do this all the time.” He then lifts his shirt up a bit and puts my hands under it. I feel him tense up when my cold hands meet his warm body. “And, boom, instant warmth.”

I don’t respond as I’m completely freaking out. “Uh… Are you ok?” Marco asks me. “Is this uncomfortable? I’m sorry, it’s all I could really think of so you’d get warm faster.”

What I mean to say is “I’m perfectly fine. Just wasn’t expecting this.” But what came out of my mouth was “How the hell are you so ripped?”

Now it’s Marco’s turn to blush and gape like a fish. “I’m so sorry!” I apologize. “I have no idea why I said that!”

“I, uh… I-I just go to the gym.” Marco answers. “You can come one day with me, if you want.”

“Me?” I ask. “Working out with you? In workout clothes? Sweating?” Marco raises an eyebrow at my inquires. “Please stop me before I say something I’ll highly regret and then run out into the snow.”

He laughs and then kisses my forehead. “I think it’ll be just fine if you say what you want to.”

“Yes, I’ll join.” I answer in complete. “To workout and definitely not stare at you.”

Marco laughs. “Since I’m pretty sure classes will be cancelled tomorrow, mind if I just stay over? I can make you more hot chocolate when the power comes back.”

I nod quickly. “As long as I can cuddle you and keep my hands under your shirt.”

“Of course.” Marco replies.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Weasley support system

Pairing: George Weasley x reader

Summary: Y/N takes the position of a subtitute teacher at Hogwarts; her and George’s eldest son comes out as gay Word count: 1465

warnings: pretty emotional, but I wouldn’t say sad? supportive parents and siblings

a/n: This is based on the concept from my last post. I didn’t spend too much time working on it so I hope you like it?  I couldn’t decide on a title so this one might be rubbish. It was a good palate cleanser while writing the next chapter of little steps as it’s long and my mind started going in loops. Which is why if you have any request, send it my way. I know I haven’t shown much yet, but I’m open peeps

Feedback encouraged!

14th May 2020

Dear Y/N,

            The reason I am writing to you is to make a request.

            I have recently received news of our current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor’s plan to retire. I’m afraid this has come as a bit of a shock to me and I won’t be able to find a suitable and competent successor in time before September. I don’t suppose you would be willing to take that position long-term, however, I’d like to offer you the position of a substitute teacher for one year, time in which I’m sure to find somebody good enough.

            I am giving you time to think the decision through, but I hope to see you at the start of September.

 Minerva McGonagall Headmistress Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

  You finished reading the letter and placed it on the table next to your coffee mug and the breakfast leftovers. George took your hand and you looked up at him, both of your facial expressions in a mix of excitement and uncertainty. “What do you think?” He asked after a bit of silence, softly caressing your hand with his thumb. “It’s an interesting opportunity..” “It is..” you trailed off “I would see the kids more” he nodded.

You got a bit happier at the thought, and your mind once more went to how soon they’d finally be back home for the summer. You got used to being apart from them, last September even your youngest left for Hogwarts, meaning you and George were left alone at home. You got used to it, but you still missed your babies, who were not babies anymore.

Your eldest, Lucas - now finishing his fifth year, was an introvert with a heart of gold. The twin girls – Ruby and Vivian – although different from each other, both took after their dad – but to your luck with less interest in mischief. The youngest – Jacob, had a natural talent for driving his sisters insane.

You knew being apart from George for months after nearly twenty years of being married would not be easy, but you decided to go through with it, hoping this interesting experience would prove worth it.

Riding on the Hogwarts Express brought a familiar sense of excitement, but you weren’t a student anymore. It was strange, passing the compartments and seeing your children and their many cousins chatting with their friends just as you have all those years ago.

As a professor, you were determined to make your students comfortable and interested in what they were learning. They often asked questions about your work and sometimes about Weasleys’ Wizards’ Wheezes (as a Mrs Weasley it was inevitable) which served as a treat.

 “Luke, could you stay behind, please?” you called after your son one day, right after a N.E.W.T. level class with 6th years. He gave his friends a look and walked up to you. “Could you pass me your textbook for a second? I think there were some changes between editions and I’d like to check it with the one I have before my next group…” You said as he reluctantly took the book back out of his bag and put it in front of you.

You flipped through a few chapters and started skimming through one you needed to check. You saw some doodles around the text, along with a few signatures from the same person – Dylan. You did not give it much thought – you knew Dylan, he was Luke’s friend and visited your house a few times in their first years.

You also didn’t notice Luke’s change in expression when you reached that page. His whole body tensed up and breath hitched. He didn’t listen to you ramble about the change in the description of non-verbal spells, he wiped his sweaty palms in his trousers and studied your face, waiting for something.

“You should invite him over around Christmas, baby. It’s been a while.” You said closing both of the books. “Who?” “Dylan” “Why?” asked with a shaky voice, starting to feel slightly sick. “Well, you mention him so often. He’s still your best friend, isn’t he?” you looked up to see your son in a state you’ve never witnessed before and you didn’t understand why. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as his eyes started to shine. “He’s not really my friend, mum.” you waited for him to continue, “I like him.” his voice barely audible, yet you still didn’t understand what was going on. You brought your hand up to caress his arm as his lip began to tremble, “I know, baby, it’s-“ “No, mum, you don’t get it!” He bit his lip holding back his tears. “I- I like him…”

You pulled him into a hug and cursed yourself for taking so long to catch up. You embraced the boy as tight as you could. “I’m sorry,” he said between weeps. “No, baby! You have nothing to be sorry about” You brought his face to your shoulder and caressed his head. He took his height after his dad and was already taller than you, but right now felt so small in your arms as you wanted to protect him from the world. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you sooner” “It’s my fault you didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell me.” You said, now crying with him. You stayed like that for a bit, kissing the side of his head from time to time. “I’m not sure you could’ve done any better, mum. You’re pretty great,” he laughed softly. “I try.” You chuckled. “Could you.. could you not tell dad?” he said pulling away. It slightly worried you. Was he afraid of coming out to George? You didn’t know how he’d react, but it couldn’t be bad. He loves his children, no matter what. “I- I just want to tell him properly, face to face. I’ll do it during Christmas break.” “Ok, baby,” you said, relieved, pulling him down to place one last kiss to his cheek, to which he rolled his eyes. Back to normal, that means.

It wasn’t easy hiding it from George when you saw him next weekend, but you managed. Luke soon came out to his siblings (Jacob replied with ‘so?’ and the twins claim they knew).

Before you knew it, George was picking you all up from Kings Cross and you were heading home for Christmas.

The next day, you spent the early afternoon at the Burrow to Molly’s delight. Back home, you planned to decorate the house and most importantly – the Christmas tree, after dinner which you were now preparing in the kitchen. It was open to the lounge room, where you could hear George mumble mostly to himself while reading a magazine. You had missed that.

Lucas walked down the stairs inconspicuously and walked up behind the couch. “Can I talk to you, dad?” he asked and you tried to stick to your cooking and let them have their moment, but it was hard not to listen in. “Sure, champ, what is it?” George looked up from behind the paper for just a second, and Luke sat down. “I- I gotta tell you something.”

George put the paper down, confused by the sudden seriousness. “..You’re not making me a granddad yet, are you?” he tried to lighten the mood, but when Luke only looked at his feet, George straightened up completely with raised eyebrows. “No, I’m not,” George’s face relaxed a bit, before his son continued, “that’s unlikely.” he paused for a bit and took a deep breath. “I’m gay, dad”.

There was silence for what felt like hours when in reality it lasted just a few seconds.

George’s face showed pure shock. His back fell against the couch. “Dad?..” Tears started to well up in Luke’s eyes and you wanted to run up to him when you heard the shakiness in his voice. But then George looked up at him.

The warm, reassuring smile you saw on his face reminded you again why you love that man so much. He opened his arms and your son entered his embrace. “I love you, son. And I’m proud of you.” “I love you too, dad.”

That evening, decorating the house with your family made you happier than ever before. You watched the kids bicker about the placement of the ornaments when an arm snaked around your waist. “The rascals will always find something to fight over, won’t they?” he said with a smile and kissed your cheek. You looked up and placed your hand on the side of his face and whispered “I love you” “I love you back,” he said and kissed you softly. When he pulled away, you saw that familiar smirk and he turned to the kids.

“So, any boy you’re gonna introduce to us soon?”

[angeli-marco-writes]

Elizbeth Debicki - Reunion Revenge

A/N - I love Elizabeth with everything I am, I'm sure I've said this before. I don't know why there aren't more fics about her. As always, I do not know Elizabeth, nor do I claim to: this is a work of fiction and wholly my own. I mean no disrespect to any of the careers mentioned at some point in this, just bear with. This is a set at a high school reunion, but I went to a private secondary school in England, so my experience is obviously not everyone else's. Reader has a twin brother, have fun with that. I also based this on a Tumblr post I saw, and thought that would be a swell concept to work into a Liz piece of writing: ‘never understood the whole showing up at your high school reunion revenge fantasy cause, like, really? high school?? I don’t want anyone from that time in my life to have any idea where I am or what I’m doing. do not perceive me I am dead to you and you are dead to me.' 8k.

Warnings - a little angsty, mentions of bullying, smoking, mentions of homophobia and slurs, wlw explicit smut, fingering, sex toys (strap-on), bathroom wall sex in a semi-public place, the whole shebang (literally). 18+

Summary - At first, when your brother roped you into attending your high school reunion with your wife, you hated the idea. Now, all eyes are on you, all the focus on your career, and maybe this is the revenge you always needed, of course aided by Liz's quick thinking and hidden surprises.

AT THIS CURRENT POINT IN TIME, you would more than happily murder your brother for roping you into this. And for convincing Liz to come along, which is somehow worse than your own enforced attendance, as though your presence will make any difference to the people who made the seven ‘best’ years of your life a pure living hell.

Your brother did have your back through it all, and considering that he was supposed to be the best one to succeed, he needs you there for some moral support after his career took an unfortunate nosedive that everyone is undoubtedly going to be gawking over.

You never understood the whole ‘showing up at your secondary school reunion revenge fantasy,’ but that’s mostly just because they don’t deserve to know who you are anymore. They broke you continually, and you’re past it now: the only thing that could take you back to that mindset is being back in that great hall with the gossiping busybodies. It’s not your fault that you were a closeted gay for so many years. Well, that’s another cause of concern. Notorious homophobes, and you’re bringing your wife.

“Come on, honey, we have to go inside.” Liz tells you, her long fingers curling around yours affectionately.

She has a point. You’ve been in the car park for ten minutes now, your knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Her continual lavishes of kisses to your neck seem to be the only redeeming factor of your procrastination.

“Hmm, kiss me first.” you say.

She doesn’t disappoint, curling your hair behind your ear—wearing special diamond earrings she got you on your second anniversary—and catches your chin tenderly between her polished forefinger and thumb, tilting your face up to meet hers, her lips slanting over yours, melding together perfectly.

She’s the only good thing about this situation, about any situation: the only reason your brother was able to bribe you to come. Your main qualm about today is that you don’t want anyone from that period of your life to have any idea where you are or what you’re doing. You’ve been dead to them for years, and they to you. You don’t want them to perceive you whatsoever. But maybe, with Elizabeth on your arm and a brilliant career under your belt—everything you ever wanted—you can reap revenge. No one is in touch with you, so your arrival will be such a surprise, not that you exactly care about that, having blocked out and repressed a whole lot of that time period. You wouldn’t be able to even do this without Elizabeth, though.

“Liz,” you moan when she nibbles on your lower lip in that signature way she does. “We can stay here, we don’t have to go in.”

You shift your hand over the centre console to rub over her clothed thigh, your grip more than a little suggestive, prying further up…

“No baby,” she coos, “later, I promise. We’ll be late.”

You grumble, but only momentarily. She has a point, and a thing about being on time to everything. So you load out of the car, Liz coming around to the drivers side where she offers you her hand. She’s more chivalrous than any guy you ever pretended to date, an absolute gem of a person. You don’t even get jittery on the short walk inside, not with her thumb caressing your hand, your legs brushing together.

You can’t say you’re surprised when, at first, no one even turns to look at you, though relief floods your system, Liz bending down to kiss your forehead in a conciliatory manner.

“Oh my God, y/n, I’ve been here twenty minutes! Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I was busy,” you say to your overzealous brother who is suddenly hounding you, attaching to your side.

He bristles, visibly shaking off his discomfort, before he’s linking his arm through yours and is tugging you along, out from beneath the wooden balcony, tugging you away from the shadows.

The hall is the exact same as it was both when you came and left the school, oak panelling everywhere, great glass windows stretching to the ceiling with sills too high for anyone to climb onto, a stained glass shrine above the stage. Put-me-up tables are littered around, sheathed with white cloths and ribbons with your school emblem on them, decorated with drink dispensers, mugs, wine glasses and cheap biscuits. The whole… scene brings back that awful sense of dread you got when forced to sit here, in tacky red woollen chairs, frayed and bobbled, that itched your legs, every Monday and Friday for assembly. It’s a beautiful room, truly, with a reinforced floor beneath the original boards, slightly splintering beneath your low heels, and you know every nook and cranny, every escape route, but the bad memories tarnish the space.

Liz, darling as she is, senses your discomfort, and creates small talk with your brother as you’re steered between groups of people you scarcely recognise until you reach the apex of the room, where his old friends stand, hunched over in ill-fitting suits, brooding over their brandy, no doubt complaining about their dead end jobs and lack of girlfriends.

“Hey buddy…” one of them says, trailing off once he hears a woman's voice, his eyes darting up—first to Elizabeth, then down to you. “Your sister and your girlfriend? Dude, she’s hot.”

“Isn’t she just?” Liz teases, a malicious smirk creeping onto her lips.

You haven’t even noticed, but some subconscious part of you has tucked your joined hands behind you, covered by Liz’s long, flowing dress.

“How you doing, wait, I know, don’t tell me…”

“y/n.” you snap. “Fine, thanks.”

“Well that’s good, good, isn’t it? I was just gonna call you mini y/l/n—”

“Don’t, that isn’t my name anymore.”

His eyes dart down to your left hand not held by Elizabeth’s slender fingers, instantly noting the glistening silver princess-cut ring nestled above a platinum wedding band.

“Married? Nice. No wonder the guy didn’t come,” another one chimes. You’re not entirely sure what he means, though it’s undoubtedly a dig at the fact Elizabeth is far hotter than you are.

Your brother is slowly growing angrier and angrier, the cords of thick muscle in his shoulders tensing, his nostrils flaring, his thinned eyes conversing with Elizabeth’s blues over the top of your ducked head.

“Yes, well,” you play along, and desperately look to your brother to continue the conversation.

“What are you all doing for work now?”

Everyone gives a boring answer: salesman, accountant, finishing up law school, working in an office, with one trainee chef in the mix. These men have all just done what the school or their parents expected and wanted them to do, no one has any ambition. No wonder you were always the odd one out.

“What about you?” the chef asks your brother.

“Oh, I’m on a sabbatical at the moment,” he replies sheepishly, eyes suddenly training on the floor before turning quickly, fixing on you. “My sister’s done really well for herself.”

Their surprise is palpable, seeping off them, dripping onto the floor via the loose threads of their cheap blazers.

“Yeah, I’m a translator for political and legal proceedings, you know, with cabinet ministers from all over the world, those who speak the languages I do, at least.” you answer pridefully. Your talents always were overlooked when you were at school, apart from by one special teacher, whom you haven’t actually seen yet.

“She’s marvellous, really,” Liz says, and you can’t help but feel a hint of guilt from neglecting her for so long, so you squeeze her hand a little tighter, and rub your thumb over her wedding ring. “I’m gonna get us some drinks, babe. What do you want?”

“Red wine would be lovely. Unless you want me to drive home?”

She pecks your lips, “Of course not, enjoy yourself. You want anything, mate?” she turns to your brother.

“I’m good, thanks.” He mock-salutes.

“Don’t be long,” you warn her, swinging your hands out from their cover with a sudden flush of courage, and detaching them.

She looks down at you curiously, but her smile quirks into a smirk the second you pinch her hip and lean up on your tiptoes, capturing her pretty pink lips with yours, swallowing the small surprised gasp that escapes her. You can feel eyes on you all over the room, the situation genuinely feeling as though everyone besides your brother is staring upon you with disgust as her lithe arms wrap around your body, her one hand straying lower than you were prepared for, arching into her chest as she nibbles your lip again, your one hand cupping her flushing cheek.

A moment later, she’s releasing her hold and strutting away, all eyes then glued to the sensual sway of her hips, her long legs carrying her across the room faster than they thought possible. Then again, being 6-foot-3 as a beautiful woman is quite the surprise to people, they all expect her to be garish, uncoordinated, and though she’s clumsy at times, she’s certainly better at general levels of human functionality than you are.

“Dude, stop staring at my wife’s ass.” you hiss to the first man. If only they were worth your bother or time, you might have remembered their dreary names.

He splutters for a moment, bringing a ring-less left hand up to loosen his lilac tie. “Wife? What the fuck? How are you married to a woman before we are!”

What a mystery.

“You gay or something?” the trainee lawyer chimes in again.

“You got a problem with that?” your brother accuses, puffing up his chest pompously.

“Well, no… just surprised.”

“Astonished.” another pipes up.

“Isn’t that a big word.”

You showed the tell tale signs of being a lesbian for years, the popular girls all pretended you were preying on them in the changing room, calling you a d*ke for years until you reached the point of just changing in the bathroom to stop yourself from snapping at them. They must’ve always had a hunch, and why ever they thought Liz was your brother's girlfriend is beyond you. Men truly are more trouble than they’re worth.

“Yes, I’m gay. Yes, Elizabeth is my wife. I didn’t realise this would be earth shattering information.” You cast your eyes up to the ceiling, erected like a great old Church steeple, and shutter them for a moment, gathering your bearings. “I’m going to find Liz, little man. Told you I shouldn't have come.”

“Don’t call me little man!”

“I’m ten minutes older than you, I’ll call you what I like.” you tease, sticking your tongue out childishly, receiving a sarcastic sneer from your brother. Right now, all you want is Liz. “I wish I could say it was nice to see you all again, but then we’d all be liars. Goodbye.”

They gawk in a greatly uncouth and infantile manner as you stride away, pep in your step as you approach your stunning wife, wrapping your arm around her stomach as she waits for her tea—English Breakfast, naturally—to cool down.

“Hey beautiful,” you greet.

“Hey, you. What happened?” she asks, instantly noting the sallow bags that have swiftly formed beneath your eyes.

“They were being arseholes, c’mon, let’s just stand in the corner until it’s socially acceptable to leave this hellhole.”

“We can go now if you’re uncomfortable, baby.”

Ever the forward, sympathetically thinking wife.

“No, no. I came here, I’d better make it worth my while.”

She tangles her fingers with yours, “Okay darling. Say the word, we leave.”

There aren’t words for how safe you feel thanks to Elizabeth, even just with this fractional amount of contact from her. She’s the answer to all your prayers and more, the thing in life you'll never deserve. Her love for you is endless, her affections infinite, and every day, you fall more and more in love with her, especially when she’s as kind as she is now.

It barely takes five minutes, the two of you hugging, kissing, leaning against a broad oak pillar, half shadowed, for someone to approach. One of the girls you despised, costume jewellery on her wrists, a self aggrandised smirk painted onto her fake lips. Martha? Mabel? Maddie?

“I heard you were here,” she starts, placing her tackily manicured hand onto her hip, “it’s so good to see you! How are you?”

“Great, thanks.” you say blandly, keeping your attention on Elizabeth’s hand entwined with yours.

“This is your… friend? Why did you bring a friend to this?”

She laughs mirthlessly, such a fake sound—like this cow's boobs—it makes your primal instincts flare. Elizabeth holds you impossibly closer, her arm around your waist tightening as you seek solace in her.

“y/n and I are married, thank you. I don’t appreciate the homophobic, disrespectful insinuations.”

She stifles another laugh, “You’re punching above your weight a bit aren’t you, y/n.”

“Don’t rise to it,” Liz headily murmurs in your ear, sending pleasant, calming vibrations throughout your whole body.

You gulp down as much air as you can, curling tighter into Liz, before saying what you thought all those years ago, “I’d rather be ‘punching’ and married to a woman I love rather than be a Goddamn trophy wife going nowhere, leeching off daddy’s money. People like you will never change. I’m happy, and I have a good feeling that’s more than the likes of you and your sad old minions can say.”

“Sweetheart, come on.” Liz whispers, and her hold on you increases until it begins to pinch, not that you mind, and then she’s thankfully tugging you away.

You barely make it out the door, Liz leaning down to kiss you heartily, passionately, before people are clamouring over you, what’s-her-faces friends, people you used to be in fair acquaintance with, all speaking together, their voices overlapping in what you can only believe to be expressions of acceptance.

“Um, thank you, I’ll just be back in a moment.” you say to those who bother to listen. Next thing, you’re darting out the way you came, tugging Liz down the great stone steps in front of the behemoth building, and then are leaning against the old wall, almost crumbling with rubble on the exterior at least, not as well preserved as the inside.

She joins you not a moment later, ferreting around the pockets in her skirt for the spare cigarette and lighter she slipped in earlier. Liz doesn’t condone your smoking in any way whatsoever, and in fact she’s the main reason that you quit, but she knows that when your anxiety is high during times like these, one can’t hurt. She always comes prepared.

She is definitely the most consistent, reliable thing in your life by a long shot. Naturally, you two have your fair share of ups and downs, and on the occasion you get your periods at the same time, you’re a complete dichotomy of furious fights and condoling cuddles, while the rest of the time you find yourselves in sheer throes of passion. You may be a dependable couple bound to stay together forever, but that doesn’t mean that the flame of lust once born there has even momentarily flickered: it’s why you work so well. Men are awful in bed, from both of your experiences. Only a woman truly knows how to please another woman. And in the many ways that Liz is a home-body and sticks to the safe side of things, sex is not one of those areas, and you frequently wind up in another one of her barmy—though blissfully pleasurable—experiments. Her daring never goes amiss, and you can’t help but pray that she has something up her sleeve (besides the cigarette) to dull the ache of the day, and also the growing desire pooling between your legs upon seeing have such a naturally demanding power, and looking so Goddamn stunning in her maxi dress. And the lip nibble, God—

“Before you ask, I’m not shagging you out here.” she says, lighting your cigarette with steady hands.

You inhale the smoke, allowing it to form dark halos around your head once you puff it out through pursed lips, hoping it obscures your sheepish smile and averted eyes from Liz’s view.

“I wasn't thinking about that.”

“Yes you were. You forget how well I know you.”

You shoot her a sardonic smile and take another deep drag, the bitter taste pouring into your senses, filling your lungs, calming your mind before you let it go with one long, shaky breath. The smoke has a way of revealing the air, making an artistry of its swirls and flow, something you’ve always been able to appreciate. Ever the wise one, Liz just sees the poison it’s creating within your body, and will do anything to make you stop.

The sick, intrusive thought that you might be disappointing her by this simple act alone rises a cough to your throat with the next puff, but in reality she looks so nonchalant, her eyes closed, a simple smile playing on her perfect lips as she revels in the moment, in your presence, her pinky finger looped just over yours against the crumbling brick wall. Nonetheless, the uneasiness is enough for you to stub the cigarette out under your shoe before it’s even half-way smoked.

“Baby, you okay?” she asks sympathetically, turning to face you so that her shoulder is pressed to the wall, her spare arm flying around to brush against your upper arm, thumb caressing the flesh there through your clothes.

“Yeah, course. Can we stay out here a bit, though?”

You expect her to wholeheartedly agree, because you could tell by the subtle sensing of her limber body and the sudden snap attitude she had that she was just as uncomfortable in there as you were, perhaps more so. Her reflexes may as well be yours with how used you are to them. That’s exactly how you know that she’s going to refuse your request by the almost imperceptible crest of her nails into your supple skin.

“Your brother texted, he asked you to come back in: people won’t stop badgering him about you.” She pauses, but upon hearing you huff, hurriedly leaps back in. “I mean of course we don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, this is about you, not your brother…”

But it is about your brother. You agreed to come here today to be of help to him. And besides, Elizabeth has almost as much loyalty to your brother as she does to you, the two of them having been friends before he introduced you to her. That certainly didn’t have the outcome he was expecting, but you’ve all remained close nonetheless. Mentally, you give yourself a shakedown. How could you be so selfish? Today isn’t about you, not really. Sure you’d like to make peace with your past and your old tormentors one last time before leaving and never seeing them again, but the main reason is support.

“No, you’re right,” you say after a long moment of lamentation.

“That’s a first,” Liz snorts.

You smack her playfully, “Watch it, you.”

“Hey, who’s the pillow princess around here?”

Your cheeks instantly flush. “That was one time.”

“More like five,” she umms and ahhs, but grasps your hand a little tighter regardless.

It’s a fair comment on her part: Liz does wield the majority of the power in the relationship, and is definitely more of a top that you are, but you ensure that you pleasure her just as much as she does you, it’s only fair. Apart from those few times you decided to try something new… you got tired of that pretty quickly, though, since you couldn’t go too long without tasting her while you were in bed. No matter how many times you’ve had sex, no matter how many mind-blowing orgasms you receive, your desire for her is never quite quelled. Frankly, you hope it never is.

“Stop thinking about fucking me, babe,” she scolds, and pulls you up fully standing from your temporary reprieve against the wall. “Later, I promise. Not here.”

Embarrassment heats your cheeks at the fact she so easily deciphers your filthy thoughts, but then again, she always has. She leads you back inside, and all but hands you over to your brother, practically jumping with impatience at the door to the hall.

“Thank God you’re b—” he cuts himself off, moving closer to you, imperiously sniffing your clothes. “Did you smoke again?” You nod. “Fucking hell, well, there’s another conversation topic, we’ll talk about this later. Can you believe this lot didn’t know you were gay? What morons…”

“Hey, I’m not that obviously gay, am I?”

The dead silence that envelops you gives you the answer you weren’t too keen on receiving in the first place.

“But!” Liz helpfully adds in her most cheery tone. “If you hadn’t been so obviously gay, I probably never would’ve asked you out.”

She beams even as you roll our eyes, “So endearing, babe.”

“Hurry up, this lot are arseholes.”

“I know.” you deadpan. He sends you a snarky smile.

Following him through the small clans of people meandering and congregating amongst themselves, all with some sort of beverage in their hands, you feel your hand grow clammy in Liz’s. Your mind doesn’t get the chance to run away with itself or whirr on for too long, though, before you’re pulled into a group of people—all three of you—and are all welcomed with enthused hugs and professions of well wishes.

“Oh how are you? You look so well, I hope you’ve been doing good!”

Well, you think, if they cared enough they’d have contacted you. Half of them are your brothers Facebook friends and he’s often posting pictures of you hanging out, or childhood throwbacks, and tagging you in them in plain view. Thankfully, your page is private, and Elizabeth doesn’t even have social media. She’s smart.

You engage in conversation—well, they do, you just listen and hum when you’re supposed to, making surprised faces at the right parts—about one classmate who couldn’t be here because she married a mobster and isn’t allowed to discuss her lifestyle. She isn't. She got pregnant straight out of school and is going through her second divorce: your brother saw her recently. Who are you to deny them gossip when you really couldn’t care less?

In minutes they seem to have exhausted all possible fascinating subject matters, or at least make it appear that way as they turn all eyes on you.

“So, y/n, we hear you have a girlfriend!”

Not again.

“Wife; this is Liz.”

“How are you.” she says, more by way of greeting than having any regard for them.

“Oh my God,” one woman clamours, “are you Australian? My boyfriend is Australian! Maybe you know him?”

Liz’s face breaks into a wide smile, the first one of the event. Who cares that it’s at the expense of another person's intelligence, or lack thereof? You and your brother struggle to stifle your own laughter as you loll your head against his broad shoulder, too.

“Australia is more than seven and a half million square kilometres. In context, the UK is only two-forty-two thousand. We have a population of 25 million. I’d be more likely to meet the queen and the president.” she quips. Ever the fount of useless knowledge; as are you both.

“Oh,” says the woman, casting a sheepish gaze away.

“But, um, yeah, I am Australian.”

“You’re tall,” another blatantly observes, “you look Dutch.”

“Polish-Irish. Not far off.” she says again, fixing a smile of nonchalance.

People turn to you for something to say. You have nothing: nothing to say to these awful sycophants, so you’re half relieved and half angered further when your name is called from somewhere behind you.

“y/n y/l/n!”

Great, another bellend. Star of the football team. You settle yourself after a sudden wave of dizziness from spinning on your heel to see just who was calling you, and you’re not particularly surprised, but not glad either, when he’s excited to join the dull circle.

“Actually,” you correct, “it’s y/n Debicki.”

Silence cools around the circle. What, have these people been living under rocks for the past God knows how many years?

“Oh, why?” he asks.

“I got married and took my wife’s name.” you grit out just barely, balancing from foot to foot, the wooden floor creaking around you. Some more wine would be really good right about now, but instead you just settle for an intoxicating peck from Liz’s lips, the chiffon of her skirt shifting again to reveal your held hands and glistening wedding rings.

“Oh!”

The silence is agony. Why can’t the ground just swallow you up already? Your brother's getting angry, his fist clenching, picking at his nails, while everyone else in the group is exchanging anxious eye contact. Liz and her insanely long legs could probably give you a leg-up to one of the immensely tall windows as a quicker, though slightly more problematic escape route…

“By the way, that’s totally fine.”

“Yeah,” someone adds, you can’t be bothered to look who. “We totally accept it.”

“It’s like you’re not even gay, but straight, and normal. N—not that being gay isn’t normal, just that we don’t see you any differently.”

“You’re the same y/n you always were.” one smiles at last.

Your brother is going to lose it in three… two… one…

“Oh yeah? The y/n that you all relentlessly picked on and victimised for years? The same y/n who was forced to hide her identity and everything she wanted to be for years just because you back-thinking bastards didn’t want a lesbian in the class?” he shouts, flailing his arms madly about, hissing one of the broad, tree trunk pillars in the process. He doesn’t flinch. Turning to you, he starts in a softer voice, “I never should’ve asked you to come here, I’m so sorry y/n, I was so selfish to bring you back to this hellhole. It’s no wonder you didn’t want to come with these dipshits tossing around! And Liz, you don’t deserve this either. Please, do us all a favour, and take y/n home, never bringing her back here. You were right all these years, sweet, it’s the place nightmares are born. And you scummy lot should all be ashamed of yourselves!”

His breath is ragged once he’s done with his rant, his forehead glistening with sweat, his knuckles white with tension.

“Liz, could you get him some water, please?” you whisper into her ear.

She nods affirmatively, and breaks from your grasp, steering your hunched, tense, seething brother in the direction of the drinks table.

“Thanks, I guess,” you begin, kicking your heels into the splintering oak floor, your wine long forgotten, “like, for the acceptance and stuff. But I’ve always been this way, he’s right. It’s not some earth shattering revelation, I was just too shy to come out because you all tossed slurs around like it was okay.” You take a deep breath, and in that time, Liz has returned and stuck herself to your side, your brother happily alone in the corner with a cold glass of water as you cast a glance over your shoulder. You comb your fingers through Elizabeth’s coiffed blonde hair to relieve some anxiety, and are further reassured when she presses her lips to your earlobe, glistening with the diamonds she gifted you. “Besides, this shouldn’t be a thing you have to zealously profess to accept, it should be just as normal as one of you walking in with your heterosexual partner.” As some of them have done, and no one’s batted an eyelid.

A din of agreement sounds out from them, but you know they’re all more than a little meek after being scolded like schoolchildren by your big scary brother. He’s a teddy bear, really, but when he flips, he flips.

When you arise no cohesive response from anyone, you rest your head on Liz’s shoulder, and ask, “Did you see that article on the BBC yesterday morning?”

You have no idea what article you’re on about, but one leaps in with something about climate change, and one about a rise in violent crime in the area. Thank God you don’t live there anymore.

“I forgot about that one!” you gasp with feigned surprise.

Liz looks down on you warmly, chuckling at the mischievous glint in your eye. She knows exactly what you’re up to. But after today, you can walk away from this place, despite the stunning old architecture of the gorgeous building, the beautiful panelling on the walls and the window you spent so many hours gazing at while daydreaming wistfully through assemblies and exams, never to return. Frankly, after this shit show, you’d have it no other way. The teachers will be arriving soon, and in the hopes you see your favourite old teacher, Mrs Alleman, you decide it can’t hurt just to stick around a little bit longer, even if you don’t listen to anyone's conversation. It’s not like they want to involve you.

*

Before you know it, ten dreary minutes have passed, and as each second slips by, you’re losing the will to live. Even these people are bored to death by the sound of their own voices, unsurprisingly. You’ve just busied yourself the whole time by playing with Liz’s long, slender fingers and her glistening silver ring. She’s becoming more and more antsy, though, so you’re unsurprised when she moves to stand away, speaking only when there’s a brief intermission of silence.

“I’m heading to the loo, honey. Which way is it?” she asks politely.

“Out the door we came, but on the other side of the corridor is a closed door, down that corridor it’s the fourth on the right, up a couple of stairs.”

Her eyes widen, “This place is a maze.”

“I know,” you chuckle, and lean up to peck her lips. “They’re the staff ones, down a cohorted route in a forbidden corridor so we wouldn’t use them.”

“You,” she shakes her head, bending down to kiss you again from her standing position, though she does practically double down, and has to press a hand to her chest to prevent her dress from falling, “are so randomly knowledgeable.” It’s really more of an awkward stowed away memory, but you take it anyway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

As she draws away, she catches your lip in her teeth. Again. If it wouldn’t arouse suspicion, you’d be after her like a bullet, but, well… So you just sit there, counting the minutes, the seconds until she returns and you’re able to make a quick exit, barely making an agreeable sound or two when someone deigns to involve you in the deathly boring conversation they’re having about the FTSE or something, but she doesn’t return. It’s only after five minutes—you meticulously checked your watch—that you realise she’s probably gotten lost, your heart fluttering into your throat.

“I think Liz is lost, I’m gonna go find her,” you say, not that anyone exactly notes your absence or offers you as much as a nod, so you stand and stroll away, not caring about your knocked over glass as you stalk out of the great hall, breaking into a slight jog as soon as the doors are closed behind you.

You could swear you catch your brother winking across the room as they close, but you can’t be sure, not with how crazy you are after Liz did that thing she does every single time she instigates sex. You’ve been together for more than four marvellous years, and yet it still brings fire into your veins, butterflies into your stomach, and lust into your mind.

She’s not in the foyer, or down the ostentatious portrait corridor, so you burst into the pristine white and purple bathroom, only to find Liz leant against the wall, a slight bulge in her dress.

“God, I was wondering if you’d ever get the message, I’ve been waiting for ages.” she huffs, slamming her mouth onto yours impatiently.

You gasp, winding your arms around her neck, not complaining in the slightest when you hear the door lock and you’re lifted high against the wall. Your hand flies down on instinct, and you’re not disappointed when your hand wraps around something long, hard and thick.

The squeak of surprise that leaves your lips only spurs Liz on more. “You wore the strap.”

“I went and fetched it from the car, thought we could have some fun, make this worth your while.”

“I love you so much.” you breathe, no time for courtesy.

Crashing your lips down onto hers, you lick filthily into her mouth, your tongue skimming her teeth, but your control barely lasts a moment before she’s overpowering you, nipping at your lip as she busies herself otherwise with gaining access to your throbbing, drenched core.

“Liz…” you moan. When she skims her fingers over the lace edge of your panties.

“So wet already baby,” she taunts, her breath hot on your ear, “have I done all this? Such a dirty girl…”

Her voice holds a gravelly quality, down to lust you’d wager. Her accent becomes so much more pronounced during times of passion, too. Her voice alone sends another wave of wetness gushing through you, soaking Liz’s fingertips as she slides them under your panties and into your folds.

“Oh poor helpless baby,” she croons, biting down on your neck harshly. “I don’t even need to use lube today, do I?”

You can’t respond, can’t even try to. She’s so intoxicating you could cry. All that’d come out is senseless babble. You can barely muster a breath with her gaze of such intensity burning into your fucked-out face. In all fairness, she doesn’t usually have to, since she makes you gush with a single glance, but the sensual jibe does make you a little embarrassed.

You can’t think straight when she plunges a single, long digit deep within your velvety walls, stroking at a torturous pace.

“F— fuck, faster, please.” you stammer.

“Only because my baby asked so nicely.”

Her hand begins to move faster against you, the rustle of clothes nothing compared to the sounds of your wetness. She adds another digit daringly, and pumps within you faster, her technique impeccable. If she’s not careful, you’ll be falling apart around her fingers in little more than a moment. Over the years she’s learnt how to bring you to mind-shattering climax embarrassingly quickly.

“Lizzie…” you moan when she hits that special spongy spot that makes you see stars behind your eyes.

Quick thinking as ever, she clamps one elegant hand over your mouth, her pale fingers digging into your cheeks, the metal of her rings cool against your lips. You can’t help yourself, your tongue darting out to lick the band of her wedding ring, skilfully wrapping your wet muscle around her. She can never resist when you do that, and her own knees begin to buckle, but her pace speeds up.

“Baby, I’m close,” you hiss against her hand, words muffled.

Your shoulder presses painfully into a ridge of the wall, but you can’t care, not when her wrist is flicking so quickly, yet somehow each thrust is deeper and more pleasurable than the last, the pads of her fingers catching all the right places within our quivering walls, continually hitting that spot. The heel of her palm keeps hitting your clit with a voracious intensity, needing to bring you toppling over the edge.

You come unravelled with a cry of her name, your legs unable to even partially hold yourself up as she settles you down gently on the floor, forcing you to lean heavily against the countertop. Stars and fireworks erupt to create images of Liz behind your eyelids, in the front of your brain. And the noise you made… After that, you wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the hall knows what you’re up to, and somehow, that only fuels your need for Liz further.

“How do you get hotter every time you do that?” she husks.

Purple glittery potpourri on the window-sill prickles at your upper arm as you shuffle backwards, reaching out to Elizabeth with grabby hands. Her petite chest heaves with heavy breaths, her hair sticking up a little in cute blonde spikes.

“You wanna sit, babe?” you ask breathlessly.

Your own vision is a bit blurred from riding on cloud nine just moments ago, your juices running down your legs, glistening in the harsh bathroom light.

“You’ve always got a seat with me.” You wink, and wet your lips with your tongue. “Come sit.”

She chuckles at you, instead moving to kneel between your open legs on the edge of the counter, hovering over you

“Wait until we get home,” she teases, pressing the cold rings on her hand to your inner thigh, “I don’t trust myself, I’ll never leave if I sit now.”

Her lips lace with yours filthily, and you find yourself unable to stop your legs reflexively bolting out to wrap around her hips again, hand coming up to cup her cheek and neck with a bruising hold. Her hips rock against yours, and with your core already opened and revealed to her, all it takes is a slight fidget and a particularly harsh rut of her pelvis, and the priapic extension of Elizabeth—attached, thankfully, by a harness—is buried to the hilt within you. Your gasp is silent, your mouth opening in an inaudible ‘o’, a soundless plea for more. She’s prepped you well as always, and sought to open you up fully, which means that only a moment later you’re tapping her shoulder to signal for her to move.

The bulbous tip of the toy gains your attention rather swiftly as it grazes that heartily stimulated spot that Liz was so focussed on just minutes earlier. Her hips move with such grace even in such an ungainly act, her years of dance training aiding her elegance. God, she’s just so perfect in every way.

“Fuck, baby, I think I’m close—” she murmurs in your ear.

She begins to suck hickeys into your jawline, rendering you utterly speechless at the onslaught of pleasure you’re receiving all at once. Your boobs are bouncing as she pounds into you harder on the counter, the base of the strap now hitting your clit.

“Me too,” you eventually garner to choke out.

Your own pleasure can wait, take a damn backseat, because sweat is beading on Liz’s forehead as she wrecks her knees to fuck you more furiously, delivering you all of the pleasure you could ever want. But Elizabeth? She deserves it far more than you do after everything she’s done for you today.

She bites her lip, probably to keep a moan down the same way you are by biting your tongue, and she proceeds to hook her willowy arms around the crooks of your knees, thus tugging your legs up onto her shoulder, allowing her to hit an even deeper angle than before.

You can’t help the obscene whimper that escapes you, shrill and so pleasured, “Baby, keep— ohmygod please!”

Your head falls back against the hard porcelain rim of the sink, knocking some sense into you. This is your chance, while her eyes are still closed and the veins and ridges of the fake plastic cock are driving deep inside you, squeezed by your clenching walls. Slipping your own arm down her body and between the two of you, you find your way beneath the strap and onto her throbbing pearl.

“Shit!” she squeaks upon the first spark of contact, her body temporarily seizing, but she falls back into her previous pace within moments.

You rub circles on her voraciously, suddenly darting up to capture her lips in a sloppy kiss as a cry threatens to spill from her lips. But then you feel it coming, and your entire body tenses in anticipation, your eyes flying wide open to watch heaven crash right before your eyes.

First, her shoulders tense, followed by her eyelashes fluttering against her sharp cheekbone without her even being aware, then her legs try to involuntarily clench around your hand, her clit throbbing with anticipation as you speed up your movements. Her knees go next, then her arms, and she’s unable to hold herself up, but her hips don’t stop once. That’s when it happens.

“y/n, y/n, y/n.” she repeats like it’s her prayer of salvation.

Every muscle in her body quivers, her lips parting, her nose scrunching. Her teeth then catch your lip in the kiss you’re mixed up in, and her hips still. It doesn’t matter, since you’ve reached your own climax just from watching her fall apart at your very own mercy, your own legs falling from her shoulders, open wide on the counter as you chant her name in as quiet a whisper as you can muster.

Heavy breathing resonates through the small room, the stifling air now reeking of sex.

“C’mere,” you coax.

The counter is cold beneath you, the sink uncomfortable as you lie down flat, but when Liz crawls feebly into your arms, it matters a whole lot less. The comfort she provides is, and always has been, incomparable. Ethereal is the only way to describe her this way, too, blonde hair ruffled as she curls into your side, burying her nose into your shoulder, her arm slung over your waist.

“Do you think you got your revenge, babe?” she asks in a quiet voice, husky, laced with sex.

“Definitely. There’s no way they didn’t hear that.”

“Probably more than what most of those has-beens have got in years.”

You meet her twinkling eyes, and dissolve into a fit of giggles together, gripping her even tighter. It always was a secret fantasy of yours to do something like this, but you never imagined you’d be here nearly a decade later, fucking your wife in the staff bathroom. That’s just… beyond, but so hot.

“Ready to blow this place?”

“More than,” you answer, “but safety first.”

She gazes up at you, pouts and grumbles, but slips off you and into the left hand stall anyway, while you take the right. Once she emerges, the strap is safely stowed away in a discreet bag—one you purchased specifically should a chance like this ever arise since you’re not fans of handbags—and she turns the tap on. You wash your hands in a contented silence, and fix each other's clothes and hair the same way, until you’re at least half way presentable (though still more than mildly dishevelled) in order to just escape to the car and then hope at long merciful last.

“Should we text your brother?”

“I’ll do it when we reach the car,” you tell her, taking her hand as you unfasten the lock and pelt out into the corridor. “Wait, one minute.”

She watches you peculiarly as you pull out perfume from your pocket, spritzing it around the room, before re-entering fully and cranking the window open. At least this way the scent of sex is partially masked.

“Ever the resourceful one,” she chuckles, following your lead down the corridor, her long legs bounding beside you.

Your giggles carry around the high ceilinged building, bumping and bouncing off every wall so it seems, and once you're out into the foyer, she ensures to kiss you loudly, bending down to meet your height, just to test if your kisses have the same effect.

You don’t get to test that, however, before an all too familiar voice snaps you out of your trance, and suddenly, you’re fifteen and being told off for late homework again.

“y/n!”

You scurry to hide Liz behind you, as if that’s of any use whatsoever, and almost melt into tears when you see Mrs Alleman.

“Oh dear, how good to see you.” she professes, and before you quite know what to do with yourself, she’s standing right in front of you, wearing the same stylishly sensible shoes she always did.

“And you, Miss.”

“Who’s this?”

Glee forces a wide smile onto your face, standing aside to allow Elizabeth’s full beauty to be appreciated.

“This is my wife, Elizabeth,” you say, the proudest thing you’ve said all evening. “This is Mrs Alleman, my language teacher. She taught me everything I know.”

“Oh stop it,” she plays coy, but is gasping and gawking joyously beneath it. “Mr Smith owes me a tenner now. I predicted you’d come here with a female partner of some sort, he said you’d just come as an out and proud lesbian but single.”

Your jaw drops, and you can see Elizabeth’s chest rattling a little with swallowed laughter.

“I’m sorry, what? You had a bet on me being gay?”

“Oh yes, it first started when you were in year eleven and so helplessly queer, we couldn’t help but keep placing bets on how long you’d stay in the closet.” She places a gentle hand on your upper arm, noting the evident flush about you, and turns towards Liz. “Anyway, hi Elizabeth. You treat our girl well, she was a great student.”

“Always, Ma’am.” Liz answers dutifully, squeezing your hand even tighter in a silent promise. “She’s the most wonderful thing to have ever happened to me, and I’m glad she had an influence like you among all that lot of bogans.”

Mrs Alleman is impressed, you can tell since she’s wearing that same delighted expression she did when you told her you got into your top choice university with the results you aimed for, thanks to her teaching. “Tall, out, and Aussie? She really does have it all. And as much as I’d like to argue, you’re totally right, that year was a damn nuisance.”

“Somehow, no one has matured since we left?” you comment with feigned shock.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” It didn’t surprise you either. They were a fat lot of use, the whole lot of them. At least you and your brother were able to do good on your promise to get away from them all. “What are you doing now?”

“Oh, I work in translation for the home office and cabinet ministers.” Though your statement doesn’t hold as much pride as the one about Elizabeth being your wife did.

Her eyes grow wide, “That’s brilliant! I know you always wanted to do something like that.”

“I did, and I actually enjoy it.”

Mrs Alleman’s face softens, “I hoped you would. But promise me you’ll never become a teacher.”

You loose a chuckle, saying, “Never,” before stilling to a beat of easy silence.

“I love those earrings, by the way.”

“Oh!” You twist them subconsciously. “Anniversary present.”

“Y’know, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get inside and make a speech,” she grumbles. “Drop me an email, I’d love to catch up and properly see how you’re doing. Bring this tall drink of water if you’d like,” she adds with a wink.

“I’d really like that Miss, thank you.” you say, flushing a little.

Mrs Alleman was always one for affection, so you’re not entirely surprised when she approaches you with wide arms, her court shoes muffled on the foyer carpet. You accept the hug, and you’re surprised when Liz does the same. You say your goodbyes, agree to meet again, and let Elizabeth lead you back to the car, your fingers woven together.

“Was that worth being dragged out of the house for?” Liz asks.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Perhaps shoving that strap down my throat will make it a little more worthwhile,” you say with a smirk.

“I heard that!” Mrs Alleman shouts from the top of the stone steps, gazing at you disapprovingly despite the laughs tumbling from her.

You cling to Liz, pressing your lips into a thin line when you feel your phone buzz, your brother's name popping up on the screen.

‘Everyone knows what you were doing. Don’t come back.’

‘We weren’t planning on it,’ you type back. Not now you’ve reaped your revenge, at least. You shut your phone after adding to the message, ‘Drinks at ours tonight.’

These people from your past are insignificant, Liz is your future and your forever.