#not meant to be a jab at anyone i just wanted to clarify for people who aren't sure

[tired-fandom-ndn]

The cat girl's name is Izutsumi btw, I've seen a lot of people (mostly anime-only fans who are basing it entirely off sound) spelling it wrong but the official kana spelling for her name is イヅツミ(i-zu-tsu-mi in katakana).

[namelessweapons]

On Religion, Fictionkin, and the importance of 'Gatekeeping'

Long post. Under a cut. Herein when I say 'We' I mean the nebulous idea of a community, I will be using 'I' in this for us, for clarity.

I will be redacting the names of any people or events mentioned herein in passing. This is not a jab, a "Callout", or a focus on one person, event, situation, or otherwise, anything mentioned in passing as examples are just that, examples, and if you recognize any of the people, places, things, or events mentioned herein, you are invited to not name them, they are not individually important.

My last disclaimer is that this is an Essay, not a Debate, I will not be 'Engaging' anyone about it who disagrees. I will not be 'engaging' anyone about it who agrees either. Equality.

I state herein that I will be dropping the term 'Fictionkin', as it's been completely aided to ruin by people who aren't even Fictionkin, and that I place a new word down that I will be using, I will make another post just about this word as well, but do know I do that in this essay.

EDIT: Yes this is okay to reblog! No worries

When I say 'Spirit Animal' what do you think?

Your knee jerk reaction if you don't know me was probably to recoil, it's a term that's been appropriated to the point of near uselessness in conversations with people who aren't indigenous. My father is native, or rather, he's half native and half Salvadoran. But he has closer ties to his native roots, for this reason, I spent a lot of time with my indigenous nation on the reservation parts of my family lived on, and I've never been to El Salvador once.

Your next thought may be wondering why I don't drop what nation I'm from, it's because it's really easy to doxx people with that information, so I will not be doing so, it's not super important anyway, the only important part is that my people have a concept that has been appropriated into this nebulous concept of 'Spirit Animal', it's now a fundamentally useless word to me, and many other indigenous people as well, because people who don't believe the same things we do took a concept, and a word, and gave it their own meaning, and ran with it.

This post isn't about being native, and it's not about spirit animals, but it is about the idea of taking concepts and, more importantly, words that already exist and are attached to a belief system, and re-appropriating them into other meanings.

Where is this going? I'm getting there.

I've been out as 'Otherkin', specifically 'Deitykin' for around sixteen years now, and out as 'Fictionkin' for a large chunk of that. Before I continue I'd like to say that being Fictionkin is not 'A Delusion', it is not a medical condition, believe me I've seen therapists and psychologists, it's a keystone of my religious identity and spirituality, once upon a time I probably wouldn't have had to clarify that to my own community.

You see, it used to be that when you said you were 'Fictionkin' it mainly meant one of two things, either it was a religious belief, or you had caught on to the part of tumblr who began using it to mean 'I just really love and identify with this character, teehee!', and when that started happening, people for whom this was a religious belief, a deep an important part of their identity, pushed back, and said 'hey, we were here first, this is our religion, can you maybe get a new word for your roleplay?'

And that was the correct response, it is not only rude, but morally reprehensible to take something from people as important as a deeply set religious belief, and to say 'no, actually, you have to let us use it for this totally unrelated thing, that will make people assume the completely wrong thing of you'

It's this sort of colonizer mindset, this is why I started this off talking about the fact that I'm indigenous by the way, because I knew I was going to use this word as a comparison and I wanted people to know where I was coming from in regards to my relationship with it. But it is a very similar mindset, it's the mindset of 'I am going to use this, and you have to share, and if you aren't okay with that, you're an icky gatekeeper and the onus is on you to move'

No, it isn't, the onus is not on me, or anyone else for who this is a fundamental religious belief to 'move'.

Back then we were pretty good about setting boundaries, when someone would say 'I choose to identify as this character' or 'I just identify deeply with this character' the community was pretty good at standing its ground and going, no, that's not correct, there's no issue with that, but you need to get your own word, because this word exists, and we as a religious community are using it.

However I was recently made aware of the fact that apparently, somewhere along the way, some people decided that it was playground bullying to not allow people to appropriate spiritual beliefs and religion, now I'm not sure exactly when that started, I logged off the internet for a while to focus on my religion off the internet and also to deal with a fire and being homeless.

When I came back I still wasn't aware of it right away, in fact I wasn't aware of it until my spouse, who lives in the same home as me, attended an event and got to watch someone use the term 'Fictionkin' incorrectly.

Now I did not choose to attend this event, I work a very busy job, I also wasn't aware there was a discord for it or I may have joined to people-watch, but in the end knew it wouldn't matter, because my spouse and I live together, and I can community watch over their shoulder should I desire to.

Back to the situation, someone used the term 'Fictionkin' incorrectly, or rather they used a term other than 'Fictionkin' and attached the meaning that already existed of the word 'Fictionkin' to it, because at some point when I wasn't looking, Fictionkin were pushed out of their own words and their own spaces in favor of this new meaning, which seems to range from anything from;

'I have medical delusions about being this character' 'I choose to ID as this character' 'I just identify very closely with this character'

to a myriad of other things. I'll circle back to this, the point is I was completely taken aback when I saw the people in charge of the group wrist slap not the person who was using the wrong definition and implying by extension that everyone using 'Fictionkin' was delusional, or choosing their identity, or similar, but the Fictionkin who were attempting to protect their words from being appropriated.

This is, to me, morally disgusting. I find it fundamentally abhorrent, and I recognized something in it, that tiny sliver of a moment where I was like, oh, this is exactly like how white people took things from my culture and ran with them to the point where they're fundamentally useless outside of spaces that have been carefully screened to only include the original users, because outside of that everyone will make wild assumptions. I get the same roiling feeling in my gut when someone goes 'Oh, fictionkin, like the people who have delusions!/Really like a character!' as I do when Britteneigh who works at Holister overhears me speaking about [REDACTED] and goes 'Oh my goshh you're talking about spirit animals! my spirit animal is-'

Before anyone gets into a huff, no, I am not 1:1 comparing being fictionkin to the oppression my people have faced, so take your hands off the keyboard, because I wouldn't have replied to your lack of reading comprehension anyway to be frank. One situation reminding me of another does not mean I am 1:1'ing the situations and the fact I have to explain this here before it even happens says a lot about my faith in tumblr's reading comprehension. I know.

Back to my essay, the feeling was very similar, this was a word I had used for a long time, a word I was around for when it was created, and a word I had watched be kept very carefully so as not to be watered down, so that an already small and spread out community would have a way of discussing our experiences, feelings, and needs, without becoming scattered, lost, and lonely.

Because that really is the point of having specific religious denominations, my father was a hobbyist theologist, I grew up with bookshelves popping up around me filled top to bottom with religious texts. There are Christian denominations you can't even get to share a room because their root beliefs are so different, so they have different words. Imagine for a moment that an 18 year old walks into your catholic church -- you're catholic in this scenario -- and tells you, someone who has been catholic since you yourself were a child, the following:

"I think your delusional dependence on the saints is really quirky and cute, I've been in touch with God himself for two years now, but you're cool too"

You would probably not be entirely happy, and I think most people would understand why. It's more complex than that of course, ironically I'm watering down a theological belief to make a point about not watering down theological beliefs, I can be a hypocrite, as a treat.

Allow me to loop back to my original point. I came back, feeling lonely and eager to re-engage with my religious community now that my life was more stable, only to find that at some point my religion had been bulldozed over in the name of (misguided, I'll get to that) "Inclusion". I had been, have been, left Spiritually Homeless so to speak, never knowing if a place I popped my head into would be for people like me, or for people so fundamentally different from me that we effectively have nothing in common.

I don't have anything against people with delusions, I have non-religious delusions when my OCD peaks. I don't have an issue with people who relate very closely with fictional characters. I don't even really have an issue with people who 'choose' to identify as a character other than the core idea of this essay. I don't mind sharing casual non kin or non religious spaces with these people, why would I?

I would say 'after all, they aren't hurting me'

Except like, here's the thing.

They Are.

I came back to what I considered my home, my religious community, and I found that while I had been gone, I and people like me had been forcibly removed from the spaces we had made, pushed out overwhelmingly by either people who had either appropriated our word outright, or worse still, by people who aren't fictionkin, have no right to speak on fictionkin (much less the words we use or how we defend our religious institutions), and who have bullied us out of our spaces on this unacceptable, fundamentally selfish, colonizer-minded idea of 'Not Gatekeeping', of 'Radical Inclusivity'.

They are hurting me by depriving me of spaces where I am comfortable, understood, don't need to constantly re-iterate my religion, and they are hurting me by depriving me of a word that historically has been the only real word to get into contact with the few other people I share a religion with, and by telling people I have a disorder that I do not have, as again, I do not have religious delusions, I simply partake in a niche religion. There is nothing wrong with having delusions, there is something wrong with force-diagnosing me by proxy.

And guess what. Sometimes things just aren't for everyone. Sometimes things just aren't for you. And you have to be okay with that. Or if you aren't okay with it, you're going to have to deal with it, because it's just the way things are.

Now, since I know someone is going to get into it, what I'm talking about here has nothing to do with the queer definition of Radical Inclusivity, not relevant, not related, not a religion, not the same, do not bother bringing it up.

When I say, 'I am Fictionkin', I want people to know right away two things.

I am a fictional character (or rather, I resemble a fictional character and can be considered a nonfictional version of them for all major purposes)

For spiritual reasons, this is a religion for me.

I do not want, at any point, for any reason, anyone to have to ask or wonder, if this is a self ID thing, a medical thing, a love of the media thing, I fucking hate half my media, shining resonance refrain is dogshit and here's why-

Different essay. Sorry.

This is getting quite long, so I will now turn around and backtrack to my original point.

Thanks to a lack of gatekeeping, partially from the community itself, and overwhelmingly by people who paint themselves as having authority who aren't even Fictionkin forcing Fictionkin out of their spaces to make way for unrelated people, the word no longer has meaning, and despite being there when it first began being used, it is no longer a label that fits or that I am comfortable with.

For this reason, I will be hereby using the term Fictotheism, Fictotheist, Fictotheological.

{Use: I practice Fictotheism, I am a Fictotheist, I am Fictotheological}

My fictionkin status is religious, it is spiritual, I will be using this word because that point is baked in, it will be difficult to appropriate by anyone else, I have created this word to be like a bra; it should feel uncomfortable to use for anyone whom it does not fit.

I do not care if other people use it, in fact, if it does fit you, please do. I am not demanding anyone use it, it was created for me, and for me alone, as someone who was pushed out of my original community, it is too late I believe to reclaim Fictionkin, which is unfortunate.

My hope is that a new word will primarily give people a clear immediate idea of what I am, and that if for some reason others should begin using it, that it will create a community that is once again not only in-contact, but at less risk of being pushed out of our own community.

My only request to anyone who uses it, is that you gatekeep it. I am not only asking you to gatekeep it. I am telling you to. It must be in order to keep the definition intact. 'I identify as a character perceived as fictional for religious reasons', this is the definition, there are no other definitions, so sayeth the lord. This is a joke by the way, I'm not that pompous.

Not the demand to gatekeep this word however, that was genuine.

In closing, the word Fictionkin has been stolen from the people who originally used it, and I think that's quite frankly disgusting, but there is no fixing it now, the only way we could have fixed it was to gatekeep it when we first started being pushed out. Regardless of which word picks up traction next, I hope that this time we, as a community, can come together to keep people; especially people who aren't even fictionkin, from forcing us out of our own churches.

I will end on this note, partially for humor, and partially to nip this in the bud.

Spouse: 'People will definitely try to force you to use Fictionkind or say it already exists for this reason (despite it also being watered down)'

Me: Good, they can get fucked, this is my word for me baybee!!

[sergeantsporks]

Writing request: post king’s tide, Gus and Hunter talking about the events in it and what they’re gonna do now (What Gus saw with the Belos thing. And also how Gus feels in the human realm now that his first experience with it is basically soured.)

(I hope you don't mind I changed the prompt a little bit to fit what we got from Thanks to Them)

“I knew.”

Hunter poked a stick in the fire Luz had lit with a glyph. “Hm?”

Gus drew his knees up to his chest. “I knew. That you were a Grimwalker.”

Hunter’s grip tightened on the stick. “Oh.” He poked the coals again, then jumped up. “OH.” He jabbed a finger at Gus, mouth fumbling and stumbling on the words he wanted to say. “You’re Captain Avery,” he managed to spit out.

“Hah. Yeah. I’m Captain Avery. I thought you were picking up on what I was trying to say when you made that O’ Bailey costume.”

Hunter ran his hands through his hair. “Cosmic Frontier—you were… ohhhhhhh.” He sat back down with a groan. “I completely missed that.”

Gus’ nose crinkled. “In hindsight, it was probably a liiiiiitle too nuanced as a way to let you know that I knew. I mean. Book code? How were you supposed to know that meant I knew?” He twisted his hands. “I just… wanted to let you know that it was okay. That you could trust me.”

“I do.”

“But… not with that.”

“I needed more time to find out more. About where I came from, about… how I related to Belos, who my ortet was. Caleb Wittebane.” The words were foreign in his mouth.

“Heh. Caleb, huh? That’s a weird coincidence.”

Hunter clutched at his chest where Flapjack had last been. “Yeah… weird…”

“He seems like he was okay.”

“Huh?”

Gus rubbed his arms. “When I… did that spell on Belos, I saw him. Caleb Wittebane. That was how I knew. I saw him, I saw your… birth…”

“Sorry about that.”

Gus chuckled. “It wasn’t so bad, you just crawled out of a mudpit. As far as how people are born, that’s probably the least traumatizing thing to see!” He settled back down. “But he seemed like an okay guy, your ortet. I know Masha said he got spirited away by a witch, but I think he went because he wanted to. And he stayed because he wanted to.”

Hunter tugged on the new strand of hair. Maybe Willow would cut it for him again. “He was still a witch hunter. He still brought his brother to a place where everyone was a witch hunter, Belos wouldn’t have been a witch hunter without him. He went to the isles looking for him, he’s the reason Belos was there. He’s the reason Belos didn’t leave.”

“Maybe.” Gus sighed. “Belos killed him.”

“Yeah?”

“They had a fight. I don’t think he was a witch hunter at the end. He was a witch protector.”

“Fat lot of good it did anyone.”

“Hey. Don’t be so hard on him. He made mistakes, sure, everyone does. But we’re not blaming Luz for accidentally helping Belos meet the Collector, are we?”

“No,” Hunter muttered, “We’re not.”

“So maybe be a little nicer about Caleb. Your ortet did the right thing at the end, and that’s what matters.”

“Hm.”

“And it doesn’t matter anyway. None of that affects who you are.” Gus nudged him. “Not… any more than who O’ Bailey was cloned from affected who he was.”

Despite himself, Hunter smiled. “Heh. Yeah. That plotline was a bit contrived, huh? It was the ‘enemy planet’ thing that mattered.”

“Ha.”

Hunter leaned back. “Would you ever go back?”

“Hm?”

“To the human realm,” Hunter clarified, “Would you go back?”

“I don’t know. I always wanted to go, I’ve loved the idea of the human realm for as long as I can remember, but…”

“Your first experience wasn’t under the best of circumstances?”

“Yeah.” Gus glanced over at the blanket lump that was Luz. “I’d go to visit Luz and Camila, I think. If we could make a stable portal.” He sighed. “It wasn’t all bad. There was so much cool stuff there! And the giraffes were… terrifying. But I just… I don’t know, I think I would have enjoyed it more if I wasn’t missing my dad the whole time.”

“So bring him next time,” Hunter suggested.

“What?”

“Bring your dad. Show him the things you liked. Let him see. Then the human realm won’t be a place where you missed your dad, it’ll be a cool place you showed him.”

“Yeah,” Gus said slowly, “Yeah! He can be the first Boiling Isles reporter to cover the human realm!” Gus’ ears wiggled up and down. “And I can be his tour guide!” Gus settled down, leaning against Hunter’s shoulder. “Thanks, Hunter.”

Hunter nodded, staring into the fire. “Thank you. For… being understanding about the Grimwalker thing. For trying to reach out, even if it didn’t work.”

“Hm? Yeah, sure. We made a secret handshake and everything, I’m not going to be put off by a little cloning and witch hunter ancestry.” Gus held his fist out for a bump. “You’re stuck with me.”

[monkeymindscream]

Debated whether or not to post this, decided I might as well get it off my chest: I kind of despise the delivery of the whole “Belos is Philip” -arc, particularly after Hollow Mind.

NOT because it revealed just how evil Belos really is and/or that there was no sympathetic twist, I have to clarify. Getting to see him go full-tilt bad guy was glorious. The issue I’m having is that how they’re portraying it feels extremely pointed. 

It’s no secret the crew keeps tabs on the fandom. The entire b-plot of Any Sport in a Storm revolved around taking playful jabs at all the people who’d been making complicated theories about the relevance of the Good Witch Azura books on the overall plot. Which was actually very cute, and you could tell it was all meant in good fun.

But something I loathe beyond all reasonable description when a work/writer tries to tell me how to feel about a certain character. Like what they did with Toffee in SvtFoE, basically. I’m getting the exact same vibe here. The writers saw fans were getting attached to a villain and coming up with ways his motives could be sympathetic (see the large discrepancy between canon vs. fanon Philip). The writers went “oh no, we can’t be having any of that!” and then went out of their way to directly show the viewers how bad the villain was.

They had a whole extra season of material they could have made episodes about, yet they took the time to literally go back in time and show in vivid detail how horrible Philip was, “even back then.” When, if they really wanted to show how evil Belos was, they could have let his current actions speak for themselves and revealed that he’s Philip much more succinctly. 

Luz finds a repeating phrase in Philip’s diary. His mantra/driving force of sorts. Towards the end of the episode, we cut to Bel working on his portal, wherein he mutters the same phrase to himself or something. Drama. During a later confrontation, he either drops the phrase around Luz, or smugly says “so you found my old journal, I see?” to her directly. Luz is left to deal with the fallout. Boom. There. Gets the exact same points across, and they could have used the time on other plot-threads they almost certainly cut out. 

And y’know what else? I have slight proof this might have been what they’d initially been shooting for before they had to rework things to makes sure fan perception was what they wanted it to be: Luz’s breakdown when she learns Belos is actually Philip Wittebane.

They have her acting like this is some horrific revelation, like her world has been shaken to its very core, except... She already knew Philip was a jerk?? She already knew he was leading people to their deaths. Why is it such a terrible revelation to learn that the guy she already considered to be evil was always like that? It gets even worse when you consider the “how could people be fooled and not see how evil Belos is??” moral(?) of the episode. It’s supposed to be setting up how she was fooled, but she’d already learned that lesson several episodes ago.

I think they always wanted to have that big, emotional reveal, but they’d initially planned to have it after Luz had spent a season idolizing Philip. She’s so emotionally impacted because it had been meant to be impactful. But then they went back to rework things so nobody would be able to argue Belos was anything other than an inherently evil monster, and didn’t bother to alter their dramatic confrontation accordingly. 

And because I can already hear the clacking of people furiously typing up rebuttals, some extra food for thought:

None of the genuinely bad spells Belos created as Philip make use of Luz’s light glyph. His teleportation, petrification, the weird meat-hands, none of them. Luz knows this, because she’s been studying his notes. So before anyone tries to say “she reacted the way she did because of her guilt for helping a tyrant,” we don’t have any actual proof of this, only speculation. There’s definitely nothing concrete that would suggest she’d have any reason for guilt so bad it would make her collapse to her knees in front of him, at any rate. We kind of have to take her distress as being solely over Belos being Philip as a result. Which... yeah. Doesn’t really make a lot of sense within the narrative as it is.

I dunno. Bottom line is I really can’t work out why they’d take time out of their (now severely shortened) runtime to delve into Belos’s backstory when they didn’t actually use��it to do anything other than confirm what we’d already been perfectly aware of. Not unless it was literally just meant to subtly poke fun at (if not outright shame) the people who’d dared to postulate the guy might have some sympathetic qualities, even if only once upon a time. Which is kind of infuriating and insulting all at once.

[furvillaconfessions]

@post/692452402653233153/

It was a joke taking a jab at helicopter/overprotective/control freak parents and I could leave my reply at that but your response has activated my desire to overexplain everything, I had a whole much longer essay in my head to answer this with but after a day of work and a 5 hour long party I'm too tired to write all of it out so I will just skip all the frivolities and 10 minute long anime backstory filled with flashbacks and get to the main point

To clarify I'm not offended at anon for not wanting to interact with adults, I personally prefer talking with my peers and people older than me so if anon blocks me for not wanting to interact with an adult I couldn't care less, it's a good thing that anon is establishing their boundaries and I meant it when I said that anon can block whoever they want without giving a justification for it since no one is entitled to know your personal reason for blocking someone, it's something that should be encouraged more, especially with the trend of people demanding others to explain why they got blocked, it ain't your business and chances are you wouldn't have ended up talking with each other anyway so there's zero reason to demand an interaction from the stranger who blocked you

And although I will not turn away any minors who want to talk to me, I rather not seek out minors myself to talk to since I just can't properly talk to them about the kind of things I want to talk about, they're not relatable to me and I'm not relatable to them, the current trends that are hip with the kids these days do not interest me, much like kids won't be interested in my excitement about buying a printer or having a nice cocktail after work

I'm offended at the mother for displaying poor parenting behavior

I will also talk about this as a generalized situation now so it won't feel like it's directed at the anon personally or imply that any of the things I'm saying are things that are happening with anon since obviously I don't know them and don't know their life, I'm just taking the anon's situation as an example and talk about the things that can be a result of an overprotective and sheltering parenting style and serve some food for thought on what you (general you) think proper parenting looks like

A parent shouldn't be blocking every site their kid wants to play on just because there's adults there and maybe they will run into someone bad so the site gets blocked as a precaution, what the parent SHOULD be doing is talk with their kid about what they do online, what kind of sites they frequent, what kind of people they talk with and what they talk about, and how to recognize red flags in people's behavior online and overall internet safety, make it as casual as talking about what they did at school that day and what they did when they were hanging out at their friend's house and stranger danger safety tips, internet and technology has grown rapidly over the past few decades and it's now more than ever that parents need to be in the know of internet safety and teach it to their kids and make it a conversation topic, a luxury that only a few of us kids had when growing up since at that time (mostly 90's and early 00's) not a lot of parents truly understood the things that can happen online and only did the basic stranger danger safety tips of "don't talk to strangers and don't give your real address to anyone"

Blocking every website the kid goes on just because there's a chance they might run into someone bad will not only restrict the kid's freedom but also the kid's development of online social/etiquette skills, development of independency, ability to recognize red flags online (this includes things like recognizing scams and phishing, not just shady behavior), access to online resources (depending on the sites that get blocked), access to support systems, and the kid's ability to explore spaces that can help them with their self-discovery as they're growing and developing into an adult, which can also have impact on the kid's self-image and confidence

Not only that but it also develops an unhealthy relationship with the parents since the kid now feels the need to hide their activities from the parents because they're afraid that the activities that they're doing are going to be taken away from them, keep in mind that if the parents are willing to block websites that are completely harmless otherwise, the parents are possibly restricting a lot of other things too that will severely impact the kid's development and relationship with their parents (in which the parents will complain that their kid won't talk to them about anything and not understand why)

It is protective to teach your kid the proper safety measurements they should take and how to recognize red flags and monitor their online activities to an extend, it's overprotective to restrict access and shelter the kid immediately just because of a scenario that might happen and is mostly preventable if the kid is knowledgeable on proper safety and is able to recognize red flags

Restricting your kid's freedom beyond bedtime, computer/TV time, and curfews for when they should be home when they go to a friend's house after school (and other misc. restrictions within reason) will never be good parenting since it will quickly result in the kid becoming sheltered and having their privacy violated, it puts strain on the kid's development, and strain on the relationship with the parents

Growing up should all be about fucking around and finding out with the safety and support of your parents who will teach you what you need to know so you can fuck around and find out safely and be able to ask for their help when you get in trouble or in an unsafe situation without fear of getting punished, that's literally how people are able to develop themselves and their personhood properly and gain skills like problem solving, rational thinking, forming their own opinions, and the ability to form healthy relationships

Growing up should never be about fucking around and finding out but doing it behind the parents' backs because they will punish you and take it away from you otherwise, because things like that is how kids can become delinquent as a way of rebelling against their parents' restrictive parenting with varying degrees of harmless delinquency to harmful delinquency, or kids who become extremely private about everything they do and who develop trust issues which results into them becoming antisocial, and everything else between these 2 extreme examples that resulted in not great things for the kid and will make the kid look back on their youth and go "it sucked"

Like and subscribe for more essays on healthy parenting and child development, in this next essay I will

TL;DR Anon's mom is showing signs of authoritarian parenting by immediately blocking all websites with adults on it and that's no bueno, parents need to strive to have an authoritative parenting style instead, look at this graph for more info on what that means, let the kids play on the funny furry website

https://i.imgur.com/ddOegcf.png

[thr-333]

Mismatch- Part 3

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

Ah Irony, I trust this wont be the last I’m seeing of you

First < Previous > Next

----

‘Sorry, Nino told Adrien that you guys said to go ahead!?’ Chloe explained.

“Looks like Liela’s at it again,” Marion tells Marinette.

“Of course she is,” Marinette was already hailing a cab

‘Lila must have told Alya who told Nino or something’ Marion responds.

'I am so sorry we’ll come back to get you’  

‘Dont worry bout it we’re getting a cab’

‘Dont let kags kill anyone’ He adds

‘No promises’

Marinette grabs Marion by the arm, dragging him over to a cab. Just as she's about to climb in someone grabs her, arm pulling her away. Reflexes kick in and she makes a jab at their stomach. They block her punch, but let go of her arm. Marinette looks up to see a black haired blue eyed boy who couldn't be any older than them.

“This isn’t a real cab,” He explains quickly, taking his phone out to snap a picture of the stunned driver.

“Oh? Oh!” Marinette processes, realising she just tried to punch him for helping her, “I am so sorry!”

“It’s ok, good reflexes,” He compliments, they step away from the cab as it speeds away, “I’m Tim,”

“Marinette,” She shakes his offered hand, “This is Marion,”

“Hi, thanks for that,” Marion nods towards where the ‘taxi’ was, “How could you tell?”

“You live around here long enough you learn to spot them,” Tim answers, “are you two french?”

“Yep,” Marinette chirped, “We’re on a class trip,”

“Where’s your class?” Tim frowns looking around.

“Ummm… they kinda….” Marinette looked down at her shoes.

“Left us,” Marion finishes for her.

“They left you? In Gotham?” Tim asks, the twins nod avoiding eye contact.

“Where are you staying? I’ll drive you there,” Tim decides.

“You don’t have to do that!” Marinette gestures wildly, wide eyed.

“We’ll be fine on our own,” Marion adds, because yes they did almost get in a fake cab, but it wasn't as if they couldn't have dealt with it.

“It’s all right,” Tim tells them, scanning the cars around, “Look my rides here,”

The twins turn to see a limo pull up, a well dressed driver steps out of the vehicle.

“Good Evening Master Tim, how was your trip?” He asks, taking Tim’s bag.

“It was fine Alfred,” Tim says, “would you mind if we dropped these two off at their hotel?”

“Not at all, Master Tim, I am Alfred Pennyworth,” Alfred greets the twins, “May I ask your names,”

“Uh, Marion, and this is Marinette,” Marion replies, “You really don’t have to, we’ll be fine,”

“It’s no trouble at all,” He tells them, “Where are you staying?”

“Wayne hotel,” Marinette goes to grab her bags to find them gone, turning to see Alfred already placing it in the trunk.

“Witchcraft,” Marion whispers to her, Marinette nods. She always made sure to at least be touching her backpack, as it held the Miracle box.

“Come in,” Tim offers, already sitting in the Limo.

The twins concede climbing in after Tim a little awkwardly. He had somehow gotten ahold of a travel cup and was holding it like a lifeline.

“I’m surprised you're staying at the Wayne hotel for a class trip,” Tim takes a gulp of the probably scalding hot coffee.

“Marinette submitted an amazing essay to the Wayne Foundation and won the trip for the whole class,” Marion dodges her kick, Tim hides his smirk behind his cup.

"We submitted an essay,” Marinette corrects, glaring at Marion for shaking his head.

“Thank you for the ride,” Marion changes the topic.

“No problem, I really don’t mind, the longer I stay away from the manor the better,” Tim replies sleepily.

“Why's that?” Marinette questions, concern written all over her face.

“Loud, too many siblings” Tim quickly clarified, “I need more time with my coffee before I deal with them,”

“I think I can relate,” Marion mutters, ignoring Marinette's look, “How many siblings do you have?”

“Officially? Thr-Two brothers,”

“Unofficially?” Marinette prods.

“Feels like half of Gotham most the time,” Tim sighs, making them chuckle.

“You two must be twins?” Tim guesses.

“Unfortunately,” Marinette sighs.

“You love me,” Marion scoffs.

“Unfortunately,” Marinette repeats, Tim cracks a smile.

“If it's any consolation you seem to get on much better than I do with my siblings,” Tim takes another long sip from his coffee.

“If it’s any consolation we’re always fighting,” Marion parrots, sharing a knowing glance with Marinette. Fighting? Yes. Fighting each other? Only when Chat Noir gets brainwashed.

“So what are you looking forward to in Gotham?” Tim asks.

“Lots of things,” Marinette and Marion start to tell Tim all about their(civilian) plans. Tim suggests places every now and then, he points out the hotel as they start to get closer.

“Ah!” Marinette exclaims, turning to Marion, “We were meant to check in as a class, will they even let us in?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they do,” Tim assures them. When they pull up at the hotel Alfred opens the door and Tim gets out with them.

“Thank you so much,” Marinette takes her bags from Alfred, giving him a smile.

“You’re welcome Miss,” Alfred smiles back.

Marion also gives his thanks and they follow Tim into the building. Marinette admires the architecture, brainstorming ideas for designs. Perhaps she can make improvements to the outfits they’ll be using at the concert. Tim goes straight to the front desk and explains the situation. The receptionists hands over the room keys, telling them their classmates had already grouped up, three to a room.

“That was surprisingly easy,” Marion muses, as they walk towards the elevator, “Thank you,”

“My pleasure,” Tim answers easily, as they step into the elevator, “I must be off,”

They give their goodbyes, letting the doors close as Tim walks away.

“He was nice,” Marinette hums in agreement.

“Hopefully there's more people in Gotham like him,” They step out of the elevator.

“There will be,” Marion assures, “Meet back here when they go to sleep?”

“No, I’ll text you when everyones asleep and you can teleport in,” Marion nods, both know Kaalki won’t be impressed.

They go their separate ways. Marinette knocked on the room door that was opened a few moments later by Kagami.

“I am sorry,” Kagami immediately apologizes, “I should have known better and asked you myself,”

“Don’t worry, we’re fine,” Marinette gives the girl a hug, rolling her suitcase into the room.

“Marinette, you need to see this place, although it’s as good as daddys hotel,” Chloe grabs her by the arm. Leading her through the well furnished and decorated living room with a kitchenette to the side.

“You do live in the penthouse suite,” Marinette looked out the floor to ceiling window, displaying the view of the city, itching to grab her sketchbook.

“True, but they didn’t put me in the penthouse, so it's their loss,” Chloe guides her to a room with a large bed, bedside tables with flowers on them and a mirrored closet door. “This is yours,”

Marinette went to grab her suitcase only to see Kagami behind them with it. She thanked her and got settled in. Once she was unpacked they sat together in the living room to talk about tomorrow.

“You’d better not go wandering off, Gotham is dangerous,” Chloe wagged her finger at Marinette.

“And you’re going to protect me?” Marinette threw a couch cushion at her.

“Well, duh, I was Queen Bee,” Chloe bragged, catching the cushion and throwing it right back.

“For, like, month, years ago,” Marinette caught the pillow, sending it to Kagami, “Weren’t you replaced with Bumble Bee?”

“It was a mutual decision,” Chloe caught the pillow that Kagami hesitantly threw to her.

“Right,” Marinette said in a disbelieving tone, knowing full well that Bumble Bee was just Chloe’s new alias. “I think I’d rather stick with Kagami,”

“Rude,” Chloe threw the pillow at her.

“Didn’t we all agree Kagami was as good as any bodyguard?” Marinette asks, throwing the pillow to said girl.

“Excuse you, we said she was better than any bodyguard,” Both gave her inquisitive looks, “What? I’m just stating facts!”

“Of course,” Marinette caught the pillow, still smiling.

“I am!”

“I believe you,” Marinette threw the pillow back at her.

“No you don’t!” Chloe throws the pillow forcefully at her.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Marinette chucks the pillow to Kagami.

“You’re infuriating Dupain-cheng,” Chloe huffs, catching the pillow from Kagami.

“I can show you some… moves,” Kagami hesitantly speaks up, as Chloe throws the pillow at Marinette, “For self defence,”

“Sure,” Marinette puts the pillow down, standing up with Kagami.

They spent the next half hour with Kagami instructing Marinette on basic fencing moves. With the cardboard wrapping of the now empty Toblerone block.

“Where is she going to get a sword?” Chloe was scrolling through her phone, “Unless you want her to carry that around everywhere,”

“What do you suggest?” Kagami challenges defensively.

“Like this,” Chloe takes over, showing both Marinette and Kagami how to break out of certain holds to get their arm free or how to disarm an opponent.

“Where did you learn this?” Marinette watches as Kagami practices the motions of disarming Chloe's hairbrush gun.

“I told you, I was Queen Bee and I took that job seriously,” Chloe drops the hairbrush, Kagami kicking it away.

“Didn’t you tell all of Paris your identity and then send a train out of control,” Kagami asks, retrieving the hairbrush.

“I was young and naive,” Chloe sighs dramatically, had to her forehead.

“Three years ago?” Marinette stands up to try and disarm Chloe now.

“Four actually,”

“Oh, my mistake,” Marinette rolls her eyes trying not to disarm Chloe too quickly.

They carry on a little longer before Marinette sends them to bed.

“We have an early day tomorrow, we don’t want to be late,” She pushes Chloe towards her room.

“Coming from you? That’s rich,” Chloe laughs.

“Whatever, go to sleep,” Marinette closes the door on Chloe's protests.

“Goodnight Marinette,” Kagami nods, walking to her room without a fuss.

Marinette goes to her room, firing Marion a text.

“Alright dude,” Nino turns to Marion, “I’m with Alya, we all know who Adrien has a crush on-”

“Everyone!?” Adrien sits up from where he’s lying on the couch.

“Yes, everyone,” Nino deadpans.

“What about Marinette?” Adrien turns pleading eyes to Marion.

“Oh not Marinette, she's as clueless as you,”

“What’s that meant to mean?” Adrien frowns defensively.

“Anyway,” Nino interrupts, “Dude, who do you have a crush on?”

“Ummmm,” Marion shifts uncomfortably from where he’s perched on the couches arm rest, “... It’s sort of a celebrity crush,”

“Oh? who?” apparently that was not the answer that would make him lose interest.

“It’s not really important, not like anything could happen,” Marion looks at Adrien for help, but he seems just as curious as Nino.

“Just tell us,” Nino pushes.

“It’s a hero,” Marion immediately realises that just got them more interested. “... From Gotham,”

“Batman?” Adrien guesses.

“No!” Marion shouts, “No! He’s old enough to be my dad, geez,”

“Alright, alright, who is it?” Nino placates leaning forward on his arm chair.

“..... Red hood,”

“Isn’t he a rouge?” Adrien asks.

“No!.... Maybe, he’s still a hero ok?” Marion curls up defensively.

“Why do you like him?” Adrien is grinning, shifting closer to Marion.

“I don’t know,” Marion rolls off the armrest, onto the couch next to him.

“You have to like something,” Nino gets up to sit on his other side.

“I don’t know, maybe because he looks good in his suit?!” Marion shouts.

“You’re not that shallow,” Adrien pokes him in the stomach.

“Ugh, fine,” Marion relents, “He works with Batman right?”

They both nod.

“He’s just so unlike everyone else he works with, I just kinda…. admire how he can just be…. be himself.” Marion curls up under his friend's stares.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Adrien teases, Marion huffs.

“He does look good in his suit though,”

“Wait a minute, is this why you always wear that MDC outfit?” Nino is clearly holding back laughter.

“No!” Marion bushes at the memory.

They were doing a practice interview about his newest song. Marinette had designed his outfit based on Red Hood's. It was something he had endured endless teasing over as he insisted everything had to be perfect, not that the great MDC would make anything less.

“Were there any problems that arose from the design MDC?” The interview asked, moving onto the outfit choice.

“We had some minor disagreements about the hood,” Marinette gestured to the outfit Marion was wearing. A red hoodie underneath a faux leather jacket(not that you could tell) on the back there were flying red bats embroidered up the side. He was wearing a black domino mask with red detailing in place of the helmet. It was the outfit they chose to alter into their vigilante costumes.

“She was getting very frustrated over it,” Marion teased, “I told her it didn’t need one,”

“His name is Red Hood! Why doesn't he wear a Hood? Robin wears a hood,”

“He looks cool without it,” Marion defended.

“You’re just saying that, cause you have a crush on him,” Marinette teased in a sing-song voice.

“MD!” He shouted, pulling the hood up to hide his blush, MDC laughing at him, he groaned. “Please tell me the cameras aren't rolling,”

“Don’t worry, nothing we say is being recorded,” The interviewer was luckily professional enough to not laugh, but was certainly amused, “I take it we will be omitting that from the real interview?”

“Yes!”

Unfortunately for him one of the staff members had been secretly recording. They leaked the footage online, getting fired, but not sparing MCD from the whole world finding out. The fanbase had been going crazy ever since they announced their concert in Gotham. Many imagining meet-cute moments or theorising that they were already dating. He shakes his head at the memory.

“I just think it looks cool,” He comes back to the present.

“Because it’s based on your crush?” Adrien teases.

“Nope, you don’t get to tease me about this, I haven't seen you not wearing something Marinette made you in years,” Marion cuts Adrien off with a raised eyebrow, looking down at his Ladybug onesie Marinette made him.

“Fine,” Adrien turns to Nino, “It’s up to you now,”

“Has Marinette made you anything Red Hood related?” Nino grins.

“Nooooo,” Marion moans, draping over the couch.

“Do you have a onesie based on him as well?” Marion finds his saving grace when his pocket buzzes.

“Stooooooooop,”

“Never this is too good,” Nino teases, “Did you bring it with you?”

“That's enough for tonight!” Marion claps his hands, standing up.

“Awwwww,” They both moan in unison.

“Nope! I don’t have to put myself through this, goodnight to you,” Marion walks straight to his room before they can protest further.

He locks the door behind him. Plagg and Kaalki are in the room chatting, they fly over to Marion.

“You ready to go Kaalki?”

“I am not meant to be used for something as trivial as a taxi,” The Kwami complains.

“We just need to grab out suits, this will be the only night, I promise,” The Kwami gives him a nod, “Kaalki full gallop,”

He transforms and opens a portal into Marinette's room.

“Ready Bug?” He asks, stepping into the room. He opens another portal to their room in Paris.

“Of course,” They step through the portal, followed by their Kwami’s, into their room as quietly as possible.

Marion drops his Marinette pulls out their costumes from the closet. They were disguised to look like regular clothing, but could be altered to quickly change.

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Marinette takes the hoodie he usually wears, reaching under a secret fold and unzips the hood.

“Come on bug, our hero-selves cant be seen in Gotham, and you know full well we wouldn't stand aside if someone was getting hurt in front of us,” Marion takes the body of the hoodie from her, flipping it inside out to the black side.

“True, but why do we have to do nightly patrols?” Marinette finishes pulling on her leggings, flipping her usual white jumper with a cherry blossom pattern inside out to the same red shade as the hood.

“It would look pretty suspicious if we just showed up when our class was in danger, now wouldn’t it,” Marion fasten the yellow belt around his waist, slipping his baton into the holster and pulls on his on his boots, hopping slightly.

“I think you just want to be a vigilante,” Marinette takes his Red Hood jacket, flipping it inside out to black with yellow trim.

“Well, it’s exciting isn’t it?” Marion takes what would usually be Mainette's skirt, flipping the pink inside out to the green and unzipping it along a black line, “We get to test out our skills without miraculous, and we don't have the fate of the city resting on our shoulders,”

“You could a least try to take it seriously,” Marinette flips her beanie inside out to the black side. Pulling it on after the severed hood, lining the holes up with her eyes and pulling the hood up.

“I am taking this very seriously,” Marion says with the biggest grin. Taking Marinette's infinity scarf, running his hands across it to find the secret fold. Flipping it inside out to a green with yellow and black trim. He pulls it over his head, yellow stripe to his hairline.

“Whatever," Marinette fastens her holster with a baton around her left leg. They both pull on their black gloves. "Lets go,”

Marion transforms back and opens a portal to a rooftop far away from the hotel. They take off across the roofs, using their batons to pole vault across alleys, to land on roofs and fire escapes. As they race, taunting each other, they survey the streets below. Marinette stops, crouching down as Marion catches up. A young woman was being chased by two thugs.

“Let’s go,” She whispers, using the fire escape as a firemans pole. Marion follows suit.

They land in the alley as the girl gets backed up against a wall, clutching her purse. She looks straight at them, Marion gestures her to stay quiet as they sneak up behind the thugs. Marinette takes the one on the right, as he lines up behind the left one. Marinette attacks first hitting the right one over the head with her baton.

“What the-” Marion cuts the left one off by sweeping his legs with his baton, sending him crashing to the ground. He pins them down, tying his wrist together with one hand, “You little fuc-”

Marion stuffs the mans own hat in his mouth. He then ties the crooks legs together for good measure. He looks over to Marinette, her thug unconscious, she was comforting the victim, offering her a cookie from a hidden pocket.

“Thank you,” She takes the cookie hesitantly.

“Not a problem,” Marinette gives her a winning smile.

“Wow, this is really good,” She mumbles, with her mouth full, “Um, who are you,”

“Don't worry about that,” Marion slings his arm around Marinette, "We're just your friendly neighbourhood strays,"

“Ignore him,” Marinette pushes his arm off her, “Do you want us to walk you home?”

“Uh- yeah, thanks,”

“I love your outfit by the way,” Marinette tells her, as they leave the alley way. Marion walks behind calling the police to come pick up the thugs, explaining what happened.

“Hey, can I get your number so the police can get your statement later?” Marion interrupts, as they follow the girl to her apartment.

“Of course,” He hands over the phone, letting her hang up.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” She hands back the phone, Marion walking on her other side.

“We’re new to town,” Marion smiles at her.

“I can tell,” They both give her inquisitive looks, “You’ve smiled more in the last five minutes than most Gothamites do their whole lives,”

“You’re exaggerating,” Marinette chuckles.

“I’m serious, you’re going to blind someone,” She laughs with them.

They walk her to her apartment, holding polite conversation the whole way.

“This is it,” She announces, “Thanks again,”

“No problem,” They both say, turning to leave.

“Wait…. Um,” They both stop looking back at her holding her phone, “Can I get a picture?”

“Of course,” Marion bounces over to her, Marinette taking the other side.

They give the same big smiles they do as Ladybug and Chat Noir. Marion throwing up bunny ears behind Marinette's head. They say goodbye and run off to find someone else to help.

“Whatcha doing Tim?” Dick looks over his shoulder, still in his Nightwing costume fresh from patrol.

“I ran into some French students who were left behind by their class at the airport,” Tim scrolls through a word document, complete with pictures of smiling teens doing a mixture of charity work and sports among other activities. “They won the Martha Wayne educational trip, I was just looking through their entry,”

“They got left behind, in Gotham?”

“That’s what I said! I actually caught them just before they got in a faux taxi,” Tim reaches the end of the rather long essay.

“They could have been mugged, or kidnapped!” Dick slams his hands down on the desk.

“I know , Dick,” Tim rubs his face, “The worst part is they didn’t seem at all surprised about it either,”

Dick leaves Tim to his work to change, muttering to himself.

“Is everything alright, Master Dick?” Alfred appears with food for after patrol.

“What if it happens again?” Dick asks.

“I assume you’re referring to the lovely twins Master Tim met at the airport?” Alfred nods knowingly, Dick nods back. “Well hopefully something similar doesn't happen tomorrow for their tour of Wayne Tower,”

“.... Alfred can you place me in charge of the tour?”

“Consider it done, Master Dick,” Alfred leaves him to get changed.

He finishes changing into regular clothes as the Batmobile pulls in. Batman and Robin exiting.

“We need to discuss security measures for the upcoming concert,” Batman tells the room, they gather around,

“MCD is known for his advocacy of superheroes, so we can expect a few villains to make trouble,” Tim pulls up a picture of MCD with MDC as they walk down the red carpet for some event.

Dick is amused that the picture he pulled up had them in Batman and Robin themed outfits. MDC wearing a beautiful black dress with the bat symbol subtly incorporated into the bodice. Her dress trailed behind in sharp points like Batman’s cape. MCD was wearing a suit with a red shirt, his tie green and some yellow detailing.

“You are going to be professional aren't you?” Damian gives them both pointed looks.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Dick asks innocently.

“You two are always jabbering on about these two,” Robin glares.

“We do not-oh that reminds me, if we’re going to be guarding this event we have to invite Jason,” Dick addresses Bruce.

“He is worse than you two, going on about that interview,” Damian must be rolling his eyes under the domino mask.

“Come on little D. how often does your celebrity crush like you back?” Dick smiles, remembering the night Jason called him yelling in excitement telling him about the leaked footage. He had also asked him to get Tim to find out who leaked the footage and have them fired.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,”

“As for actual security measures,” Batman redirects the conversation.

“Master Jason has arrived,” Alfred reports, coming to stand with them.

“Speak of the devil,” Tim mutters.

“BRUCE YOU MOTHERFUCKER,”Jason bursts into the bat cave, “I need to know these things!”

“We were just talking about the concert,” Dick tells him.

“What? No! Why didn’t you tell me you adopted more!” He yells at Bruce. “I need to know when you’re planning to traumatise more kids!”

“Jason what are you talking about,” Bruce only lets a hint of irritation into his voice.

“THis,” Jason slams down his phone to a screenshot of a tweet. It showed a picture of a boy and girl, both with black hair and blue eyes, following Tim into a limo. Written underneath was;

Wayne Twins? How long has Bruce Wayne been keeping them from Gotham? Are they adopted? Or could the Family resemblance be more than coincidence?

#wayne twins #Bruce Wayne's secret children #aren’t they just adorable

“What is this?” Bruce asks Tim.

“They’re the one who won the Martha Wayne educational trip, their class left them at the airport, I gave them a ride,” Tim briefly explained, noticeably omitting the taxi part.

“Wait so you didn’t adopt them?” Jason picks his phone back up.

“No, Jason, I didn’t,” Jason’s eyes narrow.

“... Are you going to?”

“... No, I’m not,”

“Keep an eye out,” Jason not at all subtly whispers to Dick, “He hesitated,”

“What are we going to do?” Damian cuts their growing argument off.

“We could release a statement?” Tim suggests.

“Drawing attention to it will only fuel the flames, let’s just let it die out,” Bruce decides, getting nods of agreement.

“By the way Jason, we were talking about security measures for the MCD concert,” Dick changes the topic.

“Without me!?”

They go back to making security plans for the concert, including Jason.

“I think we should have someone inside,” Jason looks over the blueprint of the venue.

“Of course you do,” Damian remarks snidely

“You little-”

“Bruce!” Superman's face pops up on the main computer, “You can’t just take in new kids without warning!”

“They aren’t my children,” Bruce clenches his fists, “The pictures with Tim are taken out of context,”

“What? I’m talking about the new Robins-,”

“THE NEW WHAT!” Jason and Damian shout at the same time.

“What are you talking about?” Bruce probably asking that question more times today than he would like.

“Uh, this,” A picture is sent through a screenshot of another tweet that was steadily becoming viral.

The picture had two teens in masks on either side of a civilian, giving the biggest smiles that had probably ever grace Gotham. The boy giving the girl bunny ears. Underneath was written:

Almost got mugged tonight and was saved by these two. Didn't tell me their names. They kinda look like Robin right? Also they gave me a cookie? It was actually good too.

#new Robins #Robin #Batfam #OMG their smile are pure sunshine #send help I might be blind

[thinking1bee]

Just Friends Part 2

Requested by several Anons

Pairings: Lena Luthor x Reader

Tags: Mild angst, Fluff, Happy Ending

It was several weeks later when you and Lena were invited to a signature Danvers style family game night. Lena opted to bring the wine while you brought the snacks, and some potstickers and pizza, a special request from your superhero truly. Instead of doing the event at Kara’s apartment, everyone decided to do it at Alex’s, pointing out that she has more room in case someone were to pass out drunk again on the floor. Not that it wasn’t a jab towards you (it was), of course. You do remember waking up, feeling like you got ran over by a truck, and Lena dumping a bowl of warm water on your face, saying that she had tried to wake you up for five minutes prior. The rest of the day was spent saying that you hated your life while hunched over a toilet.

Lena was going to meet you there and you knew that she was coming from L-Corp. She spent a lot of late nights there saying that she got swamped with paperwork. And you understood. After all what were friends for?

You decided to just head to Alex’s house and get started on the festivities. In the event that you did get black out drunk again, you knew that Alex had another bed that Kara would dump your inebriated body onto.

About an hour passed when Lena showed up. Alex let her in and, true to her word, she did have a rather large and rather expensive bottle of wine. J’onn, Alex, Winn, James, Brainy, and Nia all clapped when she walked in.

“It’s about time, Luthor! We’re all about to play a game!” Winn called out to her.

Her eyes got comically big, somehow their green color growing a shade brighter, before she chuckled nervously and gave Alex the wine bottle. You were already a bit typsy from drinking some beers so you figured you’d leave the wine alone. It would be better to end the night with some dignity.

“Oh god. What is it?”

“Truth or dare,” Nia smirked.

Everyone laughed including yourself as you all gathered in a circled and put an empty beer bottle in the middle. It was several rounds before the bottle finally landed on Lena. Before, Winn had to lick James armpit. Nia had to fake propose to Brainy, and Kara was dared to write ‘I’m gay’ in the sky using the clouds. Everyone chuckled when it was Lena’s turn.

“Alright Lena. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” she said without hesitating. “I should be drunk enough.”

Winn laughed as James hooted and Alex released a wolfish whistle.

Kara was the one to state the challenge and without skipping a beat she said, “I dare you to kiss your crush.”

It got incredibly quiet as all eyes flew between you and Lena. You couldn’t help the blush that colored your cheeks and spread all the way to your ears. Everyone snickered as they tried, and failed, to not stare at you. Lena’s eyes swept across the room before they landed on yours for a millisecond. Then she smiled and took a sip of her wine.

“If you’re insinuating that I have a crush on someone here, you’re mistaken.”

Kara eyebrows flew together in shock while everyone looked at each other in confusion. You, on the other hand, were trying to stop yourself from throwing up your heart. The simple statement had hurt, and it took everything in you to not show your disappointment. Kara must have caught on to your body though, because she gave you a look. It wasn’t outright sympathy but it was close to it. You shook your head minutely so that she would be the only one to see it. Here wasn’t the place or time. So you swallowed your hurt and forced a laugh.

“Wait, there’s no one in here that you have a crush on?” Nia asked.

“Nobody at all?” Alex clarified.

“Nope,” Lena said, giving them a level stare.

There was another pang in your heart and you could feel tears spring to your eyes. You had to leave, you had to get out of here. The last thing you wanted was to be drunk and crying. So you cleared your throat and put on a faux smile.

“I think all that beer caught up to me. Excuse me,” you say cheerfully before going to the bathroom.

The moment the door closed, a tear slipped down your cheek and you were grasping the sink in an attempt to steady yourself. You felt like an idiot, this whole time pining after someone who didn’t feel the same about you, and you didn’t know what hurt worse: your own stupidity or the fact that you put yourself in this situation. You held your breath, counting to ten and forcing yourself to calm down. You were starting to feel dizzy from oxygen deprivation when there was a soft knock at the door. You jumped before sighing. Swallowing down all your feelings, you cleared your throat.

“Who is it?” you called out, your voice surprisingly calm even to you.

“It’s Kara.” There was a moment of silence.

“Y/n, I know you’ve been crying. Can you let me in please?”

Tentatively, you open the door where you’re met with Kara’s sympathetic gaze. She opened her arms for a hug and you accepted the invitation. You loved it when Kara gave you hugs. Though she was wildly muscular, she was still a soft person, and the warmth that surrounded you was much needed. Your tears stained her shirt, but she didn’t seem to mind as she placed a tender kiss on the top of your head and smoothed your hair.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n. We all thought it too.”

You didn’t say anything as you sniffled more, your sobs coming out wet as you cried.

“Was she lying?” you asked softly, trying your hardest to give Lena the benefit of the doubt, but Kara shook her head. If anyone would be able to tell, it would be her with her super hearing. Even the slightest lie would change someone’s heartbeat and Kara would notice it immediately.

You’re quiet as you slowly calm down. You let yourself go numb, and when Kara felt you sigh against her, she stood back to look at you. She didn’t say anything and you were grateful for it. What was there to be said? There was nothing that you haven’t heard before. There was no new rhetoric. There was only one option: to clean yourself up and pretend it didn’t happen.

You nodded your head to Kara, who left and closed the door behind her. You took the time to splash cold water on your face and rest a cool piece of damp paper towel on top of your red eyes. You could do this. You had to. You didn’t want to be another one of those people with unrequited love, so you’ll bury it down, and never speak of it again.

When you leave the bathroom to join the game again, everyone greeted you with smiles and laughter. Lena almost did the same but she faltered, noticing the small traces of pink still ringed around your eyes. You pushed past it, giving her a smile that even you knew was fake.

It was a couple more hours before everyone started to file out and go home for the night. Alex stood up and looked at you.

“Alright Y/n. You better not be driving. I have a room prepped and ready for you.”

From the corner of your eye, you watched Lena stretch and sigh.

“Yeah I might have to crash here too.”

Alex only had one bed. If Lena wanted to stay, then you would have to share it, and the single thought of that made you want to run for the hills. Kara must of heard your heart because she immediately stepped in.

“I can fly her home,” she offered but you shook your head. You were going to handle this like an adult, which meant almost little to no crying.

“No I’ll crash here.”

Kara nodded and left with the rest of the gang. You and Lena helped Alex clean up some more before you wordlessly head into the bedroom. You only took of your shoes before you got in the bed and buried yourself under a mound of blankets. It was only a few short moments later before Lena came into the room, got herself comfortable, and laid beside you. You were as still as possible, trying to feign sleep, but even you couldn’t fool Lena.

“You were crying.”

It wasn’t a question, just a simple statement. You clenched your teeth as you lie there. You didn’t want to do this. Not right now. Lena, on the other hand, didn’t feel the same sentiment.

“Why?”

“No reason,” you answered immediately, almost too fast. You feel Lena shift behind you, no doubt lying on her side to face you.

“Why, Y/n?” she asked again.

You curled in tighter into yourself as you wrapped the blankets tighter around your body. You really didn’t want to do this. This time Lena sat up, and using her CEO voice, which she knew that you hated when she used her CEO voice on you, asked you the question again.

“Why?”

You sat up so fast, that it startled Lena for a second. You turned the lamp on and looked at her. You hadn’t realized that you were about to cry again until you saw her swimming in your vision. You’re shaking your head as you tried to think this all through.

“I’m an idiot, that’s why!” you whispered harshly to her. “I should have known better and it’s nobody’s fault but mine.”

Lena didn’t say anything, instead, she wiped your tears away with her thumbs.

“Is this about my dare?” she asked, and when you didn’t say anything, she had her answer.

“I know you weren’t lying. Kara told me so, okay? Now that you know, let’s just forget about it.”

You buried you face back into the pillow, hating yourself and hating the fact that you liked the way Lena comforted you.

“I wasn’t lying,” Lena said and you steadied yourself for the final blow. You felt her hand rest on top of your shoulder, and the thought of her about to cut you down had your eyes welling with fresh tears.

“Y/n, I’m in love with you.”

That made you bolt upright and you stared at her incredulously.

“What?!”

Lena giggled and finished wiping away your tears.

“You heard me. I don’t have a crush, I’m in love with you. And I have been for quite some time.”

You’re not sure what to say so you sit there and let Lena clean you up. Suddenly, everything that you’ve felt for the past couple of hours felt silly. Lena was quiet as she let you digest everything that she said.

“You love me?” you squeaked, and Lena nodded. She caressed your cheeks, and before you had a chance to prepare yourself, she kissed you sweetly on the lips. You gasped, your heart stopping dead in your chest, and your fingers tracing your lips in shock.

“And I’m hoping you love me back,” she whispered, suddenly sounding very vulnerable.

Both your heart and your brain kickstarted into gear and before you could think better of it, you pull Lena on top of you and kiss her deeply. It’s crazy that she would even think that you wouldn’t.

[moonlights-inkwell]

And Me Wearing Your Clothes

  Jaskier x Reader  

Word Count: 5,992  

Summary: A creature in the woods is killing village girls in the woods, but to keep you safe Jaskier volunteers himself, and one of your dresses as bait instead.  

A/N: This one probably needs some level of explanation. So, Joey wears a dress on the cover of The Horror and The Wild, and it has lived rent free in my mind since I first saw it so I had to get around to writing Jaskier in a dress eventually. Also, I know I’ve used Little Miss as a pet name for the reader in fics before, but don’t know if I’ve mentioned that it’s because of the song Little Miss Why So, which the title is also taken from- Just in case anyone was wondering where the fuck I pulled that from.  

There’s some mild smutty elements in this too. No explicit smut in this chapter, but this is gonna wind up being a two-parter anyway, so you’ll get the explicit stuff later. It’s worth noting that this is chronologically the first part of my whole series with Jaskier, at least so far- so sorry for any confusion.  

When Geralt had informed you that there was a job in a village not far from where you had set up camp, you had been more grateful of it than you would admit out loud. Villages mean inns, taverns and a chance to sleep on something that isn’t dirt, but the way the white-haired man looks at you lets you know this won’t be as easy a job as you could hope for. 

“Small village, no inns or taverns, less than a hundred and fifty or so people- less by the day.” He sighs and heaves himself off of Roach to sit on a felled tree by the fire.  

“Less by the day?” You raise an eyebrow. Little places such as these tend to have smaller problems, thieving little creatures, the occasional Doppler; but Geralt’s words make it all too obvious to you that the diminishing population isn’t just because people are leaving for somewhere that actually has a place to drink.  

“They say there's something in the woods.” He says, as if that’s all the explanation that you require. It takes a second of looking at him pointedly for him to realise you need more information than just that. “Sounded like an Aswang from what they said. Been snatching up local girls, sucking them dry and leaving the bodies to be found come morning.”  

Talking to The White Wolf is a Sisyphean struggle; so often it's like drawing blood from a stone, but on the days he decides to speak you can barely understand what he's saying. Not for the first time, you consider simply pretending to know what he means, to act sage and wise, but think better of it all too quickly.  

“The bloody hell is an Aswang?” A fair question in your eyes, but the man sighs. You think, on occasion, Geralt forgets that just a few years ago you were just a barmaid with a love of brawling, not some monster hunter with dreams of Glory. Not that there’s much glory in your hunts, just bruises and wounds, limps that last too long and perpetually sore back, even if the occasional song comes from it.  

“A type of vampire.” He clarifies. “Dangerous. Normally have a taste for pregnant women and baby blood, seems this one has a taste for any woman it can get its hands on.” That makes your blood run cold. Travelling with the Witcher and his Bard has been the first time in your life where you’ve been free from the limitations of your sex, but the way those amber eyes are watching you now has you suddenly all too aware of yourself.  

“A taste for women? Why, Geralt, that’s a very tasteful way of describing yourself in a brothel.” A voice pipes up from behind you, causing you to jump. Jaskier. You thought him still asleep, he'd slept poorly the night before, but if the tiredness lacing his voice is any indication, he's only recently been roused.  

“Not now, Bard.” Geralt growls out, but the bard just chuckles and gets to his feet, leaves crunching underfoot as he walks up behind you and settles at your side, a hand pressed to your lower back. Warm, especially through the thin material of your blouse.  

“Oh, Geralt, a smile won’t kill you.” He trills and in spite of how serious you know the situation to be, your lips turn up in a far too easy smile. It does just as quickly though, when you realise that Geralt is still looking at you.  

“...You want me as bait.” It comes out less as a question and more as a statement as your own eyes meet amber. Geralt doesn’t say a word and you look down. It’s not meant as an insult, and you know that, but it stings none the less; hurts to be asked to be less useful on account of having a cunt. He's asking you to make yourself weak, it’s a request that should be seen as an honour, a few minutes of acting like something you aren't to spare the lives of those girls in the village, but instead it leaves a sour taste in your mouth- like talking a gulp of milk only to discover it's curdled on your tongue.  

The hand at the base of your spine rises quickly and rests on the curve of your back as Jaskier seems to realise what you just said.  

“Bait?” He sounds as incredulous as you feel. “For what?”  

“Vampire.” Geralt says crudely, “It's it targeting women.”  

“And you want to send Little Miss in there as bait?” Jaskier snaps back at him, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if you'll be plucked away without a second’s notice. This, this concern is all too welcome, and you glance at Jaskier from the corner of your eye. His clothes are still crumpled from sleep, but he's pushing himself up to his full height as if he expects that to intimidate a Witcher. It’s a foolish endeavour, but gods how you appreciate it.  

“She can handle it,” is all the response that is given, which only sends the man beside you into further ramblings.  

“She can handle it? She could fucking die, Geralt!” His voice raises, and you're quite sure he’s forcibly making his voice lower to try and sound less emotional about this. “You want to send her in, I’m betting almost completely unharmed, to act as a lure for a blood sucking creature of the night!”  

You should feel insulted, to be talked about as if you aren’t there, but now you’re far too focused on the hand resting on you to focus on much else. Early spring's chill is still in the air, making the bard seem warmer than be likely is; and which is the cause of the goosepimpling of your skin is a mystery. Since the bard and yourself started your... entanglement, even the lightest most mundane touch has seemed like lightning crackling through your body. Entanglement is one way of describing it. Really, all that has happened has been kissing- the sort that start as barely more than a brush of lips and don't stop until it turns to heavy breathing and you removing yourself from the situation before you can do something you may regret.  

He's always been a mother hen, flapping about to stitch whatever wounds he can and forcing you to seek out healers when he feels it more extreme than a simple slice, but you've no doubt that this concern is coming from a more selfish place than simply wanting you safe. The grip of your shirt is all the confirmation you need.  

“It only attacks women, Jaskier.” Geralt growls out slowly, as if teaching an especially slow child. “And unless you’ve a secret to share, Little Miss is the only woman we have.” The pet name comes out in a patronisingly saccharine tone that makes you turn your eyes to the ground.  

“I would sooner go out there in a dress myself than let you put her in harm's way for no good reason!” Jaskier shouts back at him, sending your eyes up to meet the Witcher's, when you catch sight of something rare. A smile.  

This is a bad idea.  

Awful idea. Terrible. Quite possibly the worst idea that the three of you could have come up with, and the fact that Geralt is allowing it to go forward is a mystery.  

Well. Not a mystery. Geralt, for all his attempts at stoicism and claims of emotionlessness, has a sick sense of humour: and a chance to humiliate the Bard who interrupts his silence with every passing second must have been more tempting to him than you ever could have anticipated. You, on the other hand, were less keen. Especially when informed by Geralt that Jaskier would need to borrow your only dress for this humiliation tactic. It had taken an hour and a half for it to be taken from you, and it was only really able to be taken because Jaskier had pulled you into a kiss unexpectedly, causing you to drop the dress to wind your arms about his neck. A genius manipulation, really. Should have seen it coming.  

It'll never succeed though  

Jaskier is perhaps more attuned to his feminine side than many men; His love of scented bathing oils and ointments for his hands, fine clothes and penchant for the dramatics spring to mind, but there's no way that he could be mistaken for a woman unless this Aswang has incredibly poor eyesight. Sweet smells and minor theatrics do not a woman make, even in a borrowed dress. You sit by the fire pit, poking, poking, poking at the burning logs with a long enough stick that you don’t risk your hands with each jab.  

Geralt won’t even let you help him set up the trap, and all at once you’re reminded of your girlhood; how the boys in your little home town had allowed you to play knights and dragons with them, only to have you act as Princess. You had always hated it, sat stock still and aloft chairs stacked like a tower for hours while the boys would tumble around fighting each other, roaring and crawling, stabbing and calling in their presence until it was finally time to rescue you- always long after you had grown resentful of your place waiting. You wanted to nothing more than to pick up one of those wooden swords and take part properly, but every time you had asked you had been told that there are no female knights, only princesses. You would always run home to your mother to complain only to be tapped lightly on the nose and told what an honour it is to be picked as a Princess, and given a bowl of peas to de-shell for supper. It didn’t feel like an honour then to sit around feeling useless, and it doesn’t feel any better now. The only respite that comes is from the jabbing and stabbing of the logs.  

“I think they’re dead, Little Miss.” Jaskier speaks in your ear, sending you to the ground in shock. The self-pitying had ensured that you hadn’t heard him coming, and he laughs. Chuckles that drip honey have you look up at the bard, ready to curse him for frightening you, but the words wither away on your tongue. Your lip trembles and you drink him in.  

With you on the ground, he looks so much bigger than he already is but that isn’t what has you tongue tied, no, not at all; it’s the dress. It’s white, and you always thought it made you look sickly, but on him it’s almost otherworldly, like something you might see on a god, flowing in a wind you hadn't felt before he reappeared. It’s beautiful. He's beautiful. The fabric clings to his pectorals and tapers in at his waist and you realise something that has never struck you before: Jaskier is muscular. Not to the extent of Geralt, but muscular none the less, the muscles of his arms thickening as he crosses his arms across his chest, which only accentuated the sculpture of his pectorals and the dark thatch of hair visible from the plunging neckline of the gown. Tanned skin all but glows in the light of the flames, given richer colour by the stark and almost holy white gown, giving him the illusion of something more than just your bard; some manifestation of Apollo, youthful and beautiful, still grinning that boyish grin, looking for all the world both like he has spent his whole life lounging about and spent it in fields to develop those muscles. Logically, you know he must be muscular, spends his days walking across the continent, carrying bags and bedrolls and whatever can’t, or won’t, be carried by Roach but it catches you off guard. You've always considered him a dainty flower of a man, always singing, always strumming, but now you're confronted with the reality of the situation, Jaskier is all sinewy muscle and dark hair and truly, you’ve no idea how patterned doublets and a lute have kept this reality a mystery to you. He’s beautiful, always beautiful, but this is something else entirely. Beauty implies something entirely understandable. This is otherworldly, incomprehensible in how it makes both so much and so little sense all at once. Your throat is dry and you take a deep gulp of air and struggle to find the words to say and settle on a soft little,  

“Oh.”  

“Oh?” He smirks, eyebrow raising as he offers out a hand to you. “Does it not look nice? Do I not look like a delicate lady in need of protection?” He teases, skin around his eyes crinkling with his grin.  

“You look better in it than I do.” Your voice comes out weak, and he smiles and tugs you to your feet once you take his hand. “Though you are perhaps the hairiest delicate maiden around here.”  

“Don’t do yourself a disservice, Dear Heart.” He says tenderly and cups your cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He calls that space Your Kiss, as if a kiss is a part of your body rather than something people give each other. “You look beautiful in everything and anything- and nothing.” You raise an eyebrow at that, smirking slightly at the comment. “Not that I know what you look like naked! Not that I haven’t thought about you like that, unless that makes you uncomfortable-" He rambles, cheeks flushed a pretty sort of pink, so you lean in and peck his lips.  

“It looks much better on you, Dandelion.” You say decidedly, settling on the balls of your feet. “Though I rather think it isn’t complete.”  

“Is that so?” Jaskier asks and watches you as you scramble through your bag and pull free two small pencils before settling yourself on the ground and tapping on the log. It takes a second, but he does sit, eyeing the pencils like they might be weapons. “Are you going to stab those into my feet, so I walk in a womanlier way?”  

“...Is womanlier even a word, Bard?” You tease, trying desperately to avoid the hand attempting to swat at your head for questioning his obviously superior understanding of language. “And no. Not at all, they’re cosmetics.”  

“Cosmetics?” He repeats and watches you as you grab one of the pencils and a dagger, carving at the wood until it is sharp enough for you.  

“You do understand women put products on their faces to look prettier, don’t you?”

“You don’t,” He snaps back at you, indignant that you would even question his understanding of the fairer sex. “You’re all bare and natural, and look all the prettier for it, like a rose.” A hand moves forward and cups your cheek, you can feel every callous and scar that riddles his skin. He’s trying to avoid you putting the makeup on him, but just for now, you allow yourself the indulgence. It’s only dusk. Geralt said that the plan won’t need to be enacted until close to midnight and he has yet to even return from his setting of the trap; a little time to take pleasure from something as simple as the man who kisses you having a hand on your cheek. “Beautiful, fresh like a daisy and lovelier than the month of May...” He continues, hand shifting a little forward so that his fingers bury themselves in your hair, causing you to lean towards him, head shifting into the touch- reminding you all too much of the little cat who used to come begging for scraps when your mother and you would eat outside in the warmer months. It’s a strange thing to catch your attention so, but now that the thought has entered your mind, you cannot help but wonder if your mother has been feeding the tiny little beast in your absence-  

“Little One?” Jaskier says gently, snapping you free of your thoughts, you’ve no idea how long you’ve been thinking, but it was clearly long enough that the man before you has noticed it.  

“...Yes?”  

“I asked if I could kiss you.” Can I kiss you? Although you’ve never been someone with much interest in the romantics, you’ve never so much as kissed a man before you met Jaskier, you’re quite sure that men don’t normally ask if they can kiss you. Most that you’ve seen interacting with women simply crash their mouths on their partner’s, breeching their mouths with their tongues like they’re stabbing a creature that means them harm. But Jaskier asks. He means to ensure that you are always completely comfortable with his touching you, to make sure you know that if you have no interest in this contact that it will stop. He won’t push. It’s enough to make your lips turn up in a tiny little smile and you nod, leaning towards him and resting hands on his knees, lips puckered tight and eyes falling shut, and he chuckles. “Melitele, Dear Heart, relax your lips, you aren’t trying to pierce my lips with yours.” He lets his thumb glide across your lower lip, causing you, quite instinctively to relax your lips. “There we are.” A rush of pleasure overtakes you, making you shiver and heading straight to your core. Simple praise is all it takes from him to make you unsure of yourself, and want to do anything to please him, so when he pulls you up gently and settles you on his knees, you do so without complaint, and as if as a means of rewarding you, kisses you softly.  

In the months since the two of you have begun this not-quite courtship you’ve grown more accustomed to kissing him than you ever would have anticipated. It happens so often that it’s almost strange to you. He kisses you as a means of waking you, kisses the back of your hand to reassure you, kisses the back of your neck when he passes you, hell; you’re more than a little sure he kisses you sometimes just to annoy Geralt. It feels so natural to you now, to have his mouth on yours, moving languidly like the rest of the world does not exist. He kisses like he’s afraid he might hurt you, all gentle touches and reassuring rubs of thumb against flesh. He knows that you’ve never so much as kissed a man before him and seems to take some pleasure in that- not in the kind of way that the boys at home seemed to when talking about deflowering some virginal girl, but in a way that he seems to enjoy teaching you something about intimacy, or at least this version of it. He acts for all the world like some sort of teacher, gently reassuring you when you go wrong and guiding you back on track, and you preen under the attention. He never pushes, never asks you to do anything you don’t want to do, and it’s far more appreciated than you will ever say, even if in the last few weeks you have found yourself wanting... more.  

His lips are wind-chapped but somehow soft, and press into yours so softly, hand curved around your cheek and guiding you to tilt your head slightly, so you follow his lead, reciprocating the kiss as sweetly as you can, winding fingers around his wrist to hold it in place. The kiss is chaste, with no sign of moving beyond just the plush push of lips on lips but still, this position makes it feel more intimate than it has any right to; sat on his legs, your own parted and on either side, and the dress makes it more intimate still. In his doublet and trousers, the only warmth you feel from him while kissing comes from his hands and face, but now with so much skin exposed it’s seemingly coming from all around you, seeping through the fabric beneath you, from the arms extended in front of you, from a heart beating so close but so out of reach. The fire roaring just behind you is hardly helping the situation. Jaskier hums softly against your lips, little more than a vibration, but it makes you smile. Even when kissing he makes noise; he cannot bare to be silent, relish in the sounds of nature, no, he simply must make noise. It’s lovely really, such consistency is hard to find, especially on the road, but Jaskier is consistent. It takes a little more bravery than it should to swipe the tip of your tongue across the seam of his lips and the movement seems to shock the bard, who ceases his kissing for just a second before opening his mouth slightly and dragging his tongue across your own. Normally you would wait for him to deepen a kiss but with him looking the way he does, and the overwhelming need developing between your legs, you cannot continue this lazy sort of kiss as you normally might. No. Now, you need something more than this innocence. So, you shuffle closer to him, legs tightening around his and both hands moving to wind around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your own bravery seems to have inspired some in Jaskier too, so he wraps his arms about your waist and pulls you even closer still, tongue lathering over your own before his teeth drag across it and then bites gently. It makes you shiver, letting out a quiet moan which brings a moan out of him too. Not too long after that he pulls back and heaves a deep breath while you pant, head tilting back.  

“That was new.” He laughs, fingers tracing circles into your back.  

“What can I say? That dress really does look good on you.” You respond with a chuckle before leaning forward again, this time to mouth at his throat. You feel Jaskier gasp before you hear it, the skin of his neck going taut beneath your lips.  

“Dear Heart,” He starts, and the pet name does nothing but make your heart race, “If you don’t stop soon, we’re going to have a... well, an issue.” He stammers out, and you pull back immediately, eyes wide with worry. Had you been too intense in taking your own pleasure from this situation that you had missed some clear hint of his that he was uninterested in going further? He goes to such painstaking lengths to ensure your comfort and you feel like you’ve encroached on his.  

“An issue?” The words come out shaky, and you try to shift yourself back from him, but he holds you still. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to upset you-”  

“You haven’t. Gods, Dear Heart, I think you could stab me, and I would still thank you.” He says, still rubbing those reassuring circles into your back. “You’re just. You’re...” Jaskier stops and seems to deliberate his next few words, “You’re exciting me, that’s all.” That makes you blink. He doesn’t look all that excited to you, if anything he just seems to be riding the same high he always is after kissing turns a little more passionate, pupils blown wide and lips pink and plush from kissing, but he doesn’t look excited. Your confusion must be visible because Jaskier sighs, muttering something under his breath before his hand creeps higher toward your shoulder blades. “You’re making me hard.” He says, the words said carefully as if afraid he might upset you.  

“Har- Oh. Oh!” Realisation hits you all at once and your eyes dart down to his lap, suddenly seeing the tent in the dress that certainly hadn’t been there when you first settled on him. It was mere centimetres away from your core when you were kissing him, and you hadn’t even noticed. It’s the first time you think you’ve ever seen someone be hard, even if it is completely covered up, and the knowledge that it was you who has done this to him fills you with pride. You’ve never really considered yourself the kind of person to have that kind of power over a person, you only ever really feel powerful in a fight, but the feeling overtaking you now feels like power. With nothing more than a mouth and tongue, you’ve affected him in this way.  "I wouldn’t call that an issue.”  

He blinks at you, lips slightly parted and he looks you up and down. For the first time, you wonder if he’s thinking of other trysts, where it was him in shirt and trousers on top of some woman in a dress who is falling apart at next to nothing. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth, but the feeling of power is more overwhelming than any insecurity.  

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Little Miss.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”  

“You’ve never seemed interested in... progressing.” He’s being careful not to say anything he thinks might offend you. Jaskier is never one to mince words, but your virginity seems to have him somewhat uncomfortable when it comes to what language to approach sex with. You aren’t a child, and used to work in a tavern, you’ve heard all too many terms for sex; shagging, fucking, making the beast with two backs, a labour for Venus, but Jaskier calls it Progressing. Like it’s travelling, moving from one destination to another, from kissing to something else entirely. It’s quaint coming from a man who you’ve heard sing songs about receiving hand-jobs. “I don’t want to push you into anything you might not be comfortable doing, Little Miss, I don’t want you to feel pressured by me or this or anything-”

“I’m interested in progressing.” You cut him off, a little too eagerly. “Truly, I am. I just. Haven’t done anything like this before. So, I wasn’t sure how to go about it, you know. I couldn’t just... I don’t know. Ask you to take my virginity.” Jaskier chokes a little at the words.

“I wouldn’t be taking anything.”  

“But I do want you to.”  

“I don’t mean in terms of... not wanting to. I do. Melitele’s tits, I’d crawl over shards of glass just to put my mouth on you, Darling. I just mean, I wouldn’t be taking anything from you. There’s nothing to take. You would just be someone who has been intimate instead of someone who hasn’t. You don’t lose anything.”  

Your heart, something in the back of your mind says coyly, you’ll lose your heart to him if you allow yourself to be breeched by him, he’ll take it unknowingly and not be able to give it back to you. Each step, each breath, each blink and each song, he will have your heart entirely and there will be nothing you can do to have it returned. He’s had so many lovers before, it’s unlikely he’ll give his heart to you in return for you giving him your own- and it won’t be because he’s cruel or unfeeling, it will be because Bards give their heart to anyone who hears their song, and there isn’t enough of it left for you. He’s entirely enough for you, but you will never be entirely enough for him.  

“If I lose nothing by it then why are we discussing it instead of... progressing?” You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from saying shagging. Fucking. Anything but this dance around what it is that the two of you clearly want.  

“Because I want you to understand.” He says, and it sounds like a plea. “I want you to know that you don’t lose a thing, and I want you to be doing this because you want to do it, not because you feel like you ought because I’m hard or because you feel you owe it to me. I want you to do this because you want this, and because you want me.”  

Because you want me. It makes you falter for a second. Of course, you want him, you wouldn’t kiss him if you didn’t. Your heart aches at the thought of someone kissing or sleeping with him and not wanting him, using him and discarding him afterwards.  

“Of course, I want you, Jask.” Your voice is little more than a whisper.  

“I mean it, Little Miss. If I do this, I won’t want for another person in my life, I won’t be able to not think of you, and if you’re doing this out of obligation and not because you want me, it will kill me.” He continues, the hand on your back moving up still until it’s buried entirely in your hair, twisting and feeling about your scalp like the answer to every question he will ever ask is written in your hair. “If this is only for once, I cannot do it. It would kill me to know how it feels to be inside you, to feel at one with you, and know you don’t ever intend to do it again. I care far too much for you to do a thing like that.”  

“Jaskier...”

“I admit, I have a... reputation for leaving a string of not-quite-crying lovers behind me, but I cannot add you to that list. I won’t. And I refuse to spend the rest of our days together writing melancholic songs about how I want you, desire you, crave you, only to know you only have eyes for others, I would sooner-”  

You can see by the impassioned look in his eyes that he has so much more to say, but can’t bear to hear anymore, for fear of fooling yourself that the beautiful man in front of you loves you. So instead, you reach down and wind your fingers around his member and relish in how his words choke to a halt and he lets out a sweet sigh.

“I don’t want to sleep with you once either, and your former lovers and I have nothing in common. For one, I’m not married, and two, I want you Jaskier. Not reprieve from some small pricked husband. I want to have sex with you because I want you, I care about you.” I love you; your mind screams the words you don’t dare say. It’s enough though. Enough for Jaskier to smile and move both hands around your waist once more and gently lay you on the floor beside the fire, hair fanning out like a halo among leaves and grass.  

“I. I had intended this to have a more romantic location.” He admits to you as he parts your legs and settles on his knees in the space he has made. “Some inn, where I could strew some petals about, draw you a bath, sing a song.”  

“I don’t need petals or poetry or baths.” You smile at him, but he shakes his head with an affectionate smile,  

“It’s not about need, Darling, it’s about what you deserve. And you deserve to be treated like a princess.”  

“In that dress I rather think you’re more the princess out of the two of us.” Out of the dress too. You’re rougher than any woman should be, and if your mother could see you now, you’d be pulled by your ear off to be told how good and proper ladies dress and behave- you find yourself covered in monster gore more often than you would like to, and have taken to wearing darker colours so that the dirt on them doesn’t show quite as much, but Jaskier with his sweet voice and fineries? He’s a crown away from being a prince, the sort who appear in every story you were told as a child who could fix any maiden’s problems with a kiss that would end in happily ever after.  

A cough draws the both of you from each other and you turn your head to see Geralt and realise the light purple sky of dusk has been replaced with the near pitch of somewhere closer to when your plan needs to take place. He looks as uncomfortable at finding you as you feel at being caught. You feel like a child whose mother has caught you doing something they expressly told you not to do, and the fear of whatever comment he shall make keeps you from laughing at the mental image of Geralt dressed as some mother, in a drab old dress and dirtied up apron, flour dusted about his face, still world weary and with his swords strapped to his back.  

“...Aswang will be here soon.” The Witcher says, and you’re grateful he’s decided not to address what he had walked in on. “We need our... beautiful woman to be wandering in the woods.” He gestures with a movement of his head to Jaskier to come towards you, and the bard does, albeit slowly, remove himself from the spot between your thighs. Geralt’s stoic face might be enough to fool most people who don’t know him, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. He’s glad he called Jaskier’s bluff on the dress, this story will never make its way into a song for the sake of Jaskier’s ego but will be brought out by Geralt at any and every ball that he is dragged to from now on. His fictional tale of the Bard being castrated by an unfortunate kick to the bollocks by an Ox as a child will now be replaced with an honest account of the esteemed bard Jaskier having volunteered himself- seemingly at random- to serve as bait in a dress for a very dangerous beast. You think he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the dress, but Geralt very clearly sees it as funny. Men are strange. It’s just a dress, and a dress that makes him look far more attractive than any fine suit or set of armour ever could, so what is so funny about it. The Witcher says your name and you look up at him and nod. “Stay here.”  

“But-”

“Hopefully the ‘fair maiden’ is enough to get the Aswang. If it sees an actual woman, it’ll attack it and not try to attack him. I’d prefer not to have to carry your corpse back to your village. It would be a long journey.” He’s being facetious, at least you hope, but you nod anyway. “We shouldn’t be too long.”  

“Stay here, it’ll all be over soon.” Jaskier tells you, smiling that disarming smile he uses to try and charm more coin from locals.  

“But the memory of you in a dress will live on.” Geralt says, unable to keep the smirk from his face, which makes Jaskier’s face morph between anger and confusion quickly before settling on incredulousness.  

“No one is to hear of this Geralt. Geralt! Do you hear me? No. One. Geralt!” His protests increase as the White Wolf begins to trek back into the thicket of trees, Jaskier following behind him and shouting all the while.  

“Jaskier!” You call to him, and the complaints die as he turns to face you. “Please, please be careful.”  

“I promise, Dear Heart. I will be fine.”  

Somehow, you don’t quite believe him as he disappears into the trees to join Geralt at his trap, leaving you alone with only the fire and the moon for company. Eyes turn up towards the full, round beacon of light, the only break in the darkness overhead with no stars to join her. You aren’t religious, and don’t believe in worship or prayer but now, tonight, you close your eyes and breathe deeply. You trust in the moon more than you trust Geralt and Jaskier not to take any unnecessary risks,            

“Please keep him safe for me. Please.”  

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Peter and MJ, coworkers who barely know each other's names, but could draw each other's faces from memory, get stuck in the elevator together at the end of a work day

Thanks for the prompt, Anon! I started writing the fic for this so fast haha

Overheard at the Bugle

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: M Word count: 5394

Summary:

Peter's having a late night at the office and finds out he's not the only one working overtime right before he and the new reporter, Michelle Jones, get trapped in the Bugle's unreliable elevator. He just needs to handle this situation calmly and not do anything to give away his secret identity. It'd be easier to focus on the task at hand if his enhanced hearing wasn't picking up something very unusual coming from the voice recorder in Michelle's bag.

Peter tries to keep a low profile at the Bugle―he doesn’t need anyone giving a second thought to the guy who turns in crisp closeups of Spider-Man week after week―but he didn’t realize he’s invisible. He’s gotta be for the custodial staff to start shutting the lights off on his floor as he’s still sifting blearily through the emails that arrive every five minutes; they’re all stamped with Sent from J. Jonah Jameson’s iPhone. Almost in the dark, Peter snaps his laptop shut, shoves it into his messenger bag, and sprints for the elevators. He’s not scared of the dark (what kinda hero would that make him?), but after lights-out comes locking the doors and he’s not keen on spending the night here. Though his apartment might not be much, it’s his escape from work.

He skids around the corner to find the glow of an elevator that’s just closing.

“Hold it!” Peter shouts, shooting his hand out to part the doors as a frantic tapping comes from inside.

“I was pushing the button…” a woman explains as he steps in.

She turns her head and a spill of wavy brown hair is pushed aside to reveal the face of Michelle Jones. Peter swallows. His gaze goes from her startled brown eyes to her finger, now slipping off the Doors Open button.

“Yeah,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, “this thing can be temperamental sometimes.”

“Right. Ground floor, I assume?”

“Yep.”

He moves off to a respectful distance as she presses the button to take them down and the doors close. His heart’s hammering. Though he’s heard the confident tone of her voice plenty, she’s never specifically spoken to him. Nor he to her. Luckily, the walls of the elevator have an intentional burnish with the scuff of wear on top, so there’s no chance of her catching sight of his stare in their reflections. Peter doesn’t mean to, it’s just that she took her hair down. She mostly wears it twisted and pinned at the nape of her neck and probably just shook it out when she got into the elevator, heading home. He gets it. He has his tie jammed into his bag, collar unbuttoned, and sleeves cuffed up to his elbows. Nobody gives a shit about dress code after the boss is gone, especially if they’re working late with no guarantee of overtime pay. Quit looking at her, he thinks, and snaps his gaze down to the floor. He can still smell her shampoo, courtesy of the enhanced senses.

“Sorry about the lights,” Michelle offers, turning her head enough to address him, but not enough to meet his eye because he’s standing beside and slightly behind her. “I let one of the custodians know I was on my way out a few minutes ago. Thought I was the last one left.”

Peter frowns. That’s weird. Not what she says, but that, when she speaks, he thinks he hears an echo. My one-on-one exclusive with Spider-Man, it says, in the voice of the reporter currently sharing the elevator with him. He opens his mouth to ask Michelle if she hears it too and catches himself. That’s a habit he broke years ago, when he realized there are way more things other people can’t hear and it only risks freaking them out and exposing himself to reveal that his senses are more animal than human.

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds distractedly.

The first thing to know about Spider-Man is that he’s not a nine-to-five kinda guy. Without regular business hours, he joins me for this interview in my Brooklyn apartment on a Friday evening. The red suit is predictable; the rap he gives my living room window to announce his arrival smacks more of cheeky showmanship. This reporter has to wonder whether, for him, finally submitting to such an in-depth, sit-down conversation is a type of performance. Surely the man behind the mask knows his audience is rapt for any details on the life of a figure who, despite his status as a trusted friend to all, is so much a mystery to this city’s inhabitants.

Ok, what? Peter’s brain is spinning like a frisbee. He’s never given the kind of interview Michelle’s disembodied voice is describing, and definitely never given it to her. He’s never been to her apartment, doesn’t even know where she lives, and certainly isn’t eager to invite questions in some sort of exposé. Maybe what he’s hearing are just the notes she’s preparing for a future interview. Did Jameson assign this? He’s certainly nosy about Peter’s alter ego, but the tone of the piece is more curious than their boss’s usual style―scathing, obstinate, malicious. She sounds intrigued by Spider-Man, not like she’s luring him into a trap.

The elevator jolts. It grinds. It halts. Michelle makes a sound of distress and taps Doors Open. She looks at him over her shoulder, face worried but also… flushed? Maybe she gets anxiety attacks.

“It’s alright,” Peter tells her, one foot in Spider-Man’s De-escalation Mode. He raises his hands in hopefully a calming gesture and her eyes dart to them, gliding over his bare forearms. Crap, does he seem threatening? He lowers his hands.

“I know it’s alright,” she assures him. “I just… who wants to be stuck at work?”

Michelle gives him a slight smile to accompany her joke and he returns it.

“Got a story to work on?” Peter asks.

His motive is partly to understand the narration he heard (which is still going on, a murmur beneath their much louder voices), but also to focus her on something besides the fact that the elevator is not moving.

“Just filed one actually, so, you know, theoretically free for the weekend.” She makes a phonily excited face that emphasizes how very not-free they are.

The continued jokes are a good sign that she isn’t overly alarmed. He’s still stumped about the story though. As she pulls her cell phone from the large leather bag over her arm, Peter tunes into the background noise. With the elevator silent, that’s just the recording of Michelle’s voice.

‘…later than I thought you would be,’ I inform him. He makes his excuses and where I would normally be annoyed by a failure to be punctual, I find myself charmed by New York’s man in red. I wonder where his adventures have taken him tonight, if his actions have prevented violence, saved lives. If his mere presence has inspired onlookers and comforted those who have lost faith in our traditional systems of stagnant courts and killer cops…

There’s no way Jameson can be aware of the spin she’s putting on this. Spider-Man’s no hero in the eyes of the editor-in-chief, just a menace, a pest, a cockroach climbing up the pantleg of the people who are supposed to enforce justice. That’s not the only thing that’s confusing. Peter’s fairly hung up on the fact that she’s conducting this interview like he’s there. Could just be her process. Playing the whole thing out to get a feel for however long it might be, where small talk might hypothetically cut into her list of prepared questions.

“No service,” Michelle huffs, tucking her phone away again. “You?”

Peter, startled, gets his phone out to check, though he already knows this elevator is a dead zone. He shakes his head. Frustrated, she moves her hand to jab the Help button. The one meant to connect the rider with 911.

“Don’t bother,” he coaches when she pushes it a second time after nothing happens. “I think that thing’s just for show.”

“Oh yeah?”

She’s arch, irritated. Peter stays calm, knowing it’s not really meant for him. People can get testy in stressful situations. Being trapped in an elevator is one of those. Not for him. For him, a stressful situation is a bullet graze or leaping from one office tower to the next and realizing in midair that he’s out of webs. Trapped in an elevator is a relaxing start to his weekend in comparison.

“Jameson never lets anybody inspect it. He’s a control freak, scared of spies. He thinks somebody’s gonna bug the elevator,” he clarifies to Michelle’s raised eyebrows.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, have you met him?”

She exhales a laugh at that.

…invite him to get comfortable, I’m surprised at him choosing a seat at the opposite end of the couch I’ve just sat down on. I’d intended the chair across from me and think that should be obvious to him. Perhaps it is. The mask doesn’t make him the easiest man to read.

“So we’re just fucking stuck because Jameson’s scared of, who? Reporters from other papers? The CIA? Edward Snowden?”

A tingle goes down Peter’s spine when she swears. She’s commanding. Does she know that or is working under Jameson putting her qualities in the shadow of his, wielded for domination and intimidation?

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says.

“This button’s never worked?” Michelle checks, leaning her knuckle into it to keep it depressed. “This is a major safety issue. Imagine there was a fire right now.”

“You should call somebody and report him.”

He can’t help being playfully sarcastic and thinks, for a second, that she’s going to bite his head off for it by the way her eyes flash. Then he thinks he might not mind. Then she laughs and he tries to take a normal breath.

“What do we do?” she wants to know.

What do they do? What do Peter and the woman he’s eyed across the office since she arrived at the Bugle two months ago do? Forced together by unhealthy work hours and a broken elevator? He shifts from one foot to the other.

“Hope the custodian decides to watch for you to leave the building and comes looking when you don’t.”

“I hate that plan,” Michelle informs him.

“Go ahead and come up with another one,” he invites earnestly.

She turns so she’s facing him and lets her back slump against the wall of the elevator. She shrugs to ease her bag off her shoulder. The strap tugs a little at her emerald-green blouse before it slides down her arm. She sets it on the ground by her feet. It looks like she’s doing what he suggested. Now it’s just Peter and her quiet voice, which he can tell is coming from the bag. Michelle must have a recorder in there. Probably thinks she shut it off, but the volume’s just really low.

‘…when you’re out there?’ I have to inquire of him. At his easy laugh, I shelter behind my coffee cup, taking a slow sip. ‘Lonely?’ Spider-Man repeats. ‘In a city this size?’ He’s being coy now. I’m certain he knows what I want and it’s the dare implicit in this exchange that prompts me to press him. ‘Not lonely for just anybody,’ I begin…

Crossing his arms, Peter rests against the back of the elevator, trying to be subtle as he tips his head to the side to hear more. He’s getting into this story now, even if it’s not real. For the first time, he’s starting to see how Spider-Man might be a pretty compelling guy. He likes this person she seems to think he is; he’s more interesting coming from her lips. Of course, not as interesting as she is, with her leading questions and the agenda she’s voicing for her recorder if not for the man she’s interviewing.

“Have you worked at the Bugle long?”

His gaze twitches over to Michelle’s face when she speaks.

“Since right outta college. Why?”

“Just wondered if this had happened to you before,” she explains, waving her hand at the elevator’s useless panel of buttons. “And I knew you were here before me.”

“You did?”

He shouldn’t sound so breathlessly hopeful. Obviously, she knew he was here first. Michelle could’ve noticed him one time in the past two months and seen him do anything to indicate that he’d been here longer―escape Jameson’s office just before he could get roared at, jiggle the plug to make the coffee machine in the breakroom work. But Peter does sound that way because of her tone. She says it like an admission and she breaks eye contact.

‘…you don’t want one?’ He declined my offer of coffee once, but I think he may change his mind now that we’ve warmed up to each other a little. Spider-Man twists and I can feel him regarding me from behind those large white eyes. ‘I’d have to take the mask off to drink it,’ he points out. I promise that I’m not trying to blow his cover, just be hospitable. Besides, I counter, he doesn’t need to expose his whole face. The mouth will do.

“So, has it?” she counters, ignoring his question.

“Has what?”

“Has it happened to you? The elevator shutting down?”

“Oh, uh, once or twice, but it was always in the middle of the day and there were a bunch of other people in the elevator with me, so it didn’t go unnoticed long. Jameson hassled me for missing meetings while I was trapped though.”

“It’s not like you could help it,” Michelle says.

“True, but…” Peter shrugs. “I learned to take the stairs.”

“Bet you’re wishing you took them tonight.”

He laughs.

“Not really. I mean, uhhh…” The sound drags out embarrassingly as he can’t manage to pull his gaze away from her surprised face.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, saving him. “I think you’re keeping me saner than I would be alone.”

Right. That’s all. Which is enough, really. He’s glad to be of service, especially if that service is helping her not totally lose it.

“No problem.”

‘…because I can do more good if I’m an anonymous symbol,’ Spider-Man tells me. His body language has changed, shifting forward with the urgency of his words. ‘But some people must know,’ I say. ‘Your real identity can’t be a secret from everyone.’ ‘No Spider-Man is an island?’ is his clever rejoinder. I agree with absolute sincerity. ‘Even the strongest person needs to let others get close to them,’ I insist. Where he’s tugged his mask up, his mouth shifts from a wry grin to thoughtful softness. I find my gaze lingering there.

“Any ideas?” Peter asks, feeling hot.

The temperature inside the elevator is moderate, but Michelle’s words, as she draws him deeper into her story, are making him surreptitiously flap his collar to encourage air down his shirt. He’s starting to feel like this is something he’s not supposed to hear. Alright, it’s likely that nobody was supposed to hear it if these are just her rough notes before composing an article. Whatever. What Peter’s realizing is that maybe nobody’s supposed to hear this interview ever. The questions are too personal, too human-interest for the kind of paper they work at, and the way she depicts her responses is… intimate. Full of sensory details. It’s as though he’s in this apartment with her, sipping at her coffee, staring at her down the length of the couch. A Friday night, her voice said, and tonight’s one of those. How would Michelle Jones feel if she knew she was spending an evening with Spider-Man right now?

“I think the custodians would’ve made some noise by now if they knew anybody was in here and if they haven’t realized we’re missing, then I’m not sure anyone else will. I don’t know about you, but I live alone. I probably won’t be missed tonight because my friends will just assume I’m working and turned my phone off. I’ve been considering,” she goes on, “that we’ll either have to climb out the top and hope we’re close to the doors aligning with one of the floors or get these doors open. Either way, we need something to open the doors. Personally, I didn’t pack my crowbar.”

Peter stares at her in awe for a minute. She really did come up with a plan. Several plans. He knows he can help―he doesn’t need a crowbar to part the metal doors―but he can’t just wrench the doors open with his bare hands and act like it’s no big deal. He’ll need an explanation, which can’t be the truth. Revealing himself at the Bugle? To a Bugle reporter? Seems like the worst possible scenario. He doesn’t think Michelle is anything like Jameson in her motivations or basic moral compass (fine, he doesn’t know her, but that’s the sense he gets), and yet, she works for him. It’s her job to give him something fresh, something captivating, and he’s just not sure that her fascination with Spider-Man would be enough to make her want to spare Peter Parker the nightmare of his identity being splashed across Monday’s front page.

“Me neither.”

“This isn’t sustainable,” she mutters. He looks at her with concern. Louder, she adds, “If I get restless enough to climb through the ceiling, promise you won’t look up my skirt when I ask you to give me a boost.”

“Promise.”

Michelle assesses his face and he tries to appear his most transparent and trustworthy. Gradually, her eyes move away from his, but he’s still watching her and sees her stare at his throat, then his chest, and down. Whoa, Peter tells himself. Not a good idea. This woman might be a little hung up on Spider-Man, maybe even has a crush, but you and him are two different people.

Meanwhile, on the recording: …switch it off for him, holding the voice recorder up so he can clearly see that I’ve done it. ‘There,’ I say, ‘no one’s listening now. It’s just you and I.’ ‘So I’m supposed to feel closer to you without it?’ Spider-Man asks. ‘Don’t you?’ is what I want to know.

“Screw it,” Michelle decides a minute later, standing up straight. “I’m getting us out of here. Can you pick me up?”

Peter drops his messenger bag in an instant.

“Yep.”

He watches while she kicks off her black patent high heels (maybe picturing her pressing one of those bad boys into his chest), then they both tip their heads back and examine the ceiling panels.

“Front corner, maybe?” she suggests. “Just so I’m as close as possible to where the doors will hopefully be and I don’t have to wobble around up there in the elevator shaft.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees.

They cross to the appropriate corner and he bends his knees, locking his fingers to offer her a step. She grabs his shoulder for balance and lifts her foot, about to place it in his braced hands, then pauses.

“I’m Michelle, by the way.”

“Peter.”

“I know.”

He’s baffled and flushed as they shake hands, but he can’t dwell on it because her fingers are digging into his shoulder right before she presses her foot into his swiftly repositioned hands and hops up. She gives a small shriek as her body wavers before steadying herself with her palms against the ceiling. Peter drops his gaze. He can tell by her knees that she’s crouching slightly and he’s not glancing any higher than that. Her skirt falls to just below her knees and, as they lean into each other to keep her up, he ends up with her thigh pressed against the side of his face, the black fabric of that skirt under his cheek.

“You got me, right?”

“Right,” he says, careful not to ramble and divulge how little effort bearing her weight requires.

“Ok, I’m going to try to get a grip on this panel and slide it open.”

“Sounds good.”

Peter is looking straight across at the wall. He is not looking higher than her knees. He has no thoughts about the scent of her skirt and no theories on whether the lavender comes from her fabric softener or lotion that he’s also not imagining her rubbing into her skin before she got dressed for work this morning. She sways in his grip and he braces his arms more firmly, unable to do anything about her leg against his face. Michelle grunts and her body heaves as he hears her shift the ceiling panel. Her toes curl around his fingers. He exhales in relief; if she can figure this out without him needing to call on his super-strength, awesome. She goes home with a sense of accomplishment and he goes home maintaining his secret identity.

“Ok,” she calls down. “It’s open. Lift me higher.”

“Higher,” Peter mumbles to himself. Then, to her, “Uh, I might have to, um, hold your legs. But I won’t look at anything, I swear.”

“I’ve trusted you this far.”

Her voice is wry and he chuckles.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Michelle says.

With a bounce of his shoulders, he hoists her up. For a minute, he keeps hold of her foot, but then one of his hands clutches the back of her calf while the other cups her heel. Her weight pulls away from him as she hauls herself up through the ceiling.

“Is there a door?” he asks.

“It’s dark… Can you get my phone? It’s right inside my bag.”

“Ok, hang on. Literally,” Peter adds.

“Ha ha,” Michelle responds dryly, but when he gently releases his grip on her, he finds that she’s able to hold herself in place with her elbows. Her legs dangle and he hurries.

Their conversation and the rush of the action they just took concentrated his senses. Unfortunately, he’s now holding her work bag open and the sounds from her voice recorder are pouring out louder than ever. Still too quiet for her though, at this distance.

‘…didn’t think a suit that tight could hide much, but I’m still pleasantly surprised.’ ‘What, this?’ Spider-Man teases. I abandon my coffee cup and push my reading glasses up into my hair as I set my notes aside to lean in. He might as well have a web stuck to my chest. His awareness of his own physicality is evidently as precise afterhours as it is while he’s on duty because he skims a hand down his abdomen, appearing to almost accidentally hook his thumb in the band of his boxers. ‘You want the real scoop?’ he asks me, prying the elastic away from his skin provocatively. The taste of coffee is still thick and rich in my mouth when I encourage him: ‘Go on, Spidey. Don’t stop there…’

Peter almost drops the bag.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah! Yes. Mhmm, I’ve got it.”

He returns to Michelle and wraps one arm around her legs. With his other hand, he lifts the phone towards her. Her fingers clasp his, then locate the phone and take it from his grip. He holds still while she turns on her flashlight and has a look around. So, Michelle doesn’t have a little crush on Spider-Man. She’s hot for Spider-Man. Which means she’s hot for Peter, in a way. Except not, he reminds himself, because you’re just her silent co-worker. You’re never going to―

“FUCK!”

“What? No. What? What is it?”

“The next door’s way too high,” she says. “We must be almost lined up with one.” She taps him on the head with her phone and he slips it into his pocket for safekeeping as he prepares to help her down.

“We’ll find another way.” Will you? he asks himself.

“Quick question.”

“Uh huh?”

“How do I do this?”

He’s holding most of her weight now and, pressing a hand to flatten her skirt against her leg, chances a peek up at Michelle. Her head’s still through the ceiling, arms still braced over the open panel. What would definitely work would be her just letting go and him catching her in his arms, but maybe that’s too much faith for her to put in a random guy from work. Although he’s capable of lifting her, catching her falling body is a completely different thing. As with their escape in general, they don’t have a ton of options.

“Just let go slowly,” Peter coaches. “I’ll adjust how I’m holding you and you can sort of slide down my body.” The awkwardness in his tone garbles the last part.

“I can what?”

Dammit. She’s waiting to come down. He clears his throat.

“Uh, slide down my body?”

Her anxious laugh disappears into the elevator shaft.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” he hears her hiss to herself. To him, “Yeah, ok. I’m coming down now.”

“I have you.”

Peter’s counting on the giddiness of being returned to the ground from a height to distract her from the too-skillful way he maneuvers his hands on her. Making sure her skirt never gets rucked up, not placing his hands anywhere truly unforgiveable. He holds her hips, not her ass, and turns his head so his face doesn’t wind up in her crotch. He’s really gentleman-ing his butt off when the recording in her bag calls out, ‘Harder, Spider-Man!’

His hands slip. A second ago, his head was level with her stomach and now his face is buried in her chest, the cup of her bra pressing back against his temple. Immediately, Peter tilts back from his shoulders.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry―”

“I’m ok, I’m good,” Michelle protests as they wriggle together to set her down. He forces her phone back into her hand.

“Your skirt was slippery…”

“I know. You did great, Peter, seriously.”

“…and I heard…”

He shuts his mouth fast, but her flustered expression dissipates as her probing gaze finds his eyes.

“What did you hear?”

Peter pushes at his sleeves and refuses to answer. Her powers of deduction don’t rely on him at all. She whirls to her bag, crouching and dropping her phone in to extract the voice recorder instead. Holding it to her ear in investigation, Michelle probably hears the words By the time he has me on all fours, I can tell that Spider-Man’s on board with my remark on the importance of letting someone be close to him at the same volume he does standing three feet away. He’s basically plastered himself to the opposite wall. She looks about as mortified as he figures he’d feel if he made a recording of a very personal fantasy and someone listened to it. Man, should he have just told her at the beginning? There didn’t seem to be a way to handle it well.

Michelle stops the playback and puts the recorder away. The elevator is abruptly quiet without the whisper of her voice. All the while, Peter’s staring at her, seeing what she’ll do. The most probable conclusion for her to come to is that he heard a single sound, a blip, and has no clue what the recording contained. The way she stands, leaving her bag on the floor, seems to confirm this. But she doesn’t look over at him.

With a sigh, he decides to do what Spider-Man would do and put the person in need first. What Michelle Jones needs from him is a way out of this embarrassment, and this elevator. Peter walks to the doors and stamps his hands to the metal. First, a little compression to get a good grip and then… Scrunching his face with the effort, he puts his back into it, forcing the doors apart. Next, he does the same thing to the outer doors, separating them to reveal a darkened hallway. The floor’s about three feet higher than where he’s standing inside the elevator, but that’s nothing for someone to scramble through and head for the stairs.

He steps away to let her go first. She doesn’t move.

“Should we talk about that?” Michelle asks, pointing at the doors, after what has to be a full minute of her studying him.

“I… work out? A lot. I work out a lot,” Peter says with more conviction on every try.

“And about this?” She grabs her recorder and waves it at him.

“You… use that to, uh, keep track of your ideas.”

She steps up to him and, without dropping her gaze from his face, reaches out to touch his wrist. Her fingers move from tracing his skin to ringing his web-shooter. He wears them to work pretty often, but always covers them with the cuffs of his shirt. Which he rolled up. Because he thought he was alone. There’s no reason for her to know what they’re for though, right? They could be medical alert bracelets, or just jewellery. It’s not like they’re branded with ‘Spider-Man’s Web-Shooter, 1 of 2.’

“You wanna talk about these?”

Peter opts out of replying.

“I know what they are,” she says. “What they’re for. I’ve researched you, looked at a lot of video footage and photographs, many of which I think you took, which seems equal parts fucked-up and brilliant. I noticed them right after we got stuck.”

“I have… a severe peanut butter allergy,” he says unconvincingly.

“Bummer,” Michelle shoots back, unsympathetic. Yeah, it was a terrible lie, but he’s gotta at least be able to say he tried to deny her accusations.

“It is, it is a bummer,” Peter agrees, nodding. He licks his dry lips to wet them. “Sometimes, I have such a craving for a PB and J and I can’t―”

She leans in and gives him a quick kiss.

“I’m… confused,” he admits.

“I know who you are,” she begins. “You don’t have to say it out loud, on the off chance somebody really has bugged this piece of shit elevator, but your severe peanut butter allergy bracelets, in combination with how you opened those doors, are pretty good evidence when compared with my research. So, if I take my supposition as fact―”

“Peanut butter…”

“Save it. If you are who I strongly believe you to be, then you were able to hear god knows what on that recording. Which I am an idiot for forgetting to erase or record over. Meant to do it last night… ugh, anyway. The important thing is that you heard it and you didn’t bolt through those doors the second you got them open. Why.”

When Michelle’s on a roll, he learns, her questions come out as demands. He quits trying to sneakily unfold his cuffs in a way-too-last-ditch attempt at concealing the truth.

“Ladies first?” he tries.

“I’m not going to use what I know. I promise you that. You’re a good person and as far as I’m concerned, your secret’s your secret. You do a hell of a lot more for this city than Jameson does with the trash he prints, my own contributions obviously excluded. Now I’m the only one held over a barrel here, Peter. You heard what you heard. Tell me why you stayed.”

“You needed me.”

“After you got the doors open.”

Peter thinks. Not just about whether or not to speak, but if he’s ready to say what he’s about to say.

“I needed you. It’s like what you said in the story―I mean, the recording. I don’t let many people get close to me.”

“Why would you let me be one of those people? It took being stuck together before we even had our first conversation.”

“A good feeling, I guess,” he explains. “Plus, you’re kinda my dream girl and I just found out that, at least on the physical side of things, you’re really into me. Like, really into me.”

“You can shut up about that now,” Michelle says.

“Why? You didn’t. You had so much to say.”

“Hmm, maybe I like Spi- I mean, that guy better when I’m speaking for him. Fortunately for you,” she says smugly, “I’ve thought Peter Parker the photographer was cute since the day I started working here.”

“That is news to me.”

Michelle wraps her arms around his neck, smirking as she leans her body against his.

“I was getting around to telling you. Are you surprised?”

“It’s a real scoop,” Peter acknowledges as his hands feel out the lithe shape of her back through her blouse.

“Oh my god, you heard that part? That part? How could―”

He more or less molds his mouth to hers. She more or less gives him a tour of her Brooklyn apartment before they spend the night in bed together and rise to a hot cup of coffee.

more clichéd tropes and prompts

[conaionaru]

Honor and Blood (Ivar the Boneless)

A whole new life

Synopsis: Health check and pregnancy reveal

Warning: angst, fluff, Ivar, toxic family, mentions of pregnancy

Tagged

@shannygoatgruff@youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @heavenly1927 @lol-haha-joke @queenbeeta @didiintheblog

P.S. Anything in bold and cursive is a flashback.

I don't own the gifs. Also, thank you for your support. I really appreciate it.

The healer was very thoughtful under Ivar's watchful eye, ensuring both Vanya and the child in her belly are healthy. The older woman with gray hair and blue eyes confirmed the Seers revelation. The Saxon was pregnant, still early, but there was a little life growing inside her. 

The woman warned Vanya of morning sickness, mood swings, and other things she will experience, but Vanya was deaf to it all. Luckily Ivar looked like he was listening, mostly because he cursed the woman out at least trice after every sentence. All the young girl could think about was their future, she imagined what the child would look like and if it would be a girl or boy. She visualized the little crying babe in her arms that would smile at her, that she would nurse and love with all her love. She swore to be a good mother, better than her own had ever been. Afterall she would have help from Aslaug at the beginning, so she wasn't worried about that. Vanya couldn't help but smile in glee at what the future held for their little family. 

The young couple left the healers hut and went to the Great Hall for lunch. Ivar kept reminding her to watch her step and glared at anyone who got too close to Vanya. If it got any worse with time, Vanya would go crazy. Wasn't she supposed to go a little mad during pregnancy? Maybe Ivar's covering that field so she can concentrate on the babe?

The two sat down at the table, a thrall poured Vanya's cup with water, but she accidentally spilled a little bit on the Princess. "Watch it, you useless cow!"

"It was just water, Ivar. No harm done." Vanya scolded him, smiling in apology at the poor terrified thrall.

Ivar scoffed at that and glared at his wife. "What if she dropped the jug on you, huh? Did you think about that?" He accused her as Vanya shook head at his overprotectiveness. The water didn't even hit her anywhere near her stomach; it was poured on her knee. He was overreacting.

 "Are you alright, Ivar?" Ubbe asked with a raised eyebrow watching his brother fuss. Vanya looked at him with a tired face, silently begging him for help. Yet Ivar said nothing only glared at the table in distaste and betrayal. 

So Vanya took it into her own hands, she looked at the Queen and straightened her back as if to remind herself she had a backbone. "I talked to the Seer yesterday night, as you told me."

Aslaug looked at the girl with one eyebrow drawn up, urging the girl to go on. She was curious about what the Seer had to say if her vision was the only thing the Gods would reveal. 

"I am with child." The whole room grew silent; even the servants froze in their place. Hvitserk stopped eating, his spoon hanging from his lips, Ubbe sat there with wide eyes, Sigurd choked on his ale, while Bjorn blinked dumbly at the two of them. Only Aslaug seemed somehow put together, a small smirk playing on her lips as she smugly sipped her ale. Vanya had a feeling the Queen knew that already.

"A child?" Hvitserk asked, trying to make sure he didn't mishear his sister in law.

Vanya only nodded with an excited smile. "The Seer told me so, and the healer confirmed it this morning." 

"Congratulations then, Skul!" Ubbe called out as everybody echoed his shout and drank from their cups, happy for the couple. Expect Sigurd, who looked bitter. Vanya knew that spark in his good eye all too well; he always seemed like a snake on the hunt before he insulted Ivar. "Ivar's child?"

"Whose would it be? Do you think I would sleep with another man?" Vanya frowned at the jab glaring at the second youngest son of Ragnar. 

Sigurd only shook his head and lifted his cup to his lips; he pointed with at his younger brother and smirked. "Of course not, Vanya. I would never say that. I am just surprised, little Ivar put a child in you, that's all. It is a wonder how a cripple did it so fast."

Ivar threw his cup at Sigurd's head, but the other dodged the hit and smirked sneered at his brother in triumph. "Stop it, you two." Ordered Ubbe warning his younger siblings tiredly. 

"Are you not worried the child will be like him? Poor babe." Sigurd pressed as Ivar looked like he might climb over the table and murder his brother then and there. Vanya put a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him while Aslaug scolded Sigurd. The ginger looked at the Ragnarsson in anger that the cheerful news was used to undermine Ivar. 

"It could always be worse, Sigurd. The child could have eyes like you or such a terrible personality. That would be more dreadful." She spat back at him in a fury making the boys look at her in shock. Even Ivar sat back down in his seat, looking at his wife in admiration and wonder. She never seemed more appealing to him. 

Sigurd gaped at the Princess who never had anything bad to say about anybody. "And what if it is a cripple like him? What will you do?"

Vanya clenched her hands in fists, her nails biting into her palm, leaving behind a sharp sting. "Then I will love the child all the same. Who cares if it can't walk? As long as my child will be alive and happy, I don't care. Your opinion means nothing." 

Sigurd continued staring at her, stunned, his mind not comprehending what's happening. He was used to spitting back insults at Ivar, not Vanya throwing some back in his face. The other watched the conversation carry on, curious how it would end. "I am just trying to warn you, Vanya." He tried regretting his earlier mocking. An angry Vanya glaring at him was unsettling. Like a baby duck going feral.

"And if you ever bring a child into this world, I will listen. But you are neither a woman nor an expert midwife. So shush. Do you have anything else to say?" Sigurd opened his mouth as if he were to retort, but Vanya left him no time. "Oh wait, I just realized I don't care." Ivar looked at his older brother smugly, drinking his ale in a silent victory as his wife continued her angry stare, daring the Ragnarsson to say anything. Meanwhile, the other boys looked between the arguing duo as Aslaug smiled at Vanya, wanting to diffuse the tension.

"Did he say anything about if it would be a boy or girl?" She asked excitedly, happy that her youngest son found love and gave her grandchildren. 

"No. He talked of many children and other things. But not about that." Vanya clarified thinking back to the sinister prophecy about her own future and the payment in blood. Aslaug beamed at that reveal, thinking of all the Ivarssons and Ivarsdottirs she would hold in her arms. 

"And what else did he talk about?" Bjorn questioned, more curious about that than any nephews or nieces Ivar might sire. 

"Vanya is meant for greatness." Ivar bragged, holding her hand in his, grinning from ear to ear like a proud husband. Vanya shook her head at his happy tone. 

"It is not a good thing, Ivar. The Seer said the Gods would be paid in my blood. What if he meant my children? They will be my blood." Vanya pressed back, worriedly imagining dead children with red hair and eyes as blue as a stormy sea. She shuddered at the mental picture.

Hvitserk shrugged his shoulders at that and pointed his spoon at the ginger. "Or your brother. Silas is your blood too." Vanya dismissed the suggestion, rather not thinking about death at all. No matter how much she despised her older brother, she had no real reason to want him dead. He was far away, sitting on his throne, probably terrorizing other people now that she was gone. Silas was no longer a constant shadow in the back of her mind that made her shake in fright. He was a distant memory of what once was. 

Silas stood before her with his hands on his hips while Vanya sat on the floor, cradling her bruised cheek as she tasted blood in her mouth. "I am sorry, My King. I didn't mean to." She begged, looking at him with pleading eyes hoping to calm him. If she seemed pathetic enough to him, he would leave.

"How dare you look at me, you wench. I am your King, and you are forbidden to look into my eyes!" He barked at her, his spit flying everywhere. He looked like a rabid dog, contemplating ripping out her throat. 

Vanya cast her eyes back to the floor, seeing blood drip from her lip and onto the floor. She frantically wiped at the stain with her dress, hoping Silas wouldn't see it. "You are a waste of space! Unthankful, filthy, and stupid. Aren't you?"

"Yes, My King. I am terrible and pathetic. A stupid little girl who never learns." She repeated the words he threw at her a few days ago during a lesson like this. Their father died a month ago, and at first, Vanya thought it was his way of hiding his grief. He was King now, which meant many responsibilities and stress. He had no time to mourn. Yet Silas didn't seem to miss King Osmond at all. All he did was scream, curse, beat and humiliate Vanya while the council ruled in his stead. There was never any love lost between them, but it was never this bad.

"That you are! Thinking you could eat before I ate! Are you that mad? The King eats first! The man always eats first! How dare you eat from MY FOOD, from MY TABLE before ME! And you even talk back!" Silas raged, stomping his foot dangerously close to her hand on the ground. But Vanya didn't dare to pull it away, fearing he would kick her for it. Every time his boot made contact with the floor, she flinched in fright. "It was just one grape, My King. I forgot myself." Silas mocked, his voice high pitched as a mouse.

"Well, I will make sure you remember it this time!" He stomped his foot down with more strength behind it. A scream ripped out of Vanya's mouth as he crushed her palm under him, the crunch of bones deafening to her ears. 

Vanya jumped in her seat as the others gave her a worried glance at her pale complexion. She shook her head, smiling at them reassuringly. The ginger wanted to drink to stop the dry feeling in her mouth but didn't trust her hands not to shake. She could feel Ivar squeeze her hand softly, trying to calm her, but it didn't work. Silas was a monster that was still breathing in Slegia, and as long as he lived, so did the memory of her past. She hated him. But she doubted it was enough to want him dead. Yet the idea made her shoulders relax just a little bit. Had she gone mad?

[stillebesat]

The New Hire

Sanders Sides: Roman, Logan, Virgil Blurb: Roman has never known his brother, Logan, to break a promise. Until now.  Fic Type: General, Human!AU Inspiration: For the Anon who asked to see Roman’s POV from my other Fic The Interview.  Warnings: None  Taglist in Reblog. Author’s Note: This fic is Roman’s POV of events that occur halfway through Chapter 4 of The Interview, but you don’t necessarily need to read it in order to enjoy this oneshot. :)

Roman ran a hand through his hair as he stalked through the halls of StoryTime!, growling under his breath as he descended to the next floor. 

Of course. It was just like Lo to vanish from his office right when Roman needed him. For being known to never leave the building, Specs sure had a knack for not being where he was supposed to be when Roman’s Creative Muse decided it needed a second opinion. 

Must be a twin thing. He distinctly recalled Logan complaining that Roman had done the same to him.

Still.

It was really unlike Lo to so completely disappear from the upper levels that it had forced Roman to search the entire building for him. 

He exhaled, turning to go down yet another hallway, head on a swivel. It was unfortunate that their twin telepathy didn’t extend to tracking because if Roman didn’t know better, he would think Specs had left early. 

Ha.

The sun would split in two first. 

And--Roman glanced at his phone as he came to the balcony overlooking the lobby below, swearing under his breath when he saw the time. 

Sure, he supposed his Creative Muse was at fault for having a light bulb moment right before he was due to go interview yet another starry-eyed dreamer for StoryTime!’s creative team, but he hadn’t thought half an hour would make so much of a difference until he couldn’t find Specs.

Now though he’d have to--there! 

Roman straightened, a thrill of triumph rushing through him at spotting his twin about to enter the elevator below with some other guy in tow. “SPECS!” He called, his voice echoing around the lobby as he rushed for the stairs. “THERE you are!” 

Finally. Maybe he could tell Lo his brilliant idea on the ride up. Maybe two minutes would be enough time to get his opinion before Roman had to bound and gag his Creative Muse so he could focus on being dull and boring long enough to get through the interview process before once more allowing his muse to run free. 

At least this time Remy had sworn up and down that this interview wouldn’t be a waste of his time because he was certain that this Virgil person would pass Roman’s stringent pre-qualifications for getting hired.

Crofters he hoped so. He was tired of having his new hires wash out. 

Forgoing using the stairs in favor of sliding down the railing to get to him that much quicker, Roman landed in front of his twin before the elevator doors had finished opening. “About time I found you!” He said, jabbing a finger at him as his brother dropped a smile that Roman long ago discovered meant trouble though he had no idea how that related to him or the purpled haired disaster in a suit standing next to his twin. 

He’d have to ask later. Creative Muse needed answers. NOW. 

“You have perfect timing as always, Roman.” His brother said, placing a hand on the kid’s elbow, pulling him inside the elevator. “I was just heading back upstairs to find you.” 

Roman blinked. “Find me? What for?” He demanded, following the two of them inside, hitting the button for the ninth floor. “I’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying to track you down and now you want to find me?” 

Sometimes their ability to know when one of them needed another was a freaking curse. But seriously, what were the odds that they would both go seek out the other at the same time! 

Roman ran a hand through his hair, fighting back his irritation. And with a stranger in the elevator there was no way he could use this brief interlude to get Lo’s opinion. He didn’t tell just anyone his brilliant ideas before they were fully realized. “Of course you do this to me two minutes before my next interview--”

“For Virgil right?” 

Roman gaped at him, eyes narrowing as the doors slid shut. Okay, their twin telepathy didn’t extend that far. “How did you--” 

“I just hired him for your department.” Logan said, gesturing to the third member of their little elevator party.

Roman froze, blood roaring in his ears as he clenched his hands, fighting to not hit the emergency button that would stop the elevator in place so he could have longer than twenty seconds to clarify that he hadn’t heard what he just thought he’d heard. 

“You. WHAT?!” 

They’d freaking TALKED about this! After the disaster that occurred two years and ten months ago with Logan’s meddling they had come to an agreement that his twin wouldn’t interfere with Roman’s methods for hiring people! 

Surely Logan. His twin. The superhuman computer that could recall the most mundane information at the drop of a hat hadn’t forgotten that little fact and hired this fashion disaster of an emo in front of him without consulting Roman first. Right?

Wrong.

“I hired him--am I not speaking clearly today?” Logan asked, looking to the kid with a raised eyebrow. “You did the same thing when I told you you were hired too.” 

The kid--Virgil shook his head as he crossed his arms, rubbing the spot Lo had grabbed when he’d been pulled into the elevator. “No. It’s just a statement that not many people will find believable...apparently.” He said, mismatched eyes -which really had a unique color shade that Roman would love to take a moment to dra--NO. Stay FOCUSED. One Creative Muse idea at a time!...after dealing with this potential PR disaster. 

“Oh no, it’s believable,” Though he hoped the kid’s portfolio was a cut above his ability to dress himself, otherwise Remy would receive quite the earful on what qualified meant when he got back. “If I allowed your interview to be scheduled in the first place.” But If Logan liked him enough to hire him...Roman was pretty sure that wasn’t a good sign. A pity. Remy had been quite convincing that Virgil would work out.

“But, Specs!” Roman growled, glaring at his twin as he held out his hand for what could only be Virgil’s portfolio under his arm. He hoped Lo had actually looked through it this time before pulling the trigger. “We agreed you wouldn’t interfere--”

“With your hires.” Logan finished. “I know. But trust me, brother.” He said, stressing the word as he handed Roman the portfolio. 

Brother. 

A word that should never have been used between them while within StoryTime!’s walls. 

Roman froze, eyes flicking to Virgil and back. “He?”

Logan’s eyes glittered, but not with anger. No, Roman would have thought they were filled with silent laughter as he adjusted his tie. “Knows we’re related, thanks to you.” 

WHAT?! HOW?! Oh no. Lo couldn’t blame this on him! He’d never even seen the kid before now!

“To me?! I haven’t said a word--” He denied, taking the portfolio and flipping it open as he leaned against the wall, barely taking in the images on the page. He valued his independence far too much to let just anyone know that he and Logan were related in any way shape or form. 

Gah. He fought back a shudder. No. NO. Roman would do anything to keep that particular secret from getting out. He’d done his time in school being treated like he and Logan were the same person unable to form their own identities outside of being the Prince Twins. 

And yet.

Somehow the secret had gotten out. 

HOW?! 

“Virgil.” Logan said, turning to the third occupant in the elevator. “Care to explain?”

And WHY was Lo taking this earth shattering revelation so calmly?!  

“I…” Virgil flushed under their combined stares, setting his chin stubbornly. “The Sherlock screenplay.”

….Come again? That screenplay hadn’t ever seen the light of day! Well...beyond the one picture he’d posted ages ago. Roman frowned, flipping to another page, watching from the corner of his eye as Virgil visibly paled, hands gripping onto the railing around the elevator. 

“I-I noticed that Logan’s name wasn’t completely covered when you took the picture” 

And Roman thought you couldn’t stop a heart more than once. 

Apparently he was wrong. 

Surely. SURELY that photo he’d posted wasn’t their downfall. He’d been careful to cover Logan’s name! He was sure of it! Yet this kid was telling him that--that---

“And I dug around a bit--” Virgil swallowed, darting glances between the two of them. “Do people here really not know you’re related?” 

Ha. They both shook their heads. “No.” 

That was the whole point of Logan becoming known as Specs here. Why Thomas had agreed that his real name wouldn’t be found anywhere in StoryTime!’s records. Why Logan had taken to wearing glasses again instead of contacts. To give them a chance to be seen as individuals and not as a pair.

Virgil scoffed, gesturing between them. “But you two look exactly the same!” 

“Only a handful know.” Logan clarified, pointedly adjusting his glasses. 

“Like three people--Specs does great as Clark Kent--” Roman jerked his head up from the portfolio. Wait. “Don’t tell me you hired him because he’s blackmailing you!?” He demanded, jabbing a finger at Virgil. 

Surely Logan wouldn’t let himself be backed into such a corner! He was the one who’d ensured that people wouldn’t connect that they were related. One little picture couldn’t have done so much damage that Logan couldn’t get out of being blackmailed into giving the kid a job because of it! 

Virgil flinched, but took a step forward, eyes blazing. “I wouldn’t do that, Princey.” He growled. 

So the purple wallflower did have some bark. “Princey?” Roman repeated, narrowing his eyes. Not the most unique of nicknames but...usually people didn’t do that here. Nickname him back. It was always ‘Yes, Mr. Prince. No, Mr. Prince. I can’t take it anymore and I quit!, Mr. Prince.’

It was...refreshing in a way.

Virgil faltered, glancing to Logan. “I--I---uh.” 

Crofters, he was like a feral kitten confronting a Lion. 

Logan shot him a look, eyes glittering with that hidden humor again, before giving Virgil a reassuring smile. “Go on, Virgil. Speak your mind.” 

Logan was encouraging this? WHY?!

Virgil set his jaw, staring Roman down despite the obvious tremor to his hands. “I’m here because you were willing to give me a chance, sir. No other motive. I want to work here on my own merit. Not through...through blackmail.” He practically spat the word. “My Two Princes theory was just that. A theory until Lo--Specs here confirmed it.” 

Logan visibly winced at that. 

Huh. Roman tilted his head. That was....something. "Well…color me impressed that you got Dr. Roboto here to confirm anything, kid. Usually he's sealed tighter than a jar of Crofters." Usually Roman was the only one who could convince Lo to reveal things he didn’t want revealed. 

He snapped the portfolio shut as the elevator doors opened, hiding the artwork from any potential prying eyes. No need to let anyone else see them just yet. Not until Roman actually agreed on the hiring of this kid. Not until he could actually sit down and look at the images himself. "Don't count your eggs though. I'm not so easily swayed." 

Logan rolled his eyes. "Page twenty-eight." He said tapping the top of the portfolio as they stepped out onto the landing. "Then you'll understand one of the factors that lead to me hiring Virgil." 

Roman scoffed. "One image led you to hire him over my head? Are you addled?" 

What could be so good that Logan chose to defy him and hire the kid? Sure, Remy had sworn that Virgil would be a good fit. But no one could be so unique as to get hired on one page alone!

"I would…agree." Virgil said slowly, biting his lip as he glanced to the portfolio in Roman’s arms. 

Roman blinked. Come again? “You agree?” 

Sure, people usually agreed with him to try and stay in his good graces, but most artists would preen over the knowledge that one image got them hired. 

Virgil shrugged one shoulder, glancing between the two of them as they made their way down the hallway. “Well...yah. Compared to my other works, I don't see how that one-"

The kid thought his other works were better? Logan hired him on this one mystery image that he was confident would rock his brother’s world and it wasn’t even a piece that Virgil thought was his best work?

How good was this kid?

How stupid was his brother? 

Logan shook his head, pulling open the door to Roman’s office, gesturing them inside. 

Typical. Roman fought not to bristle at the fact that his twin was taking charge in HIS domain. 

"I can assure you both that my cognitive function has been unaffected in my decision.” Logan said at least allowing Roman the dignity to enter first. “Your overall work is beyond noteworthy, Virgil, and while the one drawing is A factor.” He stressed the word, eyes once again glittering with that humor as Roman took his seat, plopping the portfolio on top of the desk. “For my decision to hire you, it is not The factor. Your work shows a much larger variety than any others I’ve seen.” 

Roman frowned. Okay...so maybe his brother wasn’t soo addled. But still. One image? “The thing weighs a ton, I would hope it would show some range.” He said, once more flipping through the pages to see what was so great about this ‘page twenty-eight.’ 

Honestly...from his quick glances at the other pieces...he could see why Remy and Logan had both been impressed. There was variety, creativity with lighting and color, a feel of familiarity that already sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was on a mission Roman would have stopped to inspect each piece more closely so he could figure out why it felt so familiar when he’d never met this kid before. 

It really didn’t help that he couldn’t see why Logan would decide to blatantly break his promise.

“I wouldn’t think you’d mind the size, Roman.” Logan said, straightening his tie. “You are the one interviewing for ‘fresh blood’ are you not or was there another reason you were whining to me just last night about the lack of talent in your department?” 

HEY! He pushed to his feet, hand resting on the page before the supposed glorious I-can-break-my-promise-and-hire-you-on-the-spot artwork that had Logan running rogue in his department. 

His bemoaning the lack of creativity in his department was a thing said in total confidence and shouldn’t be broadcasted to the new guy even if he was in on their little sibling secret no matter how good this art piece was. 

"A Prince does not whine!” He declared, flipping the page. “I merely bemoan the lack of talent people these days seem to ha--” Roman froze taking in the aching familiar Sallyized version of Jack Skellington that had been his obsession and lock screen on his phone for the past six months. “WHAT?!” 

He didn’t realize he yelled the last word until Logan smirked, adjusting his glasses as he closed the blinds on the windows to Roman’s office.

Yah probably not a good idea to let others see him totally fangirling, but AAHHHH!!!!! He couldn’t believe it!

Roman shoved to his feet, heart pounding like a drum in his chest as he practically climbed over the desk to shove the picture into the Virgil’s startled face. "You drew this?!" 

No way no way no way! He HAD to be dreaming!!! This kid was his beloved Stormcloud?! 

Virgil blinked down Jack Skellington before raising an eyebrow, mismatch eyes shining with confusion. "Yes?"

Oh. OH. OH! CHRISTMAS HAD COME EARLY!! Roman placed the portfolio on the desk, careful to keep it open to page twenty-eight because he wasn’t quite convinced just yet that he wasn’t dreaming and if he closed the portfolio maybe it would disappear but no. This had to be real! He pulled out his phone, quickly pulling up Stormcloud’s webpage with the Sallyized version of Jack front and center with the exact same stormcloud signature on the bottom, before shoving his phone in Virgil’s face, the kid practically going cross eyed in the process. “You're telling me this is you?” He asked, anticipation filling every fiber of his being. “That you're--!"

"EmoKnightmare478?" Virgil asked without missing a beat as he ran his hand through his hair. “Yah. That's me, Princey, but how--why?" 

“YES!” Roman cried out, grabbing Logan and pulling him into a waltz around the room that only lasted for like two seconds before he had to stop and just jump up and down in a circle with Specs like the fangirl he was at this wondrous turn of events. "YES YES YES YES YES YES!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT, LOGAROO!! YOU FOUND STORMCLOUD! HE APPLIED! HE WANTS TO WORK--!! LOGAN! AHHHHH!!!!" 

“Am I...missing something here?” Virgil asked, resting a hand, protectively on his artwork, safely keeping his distance from Roman’s prancing.

“Roman’s been a fan of your account for the past couple of years.” Logan said simply, looking over his shoulder at their new hire as he turned in place with Roman. “He looks forward to seeing your bi-montly updates like one looks forward to opening presents at Christmas.”

Virgil went white, his other hand reaching to grab onto the desk as he swayed. “You’re a Fan?” He squeaked. 

"OF COURSE!!” Roman cried, finally freeing his twin from his finger-numbing grip to fall down to his knees at Virgil’s feet, arms spread wide. Even the Greats had people that they secretly admired. “Do you know how much I positively adore your twist on a Nightmare Before Christmas series?” He asked eagerly. Every piece had been simply superb. A gift from the Gods. A supreme act of creativity that Roman could only hope to replicate. Stormcloud had taken his favorite Halloween movie and brought it to new heights, giving complexities to even the minorest of characters leaving him in awe every single time. 

“Tell me.” Roman said, still on his knees, clasping his hands together like a beggar. “What would it take to commission you to draw the entire cast Sallyized for me? One large painting to hang there over my desk? Anything's on the table. Name your price." 

“I--I--uhhh--” Virgil leaned away, hands scrambling on the desk. 

Logan exhaled, grabbing Roman by the shoulder. “Perhaps you should tone down the adoration and stop terrorizing your new hire?” He suggested, tightening his grip.

Right. Right. Roman batted away Lo’s hand, rising to his feet. Of course. This wasn’t a Comic Con convention. He had to maintain some sort of decorum, but THIS WAS HIS STORMCLOUD HOW COULD HE NOT BE EXCITED?! 

“He’s--He’s not--” Virgil drew in a shallow breath. 

Not what? Not serious about his request for a commission because he definitely was! 

Logan shook his head. “Well...even if he’s not, I shall assuage your fears anyway. You will still have your job even if you refuse, Virgil. Crofters forbid it doesn’t do Roman any harm to be told no every now and then.” 

Roman scoffed at that. Oh, yes it did. He much preferred getting what he wanted thank you very much and being spurned by his favorite artist for a commission he’d been dreaming of for months may just kill him then and there. 

Still. Logan did have a point. As Virgil’s potential new boss, he did have to set clear boundaries and this definitely had blurred the lines a bit. “Oh yes, your job isn’t ever in question with this, Stormcloud.” Roman said, offering him a smile as he spread his hands peacefully. “Specs hired you and from what I’ve seen so far,” 

He would need to take a very in depth look at the artwork within that portfolio when he got a chance. He needed to see what else Virgil had designed. But that would have to come later. “I second it, but.” His eyes went wide and pleading as he clasped his hands together. “I will be very very very heartbroken and will be giving you super sad puppy dog eyes like this every time you see me for the next--”

“Three hours?” Logan asked, adjusting his glasses as he pulled his brother back another step to give Virgil space to breathe.

Roman made a face. Way to ruin the moment. “I was gonna say a week, but probably.” It would hurt, but he could handle the rejection...maybe. Probably. He didn’t know for sure. People didn’t usually say no to him when they knew who he was.

Virgil swallowed, licking his lips. “You...really would…pay me? The Prince? Would...pay me?” 

“Of course! I said--” Roman turned to Logan. “Did I not say that, Lo? Any price. I said that!” He wasn’t a heathen expecting Stormcloud to do such an intense art piece like that for free. No. Roman knew the value of art and Virgil’s artwork would be worth every single penny! 

“You did indeed.” Logan nodded.

“Great!” Good to know they’d been clear on that. “Here.” Roman took Virgil by the arm, pulling him to a seat at his desk. “Specs will draw up your contract for the position. Wages, hours, expected responsibilities, rules and policies, so on and so forth. I trust he was quite thorough in whatever interview he gave you right before you found me right? Right. But you and I.” He smiled conspiracally, pulling up a chair. “Need to talk shop. Come on. Commission. How much?” 

Logan rolled his eyes as he slid into another chair in front of Roman’s computer, his fingers already flying over the keyboard to pull up the necessary forms to print out. “Of course, leave the boring paperwork to me.” 

“It’s what you’re good at Specs.” Roman waved vaguely in his direction, his full attention on his favorite Stormcloud. “Come on Virge, can I call you Virge? Name your price.” 

“I--I---Okay...uhmmm. Well…” Virgil rubbed the back of his head before dropping his hand to where Roman had touched him. “Were you actually wanting one large painting of everyone together or individual pieces that form a scene if placed side by side? 

Individual….Pieces?! Roman leaned forward, fighting to not grin like a madman. “I was thinking the former, but the latter intrigues me. What would be the difference?” 

“Well…” The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitched as he rested a hand on his portfolio. “You said name my price. Does it have to be just...monetary?” 

Oooooohhh. Roman smirked to his twin who shared the same smile back. More and more he was seeing why Logan had gone over his head in this. Their new hire was going to fit in rather well here if he was already thinking like that. He hardly doubted that Lo had had time to fill Virge in on their whole betting system here which meant he probably was thinking to set himself up nicely here at StoryTime! before his first day. 

“No, no it does not.” Roman sat back lacing his fingers together. “What were you thinking instead? A higher wage? A better position?” 

The soft typing from behind him stopped and he could only assume that Logan was waiting for Virgil’s answer as well. 

It was one thing to claim to not want to blackmail the twins. It was another entirely to not try and make a grab for power when you had the chance.

Virgil gave a soft growl, shaking his head. “I told you, Princey. I’m not here because I have blackmail on you or want to take a bribe.” He spat the word, his eyes alight with an inner fire, Roman hadn’t seen in a long long time. “Personal commissions are and will always be considered separate from my job here. I won’t argue for things that I haven’t yet proven that I deserve to get.” 

Roman relaxed a little at that. “Alright…” He said slowly, listening as Logan began typing again. “But if your asking price doesn’t include money, power, or position.” He raised an eyebrow. “What then are you wanting me to pay in?” 

Virgil visibly swallowed. “Well, I would charge per character piece of course.” 

Of course. If they had been talking money then Roman could see how this whole thing could get extremely pricey for him with each character being on an individual piece. 

But Virgil didn’t want money.

“And for Jack.” Virge placed a trembling hand on his portfolio. “My price--” He licked his lips, but didn’t break eye contact as Roman leaned forward. “My price would be that I can wear my hoodie to work.” 

A...hoodie? Roman again shared a look with Logan. The price of having the magnificent Sallyized Jack Skellington gracing his office walls all hinged on the ability for the kid to wear a hoodie?! WHY?!

Logan raised an eyebrow, before shrugging a shoulder showing that he had no clue either why a hoodie would be worth one divinely inspired Jack Skellington, before he returned his attention to the laptop, a slight wrinkle between his eyes forming as he frowned. “You are aware that our dress code is--” 

“Business casual, yes.” Virgil said, pulling at the collar of his shirt, his fingers trailing down his tie. “And I can,” the corner of his mouth twitched in distaste. “follow that to a T, if this particular option doesn’t work for you, I promise. You just said--”

“Name any price.” It was unconventional but it worked and maybe, though he highly doubted it, the kid would look better in the hoodie rather than the ill-fitting suit he currently wore. 

Roman nodded, pulling out a pen and paper, quickly scrawling down the names of a dozen characters from the movie that he for sure wanted Sallyized. 

Best to write it down now than spend the next whoever knew how long trying to remember just which price belonged with which piece. 

“For Jack.” He said, fighting the giddy feeling rising in his chest as he circled the name and wrote ‘wear hoodie at StoryTime!’ next to it. “I’ll allow the wearing of the hoodie here for low key, everyday work things. BUT.” He stressed the word as he looked up. “Any meetings, presentations, or red carpet events you’ll need to nix it. Deal?” 

Virgil let out a breath, relaxing as he leaned forward giving Roman a large genuine smile. “Deal.” 

Logan’s Pov -The Interview: Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5 Virgil’s POV for Chapter 3 of The Interview

[sierraraeck]

Dancing, Drugs, and Lies (Pt.2)

BAU x OC Aundreya

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

(This is my gif so please give credit if used)

Summary: Morgan’s cousin is in danger. Aundreya decides to use some of her ‘special talents’ to help the team find her. Story seven.

Category: Working a case with the team. A bit angsty, I guess.

Warnings: Cussing. Drugs. Implied drug abuse. Normal CM gore and situations.

Word Count: 4.0k

A/N: Just a reminder that this is all fiction and I don’t actually know about drugs or exotic dancers.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

When I got back to the office, I could feel the tension radiating through the room.

“What’s going on?” I asked carefully.

“The tox screen came back and they were only able to identify three of the substances in the mixture: heroin, cocaine, and MDMA,” Reid said.

“So there are more within the mixture?” I clarified.

“Their best guess is that there are two others in there.”

“What? And they can’t test it?” I was flabbergasted. How could a lab not test drugs? Wasn’t that literally half their job?

“They’re saying that they’re being overpowered by the other three in the mix, and they don’t have a good starting point as to what the others would be.”

“Do we have the drug?” I asked. I could give a stab at it. I was, what one could describe as, well versed in drugs.

“It’s in evidence,” Spencer said, skepticism coating his voice. Instead of explaining, I marched out of our meeting room and headed straight to evidence.

When I got back, everyone was looking at me. I opened the bag and dumped just a little bit on the round table.

“What are you doing?” Hotch asked. I pinched the white powder between my fingers and lightly rubbed them together.

“I’ve had a lot of experience with drugs. I’m just trying to figure out what the other two are,” I said.

“You’re not going to be able to do that. Especially not by just looking and touching because a lot of drugs come in white powder form,” JJ said.

I sighed. “I know, you’re right. But if I can figure out what the other two are, is that information going to lead us to our unsub?”

“There’s a very good chance. Obtaining five different drugs would hopefully leave enough records to track someone down, especially if the other two aren’t classic street drugs,” Reid said.

“Okay,” I said, ignoring the lingering question pertaining to my motives. I took a deep breath as everyone’s eyes were still on me. I looked around at the people in the room, trying to completely absorb them in their entirety, attempting to remember as much of reality as I could. Then, before anyone could bat an eyelash, I swooped toward the table and sniffed up whatever powder I had put there.

Amanda was not messing around when she said they acted almost instantly. I had barely raised my head back up when the euphoric feeling hit me. That must be the cocaine.

Cocaine acted the fastest so I would feel that first. Someone was grabbing my shoulder, ushering me to sit down, but I swatted them away.

“Shut up,” I mumbled. The noise around me had amplified, either because of the drugs, or… because of the drugs. Because I had taken the drugs, and people were freaking out.

The noise didn’t stop so I yelled, “Shut up!” That did it. “Listen to me,” I said, looking at everyone around the room. “There is nothing you can do about it now but let it run its course. I need you to trust me. Like I said … I’ve had a lot of experience with a lot of different drugs. I need you … I need you to let me do this my way. I can help,” I said. Sentences were already hard to concentrate on forming.

“What are you feeling?” It sounded like Emily.

“Yes, can confirm, there is cocaine in this,” I responded. “What do I look like? Like do you see any signs of other drugs?”

“Your pupils haven’t changed, but your eyes are watering,” JJ said, leaning in.

“Okay yeah. So we know there is also heroin in it,” I said.

“Wait, what?”

“Cocaine would make my pupils big, but heroin would make them small, so they’re balancing out. Also, heroin causes watery eyes along with flushed and itchy skin and a runny nose and drowsiness,” I explained. Speaking of, I was starting to feel woozy and put my hands out on the table.

Definitely heroin.

“Thank you, Doctor Spencer Reid,” Prentiss joked.

“You’re welcome, Aundreya Chambers,” I clapped back. It was almost always me that was on the receiving end of the info-dumping.

“Touché,” Emily acknowledged.

Spencer, ignoring our jabs, reached his hand out and placed it on my neck, which shocked my whole system. His hand felt like ice pricking my burning skin.

“That must be the MDMA,” he said, retracting his hand. He was checking my temperature and pulse. Nice. I looked up at him and immediately turned away, grimacing. “What, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. You’re right, Molly’s kicking in, that’s all,” I sighed.

“I don’t understand,” Hotch questioned. If I wasn’t so high and using every ounce of willpower not to be dragged under by the euphoria pounding in my head, I’d make a smartass remark regarding Aaron’s uneducatedness in the realm of drugs. Not like I expected anything different.

“MDMA usually causes hallucinations, and some of them can get pretty weird and pretty graphic. She must be experiencing one now,” Emily explained, and I was grateful she stepped in. Wait. Ha! Of course Emily knows the effects of MDMA. I should have guessed.

I tried to look up at her to silently thank her, but her face was too messed up and I had to look away. Now I just had to wait for other signs of other drugs.

“Your hand twitched.” It was a voice that I hadn’t heard before.

“Huh?”

“Your hand. It’s twitching,” the small, squeaky voice restated. I whipped my head around to identify the source and it was a little girl in a white sunflower dress. “Look.” I directed my attention to my hand and she was right. It was in fact twitching.

“That’s not a cocaine thing, right?” I asked her. My mind was getting foggier by the second.

“What’s not a cocaine th-” JJ started.

“Shh!” I snapped. I bent down and stretched my neck out as far as I could toward the girl to get as close to her as possible without moving a foot.

“No. It’s not,” she answered simply, “so then what is it?”

“I don’t - I don’t know,” I racked my brain, but nothing was coming.

“Your foot. You’re tapping your foot,” she said.

“What does that have to do-” I tried.

“And your eyes. Everything looks shaky, doesn’t it? They’re moving around really fast,” she said in that high pitched, sing-songy voice.

“What other drug does that?”

She just shrugged at me. Twitching, fast eyes, uncontrollable and jumpy muscles…

“Hyperactivity,” I realized.

“What?” someone around me asked.

“Hyperactivity! Spence, what’s the drug that makes you super hyped up?”

“There are a lot that do that,” he said, and I jumped. His voice came from the right side of me and I snapped my head up to look at him. Had he always been standing there? I thought for sure he was on the other side of me.

“There’s Adderall, concerta, dexedrine-”

“No, no, no. Twitching, jumpy muscles, shaky eyes, that kind of thing,” I said, getting impatient, knowing that I didn’t have time to spare for one of his lists right now.

“Methamphetamine?”

“Yes! Yes! That’s the one! There’s meth in here too,” I verified.

“Can I ask you something?” Emily asked. I nodded.

“Who are you talking to?” I turned around to look at the little girl. She waved at me.

“Uh, there’s a uh …” How should I explain this? “She’s helping me figure out what I’m on.”

“Who’s she?”

“This girl over here,” I said, turning back to face Prentiss and pointing my thumb over my shoulder.

“Cool, cool. That girl is obviously a hallucination-”

“I know that,” I interrupted.

“Right, but a hallucination from what drug?” Prentiss asked. My eyes got wide.

“Em, you’re a genius! Not to take anything away from the actual genius over here. Not saying that you aren’t smart or like super-nearly-genius-material or anything-”

“Aundreya,” JJ said sternly. I swallowed and looked at her. “What drug causes that hallucination?”

“Right. Um …” I started.

“Acid,” the girl behind me helped me out.

“Yeah. What she said,” I seconded. The team looked at me. “You can’t hear her, either. Sorry. Acid.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, the swirling in my head nearly becoming too much.

“Okay, well those are the other two drugs in there,” JJ concluded. She gave me a reassuring smile. “You did great.”

I sat down, prepared to let myself fall into the euphoric feeling now that I had gotten the information we needed, but it never came.

What’s that about? I take five different drugs which are supposed to make me feel better and I get nothing?

“Let’s move you to a private room,” Rossi said, approaching me. I backed away, shaking my head. “It will only be for a little while until you come down from your high.”

“No! I don’t want to move,” I said on impulse. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was stay with people I knew, people I was comfortable with, and just curl up in a corner.

“Whatsamatter? Are you nervous?” the little girl taunted. I turned toward her, but she evaporated before I could ask her what she meant.

“Come on. I’ll help you there,” Rossi offered again. I took another step back.

“I can get to wherever it is myself,” I insisted, turning toward the door. I got halfway out when I realized, “Where is it, exactly, that we’re going?”

Rossi gave me a soft smile. “Why don’t I lead the way, and you can follow me, yeah?”

“Alright.” He led me straight to his office and shut the door. He locked it too.

“Wait, no, please don’t lock it,” I begged. He looked at me confused.

“Okay, I won’t. Is it okay if I stay in here with you for a while?” I nodded. I felt paranoid, like someone was watching me. I frantically looked around to identify anything that seemed out of place, or anyone else that could have been spying on me.

Come on, where’s that euphoria? I could use a little release right about now…

We sat there in silence for a good 20 minutes when he got up.

“Where are you going?” I asked. I would have been embarrassed by how childish and reliant my voice sounded, but I was honestly too worried about his answer.

“I’m just going to step out for a bit, and JJ is going to come in here instead. Is that alright with you?” he asked. He seemed to know a bit about how to deal with high people, yet another one I should have seen coming. I attempted to make a mental note that Emily, Rossi, and I should get high together at some point. No need to drag in inexperienced people, although I would definitely love to see our team members high. I hoped I would remember that when I was sober.

“Fine. Yeah. Sure. I’m good with that,” I said. Rossi opened the door and JJ quickly slipped in. Had she been waiting out there this whole time? Obviously not, but considering how fast she came in, it was like she was already prepared for the swap. Duh, Aundreya, you’re high and already seem to have an unstable personality. Of course she was already prepared for the swap.

Next up was Emily’s shift, but things didn’t get bad until after that, during Derek’s shift. Why’d it have to be during Derek’s shift? He already had a lot on his plate, and I didn’t even think he should have been watching me to begin with because of that, but being the good guy he was, he wanted to help in any way he could.

I started screaming. “Oh my god! Help him! Somebody please do something!”

On the floor, in a bloody heap, was none other than Spencer Reid. His body was bent in ways it shouldn’t have been, blood was pouring from his chest, his neck, his head, his mouth. And those eyes, those precious, movie star eyes, were completely glazed over. There was a split second before I started screaming in which I tried to remind myself I was high, and convince myself it was only a hallucination, but I couldn’t take that chance.

I rushed over to him on the floor and just started shouting for anyone to help and to save him. Oh dear lord just save him.

Morgan got down on the floor next to me and placed a hand on my back. “Who, Chambers? Help who?”

“Spencer!” I yelped. He got up and backed away from me. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you helping?”

“Aundreya, I’m going to be right back with help.” His gaze was the most intense I’d ever seen it. When the door opened again, I saw Spencer. My jaw hit the floor.

“Spencer?” I stammered, standing up. “Tell me that’s not real!” I gestured to the other him on the floor next to me, “Tell me that’s not fucking real!”

“I’m right here and I’m okay. What’s wrong?” he asked. He seemed sincere but I had to be sure. I glanced back to the floor where the other Spencer was still dying and bleeding profusely. I winced and tore my gaze away.

“Tell me something that I’m too stupid to come up with on my own so I know you’re not just another hallucination,” I demanded.

Without hesitation, he said, “Quantum mechanics is the science dealing with the behavior of matter and light on the atomic and subatomic scale. It attempts to describe and account for the properties of molecules and atoms and their constituents-electrons, protons, neutrons, and other more esoteric particles such as quarks and gluons. These properties include-”

“Oh thank god!” I stopped him, quickly embracing him with everything I had. I’d never been more grateful to hear his rambling, and I was pretty certain he was prepared to continue on until I knew he was real and I told him to stop.

He gladly accepted the hug, rubbing his hands up and down my back, assuring me he was real and was okay. I pulled away from him, and he cupped my face, brushing away the tears I hadn’t noticed falling. Standing so close to him with relief pulsating through me, his hands still supporting me, I suddenly had the intense urge to kiss him. I’d never felt that before, but even with the uncertainty, I was totally willing to let that urge dominate my actions. My eyes quickly scanned his face, trying to see if he was feeling the same.

What are you thinking? You are high, remember? Don’t do something stupid. This is not you thinking, this is drugged out crazy you thinking.

That was the problem, though. Even if it was drugged out, crazy me, it was still me thinking those things.

It scared me so much that I actually gained a moment of clarity, finding the willpower to turn away. Hoping he didn’t read the thoughts on my face and embarrassed by the whole thing, I said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you or pull you away from what you were doing. And Derek, I’m so sorry. You already have enough to worry about, you don’t need me adding to the stress.”

“It’s okay,” they both said at the same time. Spencer’s voice was soft and supportive in contrast to Derek’s strong and understanding one, both of which I needed to hear. It was nice to have a sturdy base and a safe net to fall back on.

“You don’t need to apologize. You took a dangerous, unknown mixture of drugs just so you could help get my cousin back. The least I could do is look after you for a little while,” Derek said, changing to that silky smooth voice of his.

“And I’m just glad that I could help you out of whatever terrible thing you were seeing,” Spencer added.

“I don’t know what got into me. That’s never happened to me before,” I stated, still feeling like I owed them an explanation.

“It’s just gotta be the intense mixture of drugs,” Derek said, waving it off.

“You’re probably right…” I started, but it didn’t feel right.

‘Whatsamatter? Are you nervous?’ The little girl's voice came ringing back into my head. What was she trying to tell me?

“What’s wrong?” Reid asked, clearly able to read my troubled expression.

“I’m not sure yet. Has Garcia come up with anyone?”

“She’s narrowed it down,” he said. Why’d he pause like that?

“What’s that mean? What’re you not telling me?”

“It’s just that, uh, she has narrowed it down to eleven people.”

“Eleven? Not farther than that? There are eleven people who are using all five of these?” I asked. How is it possible that my extra information didn’t narrow it down farther than that?

“I guess, but don’t worry,” Reid quickly added, “we are still using what we know to narrow it down even further.”

“Okay,” I said, disappointed, “I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” He gave me a small smile and exited the room. It was back to just Derek and I.

Whatsamatter? Are you nervous? Something about that was not settling right with me. That girl was helping me figure out what I was on, but she just left me with a cliffhanger? A taunt? What was she trying to tell me?

I sat there for the next 20 minutes (it felt like hours) trying to figure out what was going on.

Nervous, lack of euphoria.

Think, Aundreya, think.

A hallucination that had to do with a big fear, drowsy.

Come on. There’s got to be another drug involved.

Anxiety, emotional. Wait. Anxiety.

I was anxious about moving locations, I was anxious about people switching out, I was anxious that someone was watching me. Spencer dying is a root of anxiety, not to mention just sitting here, unmoving? There’s got to be another downer in here. What downer do you have less experience with? One that would cause lots of anxiety and a hallucination you aren’t familiar with?

I racked my brain until it came to me.

OxyContin.

“OxyContin!” I yelled. Derek looked up at me, drowsiness in his eyes. I rushed toward the door and into the meeting room before he could do anything about it. “There’s OxyContin in this, too!” I must have startled them because Penelope nearly knocked her drink over from the surprise.

“Don’t do that to me!” she yelped.

“Sorry. Narrow down your search by only looking at those with access to OxyContin, either because they work in the medical field or because they or someone in their orbit just had surgery,” I commanded. My thinking felt sharp and clear.

“Okay, that leaves us with-” she stopped. Her eyes went wide. “Only one suspect. Dom Forester.”

“Address?” Aaron insisted.

“Already sent.”

“Let’s go. Morgan, Chambers, stay here,” I nodded. Morgan was about to challenge that order when I lightly grabbed his arm, leading him away from the rest of the team.

“They’ve got it,” I said.

“I know. I just wish he’d let me help more,” he complained.

“I know.”

“Hey, how are you feeling? You seem pretty clear headed for someone who is supposed to be high on now six different drugs,” he pointed out.

“Have I mentioned that I’ve had a shit ton of experience with drugs?”

“Yes you have.”

“Let’s just say I’ve built up quite the tolerance,” I said with a quick eyebrow raise. We didn’t need to get further into it.

He sighed. “Well I appreciate you doing that. Let’s just hope they catch this sonuvabitch.”

“Amen,” I replied.

# # # # # # # # # # # # #

So they didn’t catch the sonuvabitch.

Actually, they didn’t catch anything. They swept his whole place, twice, and didn’t get even so much as a dirty sock on the floor. The guy was squeaky clean.

“That’s not possible,” Derek said, fuming. “Can we track his phone?”

“We tried, but it's pinged at his house for the past two months without moving. Everything we have is purely circumstantial,” Prentiss said with an undertone of pity.

“So what do we need to do to nail this guy?” I asked. We were certain it was him, but we just didn’t have anything to prove it.

It was several hours later, so I had pretty much come down from my high. Drugs pumped in and out of my system very quickly at this point.

“The best way is if we can catch him in the act,” JJ said.

“Okay, but how? You want us all to split up and stake out the clubs? That would take too long,” Morgan said.

“Well, Amanda said that he only went to three of them, so we’d only have to look at those three,” I said, trying to add some optimism.

“We don’t know if he’ll go to one of those tonight, though,” JJ said.

“Okay, let’s revisit the profile. What do we know,” Hotch redirected us.

“We know that he’s devolving because he got thrown off his routine, which probably means he’s accelerating,” Rossi said.

“It also means that he’s probably going back out tonight,” JJ added. It also means that Thia is probably dead.

“Okay, so he goes out tonight. What then? We’re at the clubs and just have to bust into all of the private rooms constantly to make sure none of them are our guy?” Morgan said. He was right. That was never going to work.

“Catch him in the act right,” I confirmed, a plan forming in my head.

“Right,” Aaron said. He looked at me suspiciously because he knew I was coming up with something.

“Why don’t you send me in? I’ll go in and act like I’m one of the dancers there, then he can-”

“No,” Emily said, cutting me off. “You’ve been through enough today. I’ll do it.”

I shook my head. “Trust me, I can-”

“I don’t think either of you should do it,” JJ said, cutting me off again. “There’s got to be a better way.”

“But this will work. We can make sure that-”

“It seems risky, but I think we can pull it off,” Morgan said, the third in a row to interrupt me. I rolled my eyes.

“How though? There are too many factors to consider,” JJ questioned.

“Well if any of you would like to let me finish one goddamned sentence around here, I’d tell you,” I snapped. They all turned to look at me. “Sorry. All I’m saying is that you can send me in as a dancer, he’ll ask for a private with me, then when we are in the private room, Dom will make his move and we catch him in the act.”

“How are you going to make sure he’ll ask for a private with you?” Morgan asked.

“Trust me. He will,” I said. If there was one thing I knew, if I paid enough attention to him and made eye contact while I was dancing, he’d almost certainly pick me for a private.

“Let me guess. ‘I have a lot of experience with dancing?’” Morgan mocked. I just nodded. “Is there anything you don’t have a lot of experience with?”

I shrugged, “Anything legal.” He blew a slight laugh out of his nose.

“That’s great and all, but you actually have to be at the right club,” Rossi stated.

“So we divide and conquer. We’ll stake out the three clubs and call to let her know which one he’s at,” Emily said.

“Are you sure you are okay with this?” Spencer asked me.

“I’m positive. Plus, I’m the only one with a heavy resistance to drugs so I’ll still have my wits about me to alert you. You’ll give me like a small button or something to push when he’s gone too far, right?” I confirmed. Hotch nodded. “Then let's do this.”

Part 3

[boogiewrites]

Mae Flowers Chapter 5

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Mae LeBlanc (OFC)

Summary: A modern, magical Alfie Solomons AU.

Warnings/Tags: Language.Magic/Supernatural. Soul mates.Some domestic fluff, getting to know you stage. Talk of the unknown. 

Click on my screenname then go to Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.)

When she woke to a warm spring morning, Mae was thankful she didn’t have puffy eyes or a headache from crying the night before. She’d sobbed hard, sadness surging from an uncontrolled well of emotion that had always been within her. She was a sensitive soul she’d been told before, both in the form of compliments and insults. Being sad that people weren’t nice to her when she always went into interactions with a good heart wasn’t something new to bring her down. But she’d had something to make the roller coaster of let down shoot back up suddenly and she was caught off guard. A nice man to be kind and take care of her after the rest of the world seemed to be against her all day. It was too much for her still fragile heart to handle and despite being less sad, but mostly confused and uncertain, she cried again. She hated crying in front of others, she quickly became overwhelmed with thoughts of being less than and looking down on her for not controlling herself.

But she hadn’t felt that last night. No, she felt seen and heard. She had someone to look her in the eyes and tell her her feelings were valid, that crying was healthy and being able to feel so deeply was a gift and not a burden. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t woken up feeling an emotional hangover like she had every other time she’d cried. Things were already proving Alfie right with how they would work better together than apart. Luckily, she had just woken up and therefore didn’t have the capacity to think about that at the moment. Right now all she was really focused on was having to pee.

Alfie sees her scuttle the short distance between her room and the bathroom in her slippers and pajamas. Little shorts and a tank, all her softness wobbling with a sleepy shuffle of her small feet. He grinned, a small huff of amusement for the little fluffy goblin scuttling around her own house.  He hears the click of the bathroom door as it opens and calls out to her, “Breakfasts almost ready. Ya in?” his neck stretches in her direction, head tilted to hear her muffled reply in the affirmative.

She entered the kitchen, hand disappearing into her bed head curls to mindlessly scratch as she yawned. “Smells good.” she approves, a sniff and a heavy-footed saunter over to the round kitchen table.

“Fanks.” he mutters, multitasking with pans and spatula. “‘Mornin’ luv. Ya slept well I take it? Didn’t a hear a peep all night.” He could’ve said my dreams were as smooth and clear as a moonless night’s reflection atop a lake. A sure sign that she wasn’t bothered in her sleep.

“Yeah.” she nods, her hair bouncing as she did so. She fusses with her hair, pushing it back as he approaches the table. “Oddly enough.”

“Odd will become commonplace soon enough.” a nod and a self-assured tone she hoped to emulate moves out of a barrel chest in his plain white t-shirt. She recalled the shirt from the first time she’d seen him in her dreams. What an odd fact, she muses to herself. Perhaps he was right. “That’s some immense hair ya got there.” he smiles down at her with an affectionate inkling in his eye and tone.

“Thanks?” she gives him a quirked brow as she tilts her head up at him, peeking out from under her mop of half-formed spirals.

“Was a compliment.” he clarifies as she nods and becomes quickly distracted by the food being slid in front of her. “Full English.” he declares, his shoulders hunched as he turns to retrieve his own overflowing plate. A perk of being immortal was he could eat almost anything and everything and not give a second thought to it. He now had an excuse to make the rich comfort foods he missed. He found himself not neglecting but finding comfort in the things of old that made him, him. He had run from the messier human emotions for a long while. He ran from the things that made him human in the first place as well. That entailed disappearing and not emerging until everyone he knew was long dead. It included religion, sex, and human comforts. He was his darkness for long years, but this little sunspot was bringing him back to his old self. The things that made him Alfie before things took a turn for the worse and he became what he was now. She made him feel human again. Among other things.

“Tomatoes?” she asks, her head tilted like the curious Percy’s that just jumped onto the table to sniff at the mushrooms dissapprovingly.

“Breakfast, innit?” he says, a fork in hand and a sausage already on the way into his mouth.

“And beans?” she keeps the same confused expression.

“It’s what we ate when money was good when I’s growin’ up. Comfort food, that.” he points with a greasy fork across the sun-streaked table from the light coming through the patio doors.

“Full English.” she mutters as if it were still a question to her. “S’good.” she shrugs and pushes things around on the plate.

“Got tea, English as all bloody hell.” he chuckles and points to the kettle. “Coffee, bangers, beans, bacon, beefeaters from the garden and mushrooms. Ya made me some of your soul food, ya comfort food. This is mine.”

“Food is… weird.” the sleep starting to fade fro her voice but clearly her mind wasn’t matching up to what her mouth wanted to say.

He snorts with a mouthful of food as she chews thoughtfully. “You gonna elaborate on that ingenious remark?”

She gives him a smile, knowing there was no ill will in his jab but agreeing that she certainly would have fleshed out what she meant more. “Everyone’s gotta have it, but it’s different everywhere ya go. It’s the backbone of any culture, somethin’ anyone could know about y’know? But somehow it’s also deeply personal despite it bein’ somethin’ that everyone has.” she pauses and takes another bite. “It’s weird.” she shrugs despite that being her final statement.

“Humans are weird would be a more overlapping remark. But it goes without sayin’. Humans can make anything personal. A rock, a meal, a string of words. Very self-absorbed, very self-important. But it’s in their nature. Means of survival ‘n that.”

“Their nature? You aren’t human?”

“I was. At one time. I’m more of a vessel if you will. I am me, yeah? I hold everything that made Alfie Solomons a man, a human. But I am also timeless energy that is simultaneously full to the brim and empty all at once. Knowledge from the very beginning of time, and past the present. I’ve lived in the underworld and on this side as well.”

“That’s… sorta heavy for breakfast, man.” she states blankly before they both move into a shared laugh.

“You asked. I am here to answer.”

“Thanks for answering,” she says sheepishly. “Do I also contain all that? Time and space and the whole Carl Sagan monologue?”

He gives her one of those smiles that makes her avert her eyes. The kind that handsome men have beautiful ladies when they courted them. She wasn’t equipped to deal with his charm and ruggedly handsome face this early in the morning. Or ever, for that matter. “Yeah, love ya do. Which is why we’ll be starting with some meditation today. Help you get in touch with all that. It’ll help every facet of ya complicated self. Gotta learn restraint and control before we move onto the more… intense activities.”

“Am not gonna have to like..sacrifice anyone am I?”

He lets out a sudden laugh. “Nah, love nothin’ of the sort. Not unless ya want to.”

“I don’t.” is a quick and curt answer given. Of course, she didn’t. A little ray of sunshine made of life itself wouldn’t want to get messy. That was more his side of things.

“Noted.” he gives a firm nod and a supportive closed mouth smile before they both become absorbed by the task of fueling up for their work.

-------

He had asked her where she would feel most comfortable, and to no surprise to him, telepathic of not, she had said in her garden. With a reassuring hand on her back, he leads her to the middle of a grassy patch in the center of the back yard. Her land was totally enclosed with a high fence and the outlines covered in different flowers and bushes and fruit-bearing trees, buzzing with insects already so soon into spring. A warm sun beamed down, making her brown skin shine, freckles happy to soak up the rays and darken across her cheeks, the yellow light hitting her eyes and lighting them up golden with her lush mixture of green spun delicately around her tight iris. Her curls shone, the sun-kissed streaks happy to lighten with their long missed sunbaths every day from being stuck inside during the cold months. They were bouncing happily, air dried as she perched with crossed legs on the soft grass.

“This is a lovely garden, by the way, pet. You’ve done a bang-up job on your own.” he grunts out as she adjusts his legs to mirror her.

“Thank you. I’m very proud of it.” a soft but accepting smile graces her round and darling face as she squints in the sun.

“Ya should be.” he nods and clears his throat. “Have ya ever meditated before?”

“Not really no.” she shook her head. “I’ve lit incense and practiced some deep breathing before. But not like... Ommm and…” she pushes her middle fingers and thumbs together, resting them on her knees to explain.

He suppresses a smile at her wordless explanation of her length of knowledge on the subject. “I see.” he moves to take her hands. “Ya have a hard time quietenin’ down that mind of yours don’t ya?”

She nods, a hint of being ashamed in her eyes as she casts them downward.

“Now, now. No judgment here. This is Day 1, Step 1. Any progress is good progress. No progress is still practice, yeah? I’ll be gentle on ya don’t worry. Not here to upset ya.”

She presses her lips together and nods and takes a deep breath to steady herself.

“Now. First, we’re gonna close our eyes, yeah?” He leads her through being in the present. Taking in the moment. Acknowledging every sound and feeling, the blades of grass tickling her bare legs, the buzz of bee’s and the warmth of the sun, a kiss of wind that rustled her hair. She could sense it all, that was fine, but now she had to let it all go. “Work to clear your mind. No worries. No curiosities and philosophical musings. Just be. If a thought comes, say ‘ello, and let ‘im be on ‘is way.”

She smiles at his playful lit in explaining and she finds comfort now with his touch, hands clasped together between them.

“We’re going to have a moment, now. Try to work on that for a bit. I’m here if ya need me.”

“‘Kay.” is her soft reply as she tries to clear her mind. The garden fades away, but her thoughts still clumsily barge in. Worries about the future, the past, is she doing it right, was he sure he had the right girl? She tries to push it away and struggles.

“Ya need help, luv?” he offers with a gentle rub of his thumb against her hand.

“Yes, please.” she asks in an almost whisper of a voice.

“No shame in asking me for help, right? So make it sound like ya aren’t ashamed. I’ll ask ya again. Do you need help, luv?”

“Yes.” she states clearly, louder and a nod to back it up.

“That’s a girl. I’m gonna use my energy to calm ya down. Don’t be afraid of it. You'll feel it.”

She takes a shaky breath. “Okay. I’m not. Thank you.”

“Good girl.” he acknowledges her attempts at being self-assured and squeezes her hands. He didn’t have to, but he thought a physical cue might help her out at these early stages.

She does feel it, and it feels amazing. A shiver up her spine, his power like cool water in her veins as she exhaled in a sigh, feeling her shoulders lose their tension. Is what relaxed felt like? She didn’t know her.  “Oh, wow.” she exhales.

“Good?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“S’good.” she gives a dazed smile that he doesn’t see. A grunt in response is all she receives.

There’s an easy silence between them. She doesn’t know how long it goes on, but she felt like a popsicle left out in the sun, a puddle on the grass, a fat happy frog soaking up the sun for energy without a care. A thought floats by, and she decides to share it. “Am I...looking for something?” she asks.

“If ya like. It’s a bit advanced but we certainly can. You can ask a question, ask for guidance, clarity, divination. Whatever ya like.” he explains.

“I’d like to try.” her voice quiet but due to the relaxed state she was in and not from fear any longer.

“Go on, then.” he reassures her.

“Do I have to share it with the class?” the honesty in her voice makes him let out a laugh, a quiet one as not to startle her but her endearing and effortless charm was taking him by surprise.

“Nah, luv.” he chuckles out and gives her hand a delicate brush with his thumb again to show support.

What do I even ask? She wondered. I’d like to know… anything at this point. Okay, focus. I wanna know who he is. Who… we are if we’re these… soul mates. I just wanna know what it all means. Hmmph, not asking for much there are you. She sighs out of frustration and focuses up again.

He feels her drifting and pull back and smiles. She’s learning fast.

I want to know who this man is. Who is this Alfie Solomons? Do I trust him? Is he who he says he is? What is it that I feel when he’s near, this vibrating energy inside that feels like I’m on the verge of something, good or bad I don’t know. I just want to know...anything really….please? She would be the only one who could give puppy dog eyes to the universe and have it bend to her will.

After a short while, a not awkward silence, he feels something. A tingling in his fingers first, then moving up his arms. Were they falling asleep? It wouldn’t make much sense he wonders but he soon realizes it’s coming from her. It grows warmer as if he’d sunk into a hot bath. He ran cold, like a reptile, cold-blooded before her, and feeling warm blood in his veins was something he hadn’t felt in over a hundred years. A wiggle of his heart in his chest, a warm slinking feeling up his neck and into his mind. It was far stronger than anything he expected. But he would soon find out, she was a lot stronger already than he anticipated. Her coy nature and shyness a mere cover for the intensity that lies beneath. She had been protecting everyone else with her reservations, not protecting herself.

Her intention ran through him, she wanted to know him, and her power sought him out. The universe said, if you want him, have him, I only made him for you after all, and lets her creep into his mind. It all came in flashes, waves on a shore that faded in and out, too fast to grasp it all at once.

She smelled alcohol. Something sweet and deep, she could hear machines, men yelling, heavy footsteps up old wooden stairs. There were strongly scented leather books, piles of paperwork and a feeling of unease. Another wash of nostalgia washes over her, she sees a dog, happy and excited. She sees an empty bed sat in a dark room filled with books and papers, the walls covered in so many different things, both common and rare that she couldn’t make them all out. She smells the strong scent of cleaning chemicals, a woman by a sink, working hard and a feeling a longing overtaking her. There’s a hat over the doorway, a beacon for something important, a cane by a bed, bottles that looked like medicine on a nightstand. She saw blood in the sink, a sinking in the pit of her stomach.

“Mae.” she hears him echo in her head. He wasn’t speaking aloud. “Stop it. You don’t want to go there. -I- don’t want you to go there. You won’t find what you want here. Go back.”

Her eyes fluttered behind their lids, her hands grasping his, his underlying anger showing itself for her uninvited intrusion.

A hiss that wasn’t Alfie snaps up and shuts her out. It speaks a language she does not know, but it doesn’t frighten her, although she wonders for a moment if it should. His darkness. She knew it immediately. She’s endlessly fascinated. A black smoke, formless and endless whirling, moving through muck and earth as she pursued it with hungry curiosity. -Come see. Your answers.- a distinctly masculine but not human voice says, the smoke twists into a long cylindrical shape, it forms and shifts, an awe-inspiring black iridescence comes to shape. She sees a snake, endless, it could fit in her mind but was larger than the planet somehow. She knew he, his darkness, was the snake. A fitting symbol of rebirth and transformation, immortality and renewal, as death and destruction were all forms of creation in the end. It was as if she were being gifted with sight for the first time. She could see him, and know what his essence stood for.

Sunlight shone on it and the most beautiful colors came off its scales. She realized she was the source of the light. It twists up and directs her eyes to a moon. It’s blue, purple and green, all pastel and colored like the snake. They were one, they were the night and the darkness and everything that called it home. The dirt, the death it holds, both old and new, the beasts that only emerged to worship the moon and live in the dark were its children. Every cold-blooded animal, every reptile and insect knew it and didn’t fear it. So it came for her to understand, neither should she.

She sees her sun take form, moving towards the moon. She felt no fight between them. It was as if they wanted to be close, but had long been separated by the sides of the earth. Something that existed, but didn’t, that faded in and out unnoticed until it was already upon you. They radiated blindingly bright together, and the behemoth snake reveled in it. She felt a strange pull, a split from herself as a rabbit came into view. The snake circled itself, mouth to tail as it writhed, an ouroboros as the white rabbit neared. The rabbit was her, she realized. She was seeing her light, the mate for his darkness. A rabbit she pondered, watching he fearless bound about in the sunlight, warm thick fur and a wet twitching nose, full of life and energy. Her light was life, fertility, and growth, creation and desire. A vulnerability, a softness unparalleled was what she contained. She suddenly understood it. Understood what it meant to be her, to be him, and thus, understood why they had been destined to find each other.

The rabbit and snake entwine, the sun and moon fusing, something that should’ve seemed unholy or apocalyptic seemed to make perfect sense to her. It all came together, just like everything did, from the first creation to the last, she’d always been there, and so had he. She, life, sending him, death, her gifts that he loved so much he kept them forever. A blinding light went dark and she was no longer separate from herself as she gasped and went eyed, flung back into the present, in her human body, hands tight around Alfie’s forearms, nails digging in and sweat pouring from her.

He blinked at her, the most curious expression on his face as she caught her breath. “You understand now, don’t you?” It was more of a rhetorical question at this point. “You’re more powerful than even I knew, Mae.” he pauses again, waiting for her to process it all.

“Yeah… I am.” she says with the first absolutely certain tone she might’ve ever had in her life.

“You’ll only grow more so from here. You’ve surpassed my expectations already.” he pats her shoulder and they meet eyes, as if for the first time. He sees her with a question and not fear in her eyes. She had found the answers she was looking for. At least she had enough knowledge now to grasp the situation. “This is only the beginning, luv.”

I tried to reverse search the image and came up empty handed so if you know whose it is, I’l gladly credit them. 

@jaegeeeeer​  @brianaisasongbird​ @hardygal69​ @emerald-bijou​ @captstefanbrandt​ @coolgh0st​ @tinastarkandco​ @xstylishmileage​   @s-h-e-w-r-i-t-e-s​ @peakys-mystic​ 

[paintedwithapalette]

Art by @summonerdagger88​

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Memories of You Chapter 12 (snippet)

Word Count: 1,755

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"For a second there, I wasn't sure if you were going to show up,” Naminé said. “I thought you might ditch me for the Guardian Festival."

"Actually, it was the other way around," Roxas said as he took it upon himself to get comfortable and plopped onto Naminé's bed, tying his hands behind the back of his head as he shut his eyes. "I kinda ditched my friends at the festival to hang out with you."

"I still can’t quite understand why you would do that."

Roxas shrugged. "I've known those guys for years and I've been to plenty of festivals and parties with them. I think they'll live. You can always count on old friends, but I think I’d rather prioritize a newer one.” 

Naminé couldn’t fight back the small smile. “I... suppose so.”

“Besides, the festival will be going for the rest of the week. Maybe I'll go tomorrow."

"Yeah, but..." Naminé trailed, twiddling her thumbs. "...I don't want to be the reason for any rifts between you and your friends."

Roxas smiled at her. "You're not going to cause a rift between us. I'm sure they understand."

"I guess I just think the festival sounds a lot more fun than hanging out with me. Aren't I kind of boring in comparison?"

Roxas scoffed. "If I thought you were boring, I wouldn't be here."

Naminé massaged her left arm as she sat on her bed next to Roxas. "Well, I don't think there's much we'll be able to do at my place today. My dad is downstairs and I don't think he plans on leaving, which means whatever we do, we'll have to be quiet about it."

"...Are you hitting on me?"

Naminé's eyes widened and her cheeks flushed once she realized how suggestive her words sounded. "I meant we can't watch bad movies downstairs or something! Get your head out of the gutter."

Roxas laughed. "If you say so." He noticed Mocchi eating in her bowl across the room and sat up. "Mocchi! Come here, girl."

The cat peered her head from her breakfast and licked her snout. She stared at Roxas for a moment before returning to her food.

"Guess she still doesn't like me very much," Roxas said.

Naminé sent him the slightest of smirks. "How many times do I have to tell you she isn't a dog? Cats don't work like that. You have to let her warm up to you."

"How do I do that?"

"Nothing," Naminé replied curtly. "You don't choose the cat, the cat chooses you. She'll come to you once she's more familiar with you."

"Understood, sensei." Roxas tapped his chin. "Guess it's a good excuse to keep coming around more often then, huh?"

Naminé tucked some hair behind her ear. "Guess so."

Roxas cleared his throat and rolled over until he was sitting next to Naminé. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

Her eyes widened. "You're leaving that up to me? Aren't you supposed to be the one that takes initiative?"

"I was gonna suggest another movie but it looks like that's off the table. Now, I'm kinda stumped."

"Well, I don't know what to do. I suck at coming up with plans, Roxas," she said in a whiny voice. "It's not like it's something I do often..."

Roxas crinkled his eyebrows in thought. "Is it... really such a bad thing if your father sees me?" he asked. "Don't you think it'd be better if you just introduced me? It's not like we're, um... you know."

"R-Right." Naminé kept her eyes trained on her twiddling thumbs. "I'm not sure if that's such a good idea. He gets really... overbearing. My father isn't exactly one to trust people. Even if the situation is harmless."

"Sounds kind of extreme."

"He has his reasons," she said cryptically. 

Roxas searched for a solution in his head. He inwardly admitted he should have come a bit more prepared considering it was the week of the festival when very few people went to work. They sat in a comfortable silence until Roxas snapped his fingers. "Oh, duh. We can just go to my place," he said nonchalantly as he stood up. He eyed her current attire of a camisole and pajama shorts. "You might wanna get dressed."

"Wha—w-wait a minute! Where'd that come from all of a sudden?"

Roxas raised an eyebrow. "You said it yourself: there's not much to do here. No harm in getting some sunshine every once in a while. You look like you could use some," he added with a wink.

She glared at him for his unnecessary comment. "You better not be planning on trying anything funny."

Roxas frowned. "You better not be serious about that."

She gave a trollish smile. "Just wanted to see your face."

Roxas cleared his throat. "Look, are you coming or not?"

Roxas wasn't wrong. Inappropriate jokes aside, what could they do cooped up in her room all day? Besides, if her father unexpectedly dropped in, that would spell all kinds of bad news. But she didn't feel like being by herself either.

"Okay," Naminé muttered. "Let's do it, I guess."

Roxas smiled. "Great."

"I-I hope you realize I'll have to get ready first," Naminé quickly clarified. "I have to take a shower and figure out what I'm going to wear and—"

"What? Aww, come on."

"Hey, even I have some dignity with how I'm presented to the outside world. I mean, just look at my hair and—” 

"Okay, I see your point,” Roxas said, cutting her off before he got a laundry list of Naminé’s insecurities. Though, it earned him a frown in the end. “Fair enough."

Naminé began twiddling her fingers. "Umm, you know you're not staying in my room while I shower, right? I'm going to be getting dressed here."

Roxas felt his face flush when images of Naminé—he stopped himself right there. "I mean, I get not wanting me to see you but we're kind of backed into a corner here."

"Just go wait in Kairi's room or down the hall."

Roxas rolled his eyes. "You and I both know that'd be a dumb idea. I'll just stand in the corner of the room and keep my eyes closed."

"Nope, sorry. Please leave."

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not that," Naminé assured. "It's just... w-weird."

Roxas tapped his foot impatiently. "Well, where am I supposed to go? Out the window?"

Two minutes later, Roxas found himself begrudgingly climbing out the window. He found the circumstance rather annoying considering he couldn't enjoy the AC unit filtering out the sticky, humid air inside of the Villiers residence and instead had to be submerged in his own sweat thanks to the Destiny Islands heat.

Naminé poked her head out of the window and gave him a guilty but gracious smile. "Thanks for understanding, Roxas."

He narrowed his eyes. "Just hurry up."

Roxas sat in the grass with his back against the wall as he waited for Naminé to get ready. He tried to be as patient as he possibly could, but the heat wasn't making it very easy for him. He could barely scroll through social media on his phone due to his sweaty fingers. After an agonizing forty-five minutes, Naminé poked her head out her window again.

"S-Sorry for the wait," Naminé said.

Roxas was quick to get up to his feet. "About time. Pretty sure I was seconds away from a heat stroke. Ready to go?"

"Yeah, um, I think so," Naminé said, trailing off with her eyes darting in all sorts of directions. 

"What is it?" Roxas asked with a hint of frustration. 

"I-I'm, uh... not sure what I should do," she said. "I don't think I can go out the front door. For... obvious reasons."

"Then I guess we only have one option," Roxas said, a smirk playing his lips.

Naminé gulped. "This is weird. I've never jumped out of a window before."

"It's not that bad of a jump. I've climbed up and out of there a bunch of times."

"Yeah, well, not everyone is a stalker like you." Roxas gaped at the jab. "Kidding. I just don't want to break my neck, that's all."

"You're not gonna break your neck," Roxas said exasperatingly. "I'll catch you, okay? Think of it like one of those trust exercises."

"Roxas... there's a big difference between falling into someone's arms who's less than a foot behind you and jumping out of a window!"

"Will you just come on?" Roxas asked as he held out his arms, his impatience becoming more apparent. "We'll be here for another twenty minutes when we could get it over with in twenty seconds. Sometimes, you just gotta take the leap of faith, Nam. Pun intended."

Naminé let out a whiny moan but figured he wasn't wrong. It would be better than having to come up with another lie for her father. "If I die, it's on your conscience."

Roxas scoffed. "Dramatic as usual."

"First things first," Naminé said before tossing out her sketchbook. Roxas caught it with a confused glance but shook his head. It seemed like Naminé didn't like leaving the house without it. He set it on the ground for the time being.

Naminé sat on her window sill with her legs dangling over the ledge. She bit her lip with anticipation of what was to come next. Roxas looked at her from below with his arms waiting for her. He did his best to be patient and gave her a smile full of encouragement. It helped, albeit a little.

"Here goes nothing..." she said to no one in particular. "See you on the other side, Mocchi."

Mocchi only watched confusedly as Naminé kipped herself off the ledge. Mocchi, unsure of what was happening and concerned for her favorite human's safety, made a dash on top of Naminé's bed and peeked outside only to find Naminé firmly within Roxas' arms. She was covering her own eyes with her hands despite wearing glasses. When she opened them, she found that Roxas was carrying her bridal-style.

"You okay?" he asked with a confident smirk.

Naminé returned a shy smile before she felt a sudden wave of heat in her face and she didn't think the cause was the sun. She quickly got out of his hold and picked up her sketchpad from the ground before it could get any dirtier. She turned around, flattened the wrinkles of her outfit, and pushed her glasses up to her face.

"F-Fine. Lead the way."

Link to full fic and full chapter and fic if anyone is interested in reading Memories of You! Thank you so much if you reached this far! 

[johns-prince]

Ok so this is going to be a long post but I need someone to explain something to me. I'm a guy, I'm gay and recently I just started to get obsessed with The Beatles and John especially. Let's say I have a mad crush on the guy. I was pleased to hear thanks to some blogs like yours that he was an lgbtq ally, and there is a chance that the man of my life was also a bisexual ( strongly leaning on the male side if I read some of your blogs including yours ). But my adoration for the man has been ---

shattered since I've read on various Beatles forums that he was very homophobic and shit it hurts me to hear that. I know that he has beat up a guy for implying that he was gay, trashed a movie on homosexuality in front of everyone ( I think the movie was called Victim ), that he would openly mock his gay manager Brian Epstein ( bless him ), has called gay people nasty names during a 70s interview like AKOMP stated, that he made fun of a musician by kissing him then pushing him away and called - him a " faggot " and other incidents I can't think of right now. It just hurts a lot because I adore this man, I'm madly in love with him but I'm starting to believe that all this support for the our community had been nothing but a shtick for the " peace & love " propaganda he and Yoko started in the 70s. He also said in a interview w himself that " bisexuality is trendy " which makes me believe that I'm right. I am lost & disappointed & I'm turning to you guys to clarify all of this to me pls.

Well first of all, hullo! I totally understand having a mad crush on John, as well as him being The Man of My Life. 

Yes, it’s true! The Beatles in general were very ahead of their time; none of them had any real issue with homosexuals, though perhaps a bit put off at times because of their upbringing and culture and all that, but they were supportive and never understood why these people were treated so poorly. They had a gay manager, it’d be weird for them to be homophobic while treating Brian like a parental figure, loved him and adored him [even if they did tease him a bit behind his back, or even in front of him-- they teased everyone, doesn’t mean they held any ill feelings towards Brian because he was gay] and being part of the music/artsy crowd, they all had gay/bisexual friends, open or not. 

I truly believe John was bisexual, and while he never outright stated it, I believe he would have eventually directly came out if he had not been killed. 

He was moreso testing the waters though, talking about that when he was 15 he thought he’d have to go and marry off some wealthy old woman or man to continue his passion for art/literature; frequented gay bars with Harry Nilsson, and while he claimed he did it to put off the press-- we know that what he did would have the opposite effect, the press would be constantly on watch, being that there was John Lennon going about gay bars! John could be a terrible liar; even during his Hamburg days, John was described as seeming at home in bars featuring drag queens, and was told he found it stupid how the ‘’culture’’ of gay individuals in industries like music or art, the “scenes” were championed, but the people in general were treated like shit; later on John says gay people are beautiful during an interview [in the 70s I believe]; he’s quoted saying that people should be able to love anyone, that it shouldn’t matter who someone loves; back to the Hamburg era, apparently John had been caught in a drag club/transvestite bar, you know, getting frisky with one by I guess the club runner? and he was all embarrassed of course, but the man didn’t judge him; John is described as someone who was always willing to experiment, after agreeing to a threesome with someone, again back in Germany, one female and another male [though the female was between them, not sure if anything happened between John and the other male]; yes I remember reading somewhere that John did kiss another male performer, before shoving him off and responded crudely; Yoko saying how she’d ‘’teasingly’’ call John a Closeted Fag; Yoko claiming John had told her he would have slept with a man, but he hadn’t found a man beautiful and intelligent enough for him to want to bed him [lies]; Yoko claiming that John had thought about having an affair with Paul; there’s rumors about John and David Bowie; that John had let Brian jerk him off and touch him during their trip to Spain [how John claims it wasn’t fully consummated, that is, no intercourse]; John in an interview saying how he hasn’t slept with a man-- but who knows? Life begins at 40!; John saying how Yoko reminded him of a bloke in drag, and how she was basically like a best mate, but it was easier because with her he could fuck her and love her in public; how he was found holding Brian’s hand by George and Pattie and someone else, and made it a note to showcase his holding of Brian’s hand, because being homosexual was still illegal then-- and there was John, trying to show that “yeah it’s okay.”; and there’s probably much more stories about John when it came to his sexual leaning towards men, though most have probably died with close friends and lovers.

Now, I think what happens is that these people forget the context surrounding John’s life; he wasn’t born in today’s world, he was born in the 40s and raised in the 50s-- being homosexual was illegal, and taught as something shameful, wrong, sick. Even though the boys were relatively very open and ahead of their time, they still grew up in all that, and so of course they still had ignorance and “fear” of homosexuality, of being anything but the expected standard of masculinity. 

John wasn’t the only one who mocked or teased Brian about being gay-- the other boys did it too, though moreso behind his back. John only did this when he was in a very sour mood though, as he did with anyone, he’d hone in on what was considered a sore spot, or weakness of theirs, and jab at it. He’d never mean anything by it though, and would often go talk to them afterwards an try to explain that-- his roundabout way of “apologizing,” that he never meant it, he was only joking, and he might hug them. No one was really safe from John’s sharp tongue when he got into those low points, aggressive and biting. John loved Brian, absolutely did, Brian was a very important paternal figure in John’s life as John never had a good one. When Brian died it devastated all of them, especially John, because again he had lost a very close male friend, too soon or too young, they’d always leave him. John loved Brian, and if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they’re either lying or ignorant themselves. 

Now, I think it was actually pretty important for John to tell that story about beating up Bob Wooler, and be as honest as he could about the whole thing, and owned up to his rather intolerant reaction to someone suggesting John was “a queer,” essentially [this was indeed after going off with Brian to Spain, so really everyone had been making sly comments– but that time around, John was drunk, and Drunk John is not at all sensible or cool]

“Bob had been insinuating that me and Brian had had an affair in Spain. And I must have been frightened of the fag in me to get so angry. I was out of my mind with drink - you know, when you get down to the point where you want to drink out of all the empty glasses; that drunk. And Bob was saying, ‘Come on, John, tell me about you and Brian - we all know.’ You know when you’re twenty-one, you want to be a man - if somebody had said it now I wouldn’t give a shit, but I was beating the shit out of him, hitting him with a big stick, and for the first time I thought, ‘I can kill this guy.’ I just saw it, like on a screen: if I hit him once more, that’;s going to be it. I really got shocked. That’s when I gave up violence, because all my life I’d been like that.”

- John Lennon, 1972 Anthology [x]

I think it says a lot, you know, John claiming he was afraid of the fag in him-- I mean, wouldn’t that mean that John knew a part of him was queer then? I think this was part of John confessing, though again, barely anyone caught onto it around that time. This is where I think John was projecting, and most of the ‘’homophobic’’ behavior he showcased was simply a product of internalized homophobia/biphobia. 

Also apparently John was INCREDIBLY, horribly remorseful and ashamed of what he had done to Bob-- I think he had gone to him and tried to apologize and show how sorry he was, how ashamed. 

I haven’t heard anything about John trashing the movie because of it being homosexual, so I can’t say much about that. 

So yeah, my conclusion is that a lot of what John did or said was a product of not only his upbringing/society and of internalized homophobia/biphobia. 

John grew up as a musician and individual in the “gay” scene, had many gay and bisexual friends from the industry, seemed to adore and love drag queens, was close friends with Elton Jon, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, loved and truly did look up to his manager Brian Epstein, thought it stupid gay people were treated like shite despite their contributions to the culture they all loved, thought Elvis was beautiful and was often caught commenting about it by friends, was always willing to “experiment,” his wife thought he was a bit of a closeted fag, that he would have slept with a man though he had never found one that met his expectations [liar], how his first love was Paul, that he fell for Paul’s looks like everyone else, thought Paul was the prettiest, Yoko claiming John had contemplated having an affair with Paul-- like, the list goes on. 

His support and acceptance of LGBT individuals was there long before Yoko-- so I wouldn’t really put the two in the same area, that being, yeah the whole political-era and “Peace and Love,” was brainwashing and influenced by Yoko, but not his beliefs towards the LGBT. 

Also, bisexual was seen as ‘’trendy’’ as, you see, bisexuality was actually considered a bit of a “new” thing; you were either gay or straight, even if you loved both men and women, you were considered a queer. I think that also messed with John’s already confused and frustrated view of his sexuality. And before that, it was considered a Bohemian Lifestyle-- try everything, sleep with men and women. 

I think if anything, John was possibility irritated with the fact bisexuality was considered a trend. 

I dunno, I try to remember the period and cultural context when talking about John, or anyone really, because it’s not very fair to judge them based on today’s culture and societal acceptance. It’s easy for us to judge them, not to try and understand them.

[normal-thoughts-official]

negative space

Raphael tells Magnus about his sexuality.

They have more in common than it seems.

Read it on ao3

Raphael knows that Magnus is behind him, but not by any means he can explain. Call it his sixth sense; even when Magnus isn’t moving, isn’t touching him, is barely breathing so as to not make a sound, Raphael knows he is there.

He appreciates it, though. The way Magnus makes sure to make himself invisible so as not to bother Raphael. He knows Magnus should have half a million questions on why the hell Raphael decided to invite himself into his house, but he waits for him to finish praying first, doing his best not to disrupt the moment.

Raphael really, really appreciates it. It’s one of the few times where he can truly feel at peace with himself, these days. Especially now that he doesn’t live with Magnus anymore, and is still getting used to the other people on his clan - and Magnus’ bitch of an ex, which he fully intends to take down in his name, but that’s a topic for another time.

And he breathes a little more easily with the way Magnus so clearly understands and respects that, making himself invisible so Raphael can have his sacred space. If anyone in the world were allowed to be wary of Raphael’s religion, it would be Magnus; Raphael knows what catholicism put Magnus through, ever since he was a small child trying to understand why his stepfather thought his mother was always dirty. Nevermind after that, when he had to watch everything he was be used as justification to kill others like him by the very same church who justified slaughtering his people all those centuries ago. Raphael knows Magnus sees nothing but blood when he looks at a crucifix, and Raphael can’t blame him.

Sometimes, he feels the same way.

But- but God feels like everything he has. He’s lost his family and all the ways he can remember them by, except for this. The crucifix and the prayers his mom had taught him and Rosa, the easy, calming words that felt like home and protection. If he loses his praying, he loses the last threads he still has to hold on to them.

He misses the chance to hear his mom and Rosa’s voices going along with him, echoing his words. Being together and in tune again.

He rises from his knees and turns to Magnus. “Sorry for barging in,” he says.

Magnus dismisses that phrase with a practiced flourish of his hand. Raphael knows he’s more worried than he’s letting on - he’s very fluent in Magnus’ body language by now. The more comfortable he looks, the less he feels, and the more smoothly he moves, the more chaotic his mind is. “That is no problem. You’re always welcome here, my dear boy,” he says, pouring himself a drink. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have been able to get past my wards, anyway.”

Raphael smiles, despite himself. “I’m pretty sure I’d have found a way if I needed to.”

Magnus raises an eyebrow at him. “This loft is more secure than most of the Clave’s buildings,” he says. “You might be fast, but you’ll never be faster than magic.”

Raphael doesn’t find it in himself to take Magnus’ disguised little challenge. He wants to throw another little jab at him, he does, but he can’t do it. Instead, he just flops down on his couch, picking at nonexistent seams in the armrest. Magnus sits across from him soon after, even if his movement is a lot more elegant than Raphael’s. That has him raising his eyes. Magnus really worries too much.

Magnus is looking directly at him. “You know you’ll always be welcome here, my dear,” he says carefully, taking a sip of his drink. He doesn’t say anything else, but Raphael knows the question he’s making.

He doesn’t leave it to hover over their heads. “I just,” he sighs, “I’m not into people.”

Magnus lets out a small chuckle, even if his smile morphs into an almost thoughtful look almost as soon as he hears it. He’s not looking at Raphael anymore, but rather at his drink. “You know, after living with you for quite a few decades, I don’t think that’s really true,” Magnus says.

“No,” Raphael says, desperate for a meaning he can’t quite grasp, “I’m not into people. I’ve never been.” He looks up at Magnus, who looks back at him with furrowed brows. “No one,” he finishes lamely.

Magnus keeps looking at him, something unreadable trying to hide in the corners of his eyes.

It puts Raphael in a situation he’s very rarely in - feeling oppressed by the silence, rather than calmed down by it.

So he continues to talk. “It’s not a vampire thing. Or a Catholic thing,” he adds. “If anything, the priests seem to think there’s something wrong with me, too. I’ve tried- asking them. If that’s how they felt. But they said celibacy is a sacrifice, so it can’t be. That was when I was a kid,” he clarifies. “Well, not a kid, about 15 years old or so. I was just so confused. So tired of waiting for it, to start feeling like everyone said I would when I grew older.”

Magnus seems to have relaxed in his chair now, even if he’s not touching his drink. Now that he knows what to expect, he just settles into letting Raphael speak, careful and attentive. Raphael really, really loves Magnus for it.

“Ever since I was 13, that seemed to be all everyone could think about. It started to feel like such a cage. You know, in México,” the word rolls slowly off his tongue, swiftly and comforting. It’s the best taste of home he can have these days, ever since he was bitten and lost his rights to everything else. He loves saying it, loves the familiar sounds of his native tongue, the one word he allows himself to always say in it. Loves how it feels like coming home, like it dances with voices that tell a million stories, “touching people was just- normal. Kissing people on the cheek. Hugging them. Speaking loudly,” he laughs, “It was a part of everyday life. And then I came here, and every time I did that, people would yell. Adults thought I was being dirty and disrespectful, and the other kids, they thought about sex. And I hated it, because I didn’t want that. I just wanted to feel a little like home.

“That’s not- that’s not the reason,” he continues. “It didn’t make me uninterested. I was never interested, don’t think I could ever be. The idea that every time I touched somebody, it had to be related to sex, it was disgusting to me. I started to hate being around people and getting close to them, because everyone would make it about that."

He takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Even when I wasn’t touching them. Sometimes I’d just be around and someone would tell me that I looked like I was good in bed.” A shiver runs down his spine at the memories of that, of how many times he had been told that of course he meant his touches or words in a sexual way, that’s what people like him are all about. “It made me want to rip my skin off.”

Magnus looks sympathetically at him. There’s a pain in his eyes that feels too similar to Raphael’s own.

Raphael draws in another breath and tries not to shake. He knew, of course he knew, from every single rational part of his being, that Magnus would never judge him for it, not when he had seen such worse sides of Raphael before. But something still made him nervous of telling Magnus about it.

Magnus was so- normal. He was so into sex. And Raphael knew, of course, that for someone like him, who didn’t restrict his attraction to women, that was a double-edged sword that could cut him just as deep as Raphael. But a part of him couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Magnus for the way sex seemed to be so natural to him, even when Raphael knew that wasn’t exactly the truth.

He just wishes he could be like the person Magnus sometimes pretended to be.

“I felt like either I was completely wrong, or it was such a cruel joke. Everyone thought I could be nothing but that, and I never wanted anything to do with it."

He barely registers the small, sympathetic nod Magnus gives him. He's not registering much of anything; his eyes feel foggy, unfocused. Like they're not facing outwards.

“I asked for God’s forgiveness, you know,” he finally says, the words tasting like bile. “I prayed that He’d forgive me for not being like He wanted. Like He made everyone to be. It didn’t even occur to me to ask Him to change me, because the idea was so disgusting, I just couldn’t bring myself. But I was so scared that He’d turn his back on me for not complying to His plan.”

“My dearest boy,” Magnus says, his voice sounding like tears.

Raphael goes on, unable to stop. If he halted at Magnus’ words, he’d he run over by the words he’s trying to say; they wouldn’t wait for him, and are perfectly willing to crush him under their weight. “And then I was Turned, and I thought, this is it. He’s really abandoned me. I’m officially an abomination. It felt like He was saying, ‘I won’t forgive you. I will never forgive you’. Like He was making me a monster on the outside, so it could match the inside.

“And one of the worst parts- God, there are so many, but definitely one of the worst parts- is that I was even more sexualized."

His following chuckle is so bitter it feels more like a spit.

“Everyone thinks vampires are so- sexy. Even vampires themselves. And don’t get me wrong, I’m starting to find a family in my clan, I am. Well, except for,” he grimaces, trying to stop his fangs from showing in threat. He doesn’t miss the way Magnus crosses his legs like he’s trying to justify the way his body tenses. God, Raphael didn’t even say her name. A fresh new wave of hatred washes him over, and it feels almost welcome after so much emptiness. “I’m gonna take her down, Magnus, I promise.”

“That’s not your-” Magnus starts, making something with his face that looks like a smile, but feels nothing like one. When Raphael just looks at him, he interrupts himself with a sigh, and gestures for him to go on.

“Yes, it is. She makes everyone miserable, Magnus.”

They look at each other. Stillness stretches between them, like a rubber band being pulled by both sides. It feels threatening, the kind of threatening that makes you want to flee.

Raphael relents. “But there’s just this- atmosphere, with vampires.” he gestures vaguely around himself. “Everything, it just feels so sexual, all the time. And everyone thinks that of us, too, even other downworlders. God, and I thought the one upside was that if it made me more pale, people would stop saying stuff like that.”

Magnus looks at him way too sadly, so he rushes to continue, scared of Magnus’ ever-present empathy. It feels too real to be talked about right now. “But when I’m with them, especially Camille-” he can barely contain the venom in his voice at her name. He idly hopes it doesn’t drip on Magnus’ carpet, “It feels as oppressive as it did in middle school. Just, everything seems to be about it. And she- when I refused to help her turn a mundane, she said, you’re way too hot to be so fucking frigid.”

Magnus closes his eyes at that like he’s been punched, and Raphael flinches. Fuck. How can he just go around running his mouth like that? He knows how it’s gonna land. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No,” Magnus sighs, “I’m the one who’s sorry. Camille is-” he stares into his drink, at a loss for words.

Raphael hates seeing Magnus without words. They’re some of his best weapons. It makes Raphael want to shield him, to take bullets in his place.

“That’s why I came here,” he says, voice small, like it’s trying to pick up a lost animal. “I just. I couldn’t take being there anymore. I needed a few minutes, I needed- some peace.”

Magnus nods. “I’m glad you find it here.”

Raphael huffs out a laugh, and doesn’t say that he can’t find it anywhere else.

“You know,” Magnus says after a long pause, “you’re not the only one.”

Raphael looks up at him. There is no way Magnus feels like he does.

Magnus chuckles like he knows what Raphael’s thinking. “Ragnor is like that, too. He doesn’t terribly mind it, isn’t disgusted by it, but he doesn’t like it. And he’s never- liked anyone, even beyond the physical aspects, either.”

Raphael shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I do like people. Just- never enough to want them like that. To want to be like that.”

Magnus nods. “I’ve met other people who were like that, too. When I used to hang out with Marsha and Sylvia, and the others. Right before I found you, in fact.”

Raphael finds himself smiling, despite himself. ‘Hang out’ is an amazing code for helping them wreak havoc all over town in the fight for liberation. Of all the things Magnus has done, Raphael thinks this is one of the most amazing ones.

“I know I already told you about that, but there were all kinds of people in those marches. People like me, who liked people of every gender. People who were of every gender you can think of. People who liked only one, but not the “right” one. And people who liked neither. Or only liked them sometimes. Or liked them, but never wanted them. Somewhere along the beginning of the 70s, they wrote a Manifesto.”

“A Manifesto?,” Raphael asks, hating the way his whole body perks up.

Magnus smiles in such an understanding way Raphael immediately relaxes. “Yes. I don’t remember the details, because I wasn’t a part of its writing, and I wasn’t particularly close with Lisa,” he clarifies, “and it didn’t get as much attention as all the- brick throwing. But they said they felt just like you - like sex had always been forced on them one way or another, and that it made them feel trapped. There were quite a lot of people like that involved with the marches. It’s not just you.”

Raphael stops for a moment, feeling like the whole world is about to drop from its axis.

“Yeah?” he asks, hoping for something, and not knowing what.

“Yes,” Magnus says, firm, like he’s trying to regain Raphael’s footing with his words. Raphael takes a deep breath, and somehow, the air tastes different. He feels- sure-footed, something he just now realizes he hasn't felt in a long, long time.

Magnus hesitates for a second, hand hovering mid-gesture. “You know I’m not christian,” he says, “But I don’t think god would make so many people like that if they were against his plan. And you, my boy,” he says, slowly reaching out to hold Raphael’s hand in his. Raphael lets him. Truth be told, he misses it, terribly misses the days where a touch was just a touch, and he didn’t have to run from its implications. He thanks his God every day for giving him Magnus, and Ragnor and Cat, the only people he truly felt comfortable enough with to allow himself to appreciate that. He feels something rising in his throat, a kind of belated shaking, like he's mourning himself. “You don’t have to ask for forgiveness. There is nothing wrong with you.”

Raphael takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He closes his eyes to try and keep any tears from falling, like it would have been a personal offense to let them. He appreciates how Magnus doesn’t comment, either, or reaches up to wipe them, just leaves Raphael to it, to putting himself back together and finding his way through their silence.

He feels like a cheap copy of himself sometimes. He craves the silence, but only so his mind can fill it with noises. The laughter of his sister, the screamings of his mamá, the loud songs they would sing together and the yells of the pressure cooker when they were making frijoles. He can’t hear these sounds anymore. He needs the silence if he wants them to come out, tentative like they’ve been hiding.

He’s lost everything. The comfort of touches, the smell of home, the taste of the foods that are so dear to him, his family. All he has is a language no one around him knows how to speak, and a crucifix that seems to grip him back, just as tightly and oppressive, when Raphael prays.

Magnus just sits there, sharing his loneliness with him, and he knows Magnus understands better than he wishes he did. Raphael gives them both a few more moments, tries to focus on the warmth of Magnus’ hand on his, and not on how cold his own must feel in return.

“You know,” Magnus says, breaking the silence. “When Camille and I broke up, I slept around a lot.”

Raphael nods. He knows that.

“But- I never wanted anyone to touch me,” he continues.

That one is new to him.

“I just felt so- disgusting.”

He makes a long pause, takes in a breath. “She’d tell me I was, too.” Magnus looks up at his own ceiling, as if trying to drop something down his throat. “I know it’s not the same, I’m not saying it was. But I just- so long with her telling me what a freak I was, how weird my body was, how disproportionate. You know she used to laugh when I undressed. Or when I got dressed, for that matter,” he laughs.

It doesn’t sound like a laughter should.

“I just wanted to please her so bad, and never felt like I could. And when I didn’t want to, she’d get - so vicious. She’d make me feel worthless. After a while, I started to forget what I used to like or not in bed. It was all about her, about that nagging fear that I was going to lose my- my worth, my everything, if I didn’t get her what she wanted.”

Raphael tries not to growl, and concentrates his energy on gripping Magnus’ hand back, instead.

“So when we broke up, part of me wanted to find that again, to remind myself what good things felt like. To feel like I could do whatever I wanted with my body. But- but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want anyone to touch me. I felt disgusting. I’d- pleasure them, and then I’d wave them away, and even if I was the one who didn’t want them to touch me, I still felt like they were disgusted with me. I felt used. But I’d still do it again and again. Sometimes, looking back, I think I was just trying to find my worth the only way I still remembered how. The only way that ever worked with her.”

Magnus makes a brief pause to let out a shaky breath. Then he continues, “what I’m trying to say is, I know how oppressive sex can be. I know it can feel so- imposing. Like a cage. Like something so terrible and scary you’d rather lock yourself away than ever let it be near you. And I know how no one talks about that, how they always want people - particularly people like me and you, immigrants, downworlders, brown people, you name it - to want it. All the time. How scary it is to not want to. How wrong you feel. It’s not the same, but- but I know that it feels all of that, and I know that it isn’t true. There’s nothing wrong with you. There isn’t. And I’m glad you respect yourself enough to not do what I did, even if I wish you didn’t feel so- suffocated, all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Raphael manages, squeezing Magnus’ hand again, and letting his forehead rest on Magnus’ shoulder. The both of them shake, and Magnus kisses the top of his head.

They stay like this, holding hands, Raphael resting against Magnus’ shoulder, feeling the careful circles he makes on the back of his neck. It’s peaceful, and it’s quiet, and it feels like sharing sorrows, but not loneliness anymore.

“You’re not alone,” Magnus says again.

Raphael smiles, invisibly. “I know,” he answers.