#she's about to run a errand to hell for some... special attires~

[impulsivemuses]

"As yours looks as cold as a comforting winter, I must say." She wasn't one to deny a compliment from a stranger, one who looked so elegant and yet... curvaceous in her own right. Mary couldn't help from across the room that Frost had this... attire that Mary wished she could've had, but she planned to make an amend of.

"The horns aren't for show I promise, though you wouldn't want to find out how bad they can get when I get pissed off." The last time she EVER had to use that form is when she found out Judas was killed by the civilians after they had witnessed JC being executed themselves. So, her horns could grow up to at least 4-5 inches longer then her normal state.

"I see you picked an EXCELLENT outfit to wear here. People are going to be eyeing that sexy strut of yours." Can't be Mary without her own flirtatious comment.

her eyes drifted up and down the rather busty goat with a hand on her own cheek. Was she a Demon? Of course she'd studied many books about such beings though, had never actually met one. It was certainly interesting and she was clearly eyeing the taller woman up and down.

" Your fur is quite eye-catching... though are those horns just for decoration? "

her ear flicked as she became quite intrigued by the goat

" Your Aura--- My i imagine you have quite the story.. don't you "

@impulsivemuses

[rbbalmung]

Pokemon SwSh GPL AU: Get to know ______ P3

It’s time for THE BOYS. My biggest conclusion from putting this together is that while Raihan enjoys pushing everyone else’s buttons, Leon is the only person that can fluster the hell out of him. Please enjoy. 

Get to Know: Leon x Raihan (TrueRivalShipping)

1: Who spends almost all their money on the other? Leon. He feels like the type of person whose love language is gift giving (ex. giving Hop Wooloo and Grookey, giving Gloria Scorbunny, Yamper, and Charmander, ect.). That being said, he’s terrible at getting gifts. He can tell exactly what type of Pokemon a person would want and catch it, but presents? He once got Raihan a charmander watch made for kids without even considering it wouldn’t fit him. 

2: Who sleeps in the other’s lap? Leon. They’re both tall, but Lee’s the smaller of the two. 

3: Who walks around the house half-naked and who yells at them to put on some clothes? Raihan would definitely strut around just to get a reaction out of Leon. Half the time his intentions are to get him into bed, but the other half? Embarrass Leon when he’s on Rotom calls with his mum (don’t worry, he wears pants for those instances). 

4: Which one tells the other not to stay up all night and which one stays up all night anyway? They’re both night owls. They stay up either playing video games or watching Netflix (or whatever the pokemon equivalent to that is). They had to invest in a bigger couch due to how often they have passed out on it. (When I say bigger couch, I definitely mean a futon. They just straight up by the closest thing they can to another bed). 

5: Which one tries to make food for the other but burns it all by accident and which one tells them that it’s okay and makes them both cookies? Hop inherited their mum’s cooking skills. Since Leon spent most of his young adult life as a champion who never really had time to stay at home and cook a real meal, it is up to Raihan to provide. Lee was permanently designated to cleanup duty after nearly burning the apartment down. 

6: Which one reads OTP prompts and says “Oh that’s us!” and which one goes “Eh, not really”? Leon would say,” Oh, that’s us!” and Raihan would say,” Eh, not really?” just to spite him. There is a lot of teasing and playful banter in their relationship. 

7: Which one constantly wears the other’s clothes? Raihan, but only because he would literally murder Leon if he borrowed one of his designer sweatshirts. There’s also the added benefit that Lee’s clothes are a lot comfier. 

8: Which one spends all day running errands and which one says “You remembered [thing], right?” Leon isn’t allowed to run errands by himself because he’d get lost, so Raihan is usually the grocery-getter. Raihan will be in the checkout line and almost always get a last minute text from Leon asking for one more item. It drives Raihan bonkers. 

9: Which one drives the car and which one gives them directions? Leon is the driver, and Raihan is the “direction giver” (let’s be real, he’s more focused on what song they play next than getting them to their destination). If it’s a group road trip, neither of them are allowed in the front because they’ll just end up getting everyone lost. 

10: Which one does the posing while the other one draws? Ok, so I don’t really think one of them would draw the other. They’re much more of an “active, sporty couple” than an “artsy couple”. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened, though. During one of their dates, they decided to doodle each other on their napkins to help pass the time. They were both terrible and it got really heated when the waitress chose Leon’s drawing as “slightly less worse”.  

11: If they were about to rob a museum, which one does backflips through lasers and which one is strolling behind with a bag of chips? Are you kidding? They’d both try to out-do each other. Both backflippers. 

12: Which one of your OTP overdoes it on the alcohol and which one makes the other stop drinking? I feel like even though Leon has more body mass than Raihan, he’d be the lightweight of the two. Both have been in the League since they were in their late teens, but Leon’s public image had a lot more specifications than Raihan’s. That meant Raihan got to go to a lot more college parties on his nights off and build up his tolerance. Leon’s public relations manager didn’t let him even look at alcohol until he stepped down as champion. He had to “set a good example for his young fans”. (Sufficed to say, Gloria quickly got a new PR manager when she filled his role). 

14: Which one keeps accidentally using the other’s last name instead of their own? Raihan learned that if he used Leon’s last name, he could get special treatment. It’s an abuse of power! Especially when they’re having dinner at the Hoffman house and Raihan casually slips in that he’s planning on taking Lee’s last name once they marry. Leon’s convinced his grandparents like Raihan better than they like him at this point.  

15: Which one screams about the spider and which one brings the spider outside? Raihan, though he’ll go to an early grave before admitting that. He just doesn’t want them getting webbing on his new shoes! Yeah...that’s it. 

16: Which one gives the other their jacket? Leon. It was mentioned above, but Raihan has to be in a really good mood in order to let Leon borrow his stuff. It isn’t that big of a deal, thankfully: The Hoffman boys are like personal heaters.  

17: Who keeps getting threatened by the other’s overprotective older sibling? Ok, ok, ok: Raihan is slightly intimidated by Hop. He just wants the best for his big bro! If that means calling Raihan out of his shit from time to time to keep him in line, so be it. Raihan can’t fight back either, because that’s his boyfriend’s little brother! One of the only things Leon gets testy over is people bullying Hop, so Raihan has to do it when he isn’t around. 

18: Who’s the first one to admit they have feelings for the other? Leon. It wasn’t one of those things where they’ve always liked each other, but after being friends for so long, their feelings blossomed into something new. Lee is a big flirt and never officially came out, so Raihan just figured he didn’t mean it whenever he complimented him. Leon literally confessed to Raihan at least five time before it sank in that he was serious. 

19: How good would your OTP be at parenting? I think they’d actually be pretty good! Leon helped raise Hop and he definitely has the dad act down, so adopting children would be something he’d be super interested in. Raihan may struggle a little bit at first (especially with where the line of what he could and couldn’t post on social media was), but he has a big heart. They would always be there for their kids. If Gloria and Hop are the cool parents, Leon and Raihan are the embarrassing ones. Would tease their kid lovingly. 

20: Which one types with perfect grammar and which one types using numbers as letters? Leon has sent a lot of professional texts because of his former position as champion, so he’d win by default. If they’re texting each other, it is all in numbers, emojis, and abbreviations. Sonia, Piers, and Nessa hate being in group chats with them. 

21: Who gets attacked by a bully and who protects them? Lee is the more protective of the two, especially when it comes to people bullying Raihan online. Raihan tries to tell him that he doesn't have to do it, but he’s secretly very flattered.  

22: Who makes the bad puns and who makes a pained smile every time the other makes a pun? Leon makes the worst dad jokes in the world. Sometimes he does it just to embarrass Raihan. 

23: Who comes home from work to see that the other one bought a puppy? They take turns. Raihan will catch a Hakamo-o to beat Lee’s Aegislash, only for Lee to catch an Azumarill from the Isle of Armor a week later. It’s a never ending game of trying to one up the other. 

24: Which one gives the other a piggyback ride when they’re tired? Leon. He’s pretty buff, so carrying Raihan around is nothing. He usually does it without asking if his boyfriend looks tired and flusters the heck out of him. 

25: Which one competes in some sort of activity and which one does the overzealous cheering? Ever since Leon left he league, he makes it a priority to go to every one of Raihan’s matches. He often dons ridiculous disguises in order to not get recognised, but he always gets recognised. There is an online forum just made up of pictures of him in different, weird attire. He might’ve even been able to slip by public notice if not for the fact that he tries to make AS MUCH NOISE AS POSSIBLE to cheer his boyfriend on.   

26: Who takes a selfie when the other one falls asleep on their shoulder? Is there even a possible different answer than Raihan? The man takes selfies as a living. You better believe he has 8 different folders of pictures of Leon. 

27: Which one would give the other a makeover if they asked? Raihan. Leon is so close to having style, but then he’ll throw on his signature snapback and a cape and ruin everything. You know the cape isn’t even a requirement for the champion to wear? Yeah, Lee just chose to wear it. He counts it as a small victory whenever Leon decides to buy something at one of Rai’s favourite stores.  

28: Which one owns a pet that the other is absolutely terrified of? Raihan tries not to get between Leon and Charizard. It’s a similar situation to the Hop one: Charizard is Lee’s baby, which means Raihan isn’t allowed to tease them.  

29: Which one holds the umbrella over both of them when it rains? Raihan, but he purposely will move the umbrella out from above Leon to get him soaked. It’s payback for all the other stuff he does. 

30: If your OTP went on vacation, where would they go and what would they do? Who would take the pictures? Like Gloria and Hop, I think they’d travel to all the regions. They’d have to do it on off seasons and couldn't stay long due to their duties in Galar, but they like seeing the new types of pokemon. Once again, Rai would take millions of pictures. He has a photo album per vacation, not just vacation in general.  

[salty-fang]

Twisted fate: Sugar edition

Chapter 2-

Marinette thought she was getting better. She really did. After all, she had adjusted to Gotham’s dark atmosphere and had only cried about losing Adrien twice. Per day. For a month. She was puzzled as to how she had ended up snarfing down Rocky road ice cream whilst bookmarking photos of Adrien. Upon noticing his toothy grin, captivating eyes and playful demeanour, a wan smile fixed itself on her face.

“No. Bad Marinette!” She remembered how quick he dropped her for Gabriel’s wishes and felt the cold, clammy hands of betrayal lace themselves around her throat.

‘Tight. Too. Tight.’ Her chest constricted as she let out a choked gasp. Her hands reached to shut her desktop down. Memories, terrible memories, flashed in her eyes. She had recognised those olive-green eyes. Those eyes clouded by greed, thirst and hunger. Hunger to trample the hopes of any opposition. Hunger to humiliate her. Hunger to seize every last important thing from her.

In a flurry, photos of her and Adrien came raining down. The mirth and adoration in her eyes evaporated, replaced by pain and bloodlust. Her bluebell eyes radiated a frigid coolness as her eyes fell upon the picture of Adrien and her third anniversary. Traitor. Her doe eyes narrowed and her mouth set in a thin line. Anger rolled off of her with each picture she ripped. She had read the attacks, the taunts and jabs at her for being a ‘whore, gold-digger’ and ‘attention seeker’. She had seen Adrien’s unresponsiveness to the situation, leaving her for the hounds to devour. Coward. She’d seen pictures of Adrien and that witch frolicking as she was left to pick up the broken pieces of her heart.

An unquenchable flame raged in her heart. With every memory, the flame burned brighter until the ache for love became unbearable. She hadn’t asked to be broken. She hadn’t asked to not be good enough. She hadn’t asked to lose control of her heart like she did but it still happened.

‘We could never be satisfied,’ she thought. The dull thrum of her heart rang in her ears as silence hung in the air. She knew she was anything special but, damn it, she thought she could be enough.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” Her shoulders shook with the effort of holding onto her sanity. A war waged in her mind as she searched blindly for anything, anything to ground her. She shouldn’t cry. He wasn’t worth it. She couldn’t cry. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking her. She wouldn’t -. A sound that could only be described as pure grief ripped through her throat, slashing the air. She rocked herself hoping, wishing and praying for his return to her.

She fondly whispered “He’ll come back. He always has, the idiot.” A glint of resignation shone in her eyes before she slept, her back against the wall by the door.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Damian loved Gina. He really did. He loved her composure in the face of danger and her frankly reckless attitude. But if one more person breathed her name, he would throttle them. So, when Todd teased Alfred for his fresh attire for Gina, he silently thanked the heavens for the opportunity to release some energy. He pounced, lunging for Todd’s throat wrapping his hands loosely. Nah, who was he kidding, his hands coiled tightly around his neck.

“Demon spawn, the hell?” Jason managed to choke out. Damian relished the pink hue that had crept up Jason’s face.

“Tim-no. Richard- ack, not you either,” Bruce started, voice hesitant. “Uh Duke?” he tried fumbling about for glasses and his coffee. “Ja-"

“Don’t even think about it old man, it’s Damian, you dolt,” Jason winced as he felt the nails dig into his neck.

"Ah yes, Damian, let go of him this instant. It is Damian, right? Right?" He heard the thud of someone's body hitting the floor.

Damian knew he hadn’t lost his touch. Assassin’s blood would forever run in his blood. His family were moronic buffoons, that he knew. But, if they thought he was turning ‘soft’ then they weren’t doing much to challenge the status quo and prove him wrong. They were simpletons through and through. And though he would never admit it, he loved them for it. As Jason warned him to watch his back, he couldn’t deny the thrill, the rush of adrenaline that ran through his body. Man, he loved this family.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Marinette felt weird. She knew something was wrong. The lingering feeling had teased her subconscious for a while, now. And if the urge to constantly pee, excessive vomiting and constant fatigue was anything to go on... she was pretty certain she had an inkling as to what was happening.

All it took was that test and she had her suspicions confirmed. The two lines that appeared filled her with dread and excitement. Choosing to focus on the latter for now, she squealed, shaking and shimmying the best that she could with her heavy feet. She was PREGNANT.

Crap, she was pregnant. They hadn’t talked about children. They hadn’t talked about raising a child. Their apartment wouldn’t have enough space for all of them. They didn’t have a name. They knew nothing about childbirth. They simply weren’t ready. Worst case scenarios ran through her head. What if she wasn’t a good mom? What if Adrien left her? What if he hated their baby? Or worse, what if she hated her baby?

'Wait... they used p-p-protection. So how?’ The notion cut off her train of thoughts, turning her into a blushing mess. She could feel the heat sear through her cheeks and she could see the contrast of her freckles against her flushed face.

‘Oh no. She couldn’t tell Adrien; she couldn’t burden him like that. Not when he already had so much on his plate. She wouldn’t tell him but maybe she could hint at it. Yes, that would be the ideal course of action.’

Adrien really was the most oblivious human alive. Marinette had forgotten about that factor. Two months later and Adrien still hadn’t gotten a clue. She refused to believe he was that blissfully ignorant. She stroked her developing stomach, contemplating whether she would just tell him or surprise him with a kid. She was opting for the second option as Adrien had looked more stressed than ever, running errands for Gabriel more frequently. God, she hated that man. He constantly critiqued her for ‘not being good enough for his son. After all, she was a Baker’s daughter.’

Marinette could still remember the times when Gabriel had tried to persuade her to leave Adrien without an explanation. He’d threaten her, try to win her over with money; anything to let his son be rid of her. Marinette knew the pain of being left in the lurch. She knew the pain of wondering if it was her fault. She knew the pain of wondering where it went wrong. She wouldn’t do it to him. Not like that.

And then, he’d broken up with her. She had regretted nothing. She’d left him whole. Maybe a little damaged but not scarred. And that was most important to her. She’d regret nothing. It was the least she could do to salvage what was left of her chipped heart.

Marinette had awoken to tender kisses placed on her forehead. Her Nonna looked like a mess. She looked frazzled yet she focused her energy into calming a frantic Marinette.

“Netta, my fairy, I’m,” Marinette whimpered. She could hear the shakiness in her Gigi’s voice. She was a bad luck charm. She always caused pain for everyone. Slowly, she peered up at Gina expecting disappointment to be etched on her face. Yet her face shone with love and her eyes were filled with pity, no, guilt. “I’m so sorry. I broke our pact. I’m no better than them.”

She curled in on herself, head bowed, breaths shallow.

“I’ve hurt you Marinette, I’m a failure.” A short sharp ‘enough’ cut her off. Leaving no room for deliberation, Marinette said

“Nonna, please, if anyone’s a failure, it’s me. I mean who would want a single, unemployed pregnant woman?” Gina sat with wild eyes, jaw slack as she processed what Marinette had just said.

“Hold up, you’re PREGNANT?”

“Have been for the last three months but you know.” She shrugged. She’d processed this already but Gina hadn’t. Gina had switched from pained to bubbly in the span of a few seconds. She screamed before peppering Marinette with questions. Marinette had answered most of her questions and told her killing Agreste- which one she had been referring to was a mystery- was off the table. She’d crush him and make him beg for mercy in her own time. She told her how ‘Adrien hadn’t known’ and by the time they’d finished, it was past midnight. Gina pulled her into a bone-crushing hug before tucking her into bed.

Marinette woke up with a sore back, throbbing headache and bloodshot eyes. She noticed Gina had crashed on the floor beside her sofa. The events of what had occurred last night replayed in her mind. She really fell asleep with his picture beside her for comfort. She’d called his girlfriend a witch. How was she supposed to look him in the eyes after that? She couldn’t even look herself in the eyes. She really wasn’t looking forward to their ‘date’ today. She rose, albeit reluctantly, and stretched. With a steady hand, she applied her mascara onto her lashes. Clad in a baby blue sundress and floppy hat, she set out in a bid to meet Adrien.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Marinette had arrived late but she had not expected this. Adrien and her had been enjoying their date and she had loved her triangle sandwiches. So, when Lila sashayed over, hips swinging , her mood soured and she groaned. Loudly. Apparently, that fuelled Lila's desire as she launched into an awkward kiss, teeth clashing against Adrien’s. Adrien remained motionless as she kissed him once. Twice. He felt her bite down hard on his bottom lip. He felt tears gather in the corner of his eyes. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He felt her tongue slip into his mouth, demanding satisfaction.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ he wondered. ‘I should be enjoying this. So, why does it feel so wrong?’

He responded on instinct, battling her tongue with his own, with an intensity he had saved for Marinette. When they pulled apart, saliva intertwined and breaths heavy, he noticed the hungry look in Lila's eyes. She seemed to forget Marinette’s presence as she moved to straddle his hips. An over exaggerated cough had Lila leaping from his lap, yelping before her eyes settled on the culprit. Marinette. Lila chose to sit beside Adrien, wrapping an arm around his tense shoulders.

“Still disgustingly fake as ever Lie-la,” she drawled. “No personality but I see you have paid for implants.”

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you again but I’d be lying. And I don’t lie,” she blinked innocently. “Now scram before things get a little steamy for your virgin eyes.” Her obnoxious voice grated on her nerves. She bit back a comeback as the urge to puke bubbled in her throat. She couldn’t stop herself as she vomited. Heavily. On Lila. At least Adrien had the sense to bound away before he got hit.

Lila was pissed. Marinette had wrecked her outfit with her sick. She couldn’t twist the situation maliciously as anyone with eyes could see Marinette was pregnant. So, in blind rage, she punched Marinette in the face.

“You deserve more, bitch.” Lila spat at Marinette. Lila had intended to punch her in the stomach when she felt a hand wrap around her fist. Marinette had growled at her and she actually felt scared. For the first time in her life, she backed down. She stalked away towards ‘her Adriboo’, who was having a hard time stifling his laughter. She pouted as she realised that her pride bruised.

“That will teach you to mess with me Lila.” Marinette levelled a glare at her before she bolted.

'Run.

Run! Don’t look back!

Just run!'

She didn’t stop until she was safely on her balcony and so, she missed Adrien intervening, Lila screaming and the stranger slinking in the shadows. She just felt so dizzy. Her insides swirled and she slumped against the balcony ledge. The hand she clamped over her mouth made the sensation worse. She threw up and from the sounds of it, she had hit someone.

‘I have to stop puking on people,’ she thought as she heard the cry of indignation from below. ‘Poor sap.’ Slowly, she retreated back into the hotel room to get some rest before she met the people who made her grandma so happy.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Damian was having a horrible day. First, Grayson had chosen him as the latest victim of his matchmaking attempts. Sitting in a cat themed coffee shop, he had listened to an attention seeking gold digger ramble on about herself for an hour and a half. Did she not get tired of her own voice? He knew he had, for certain. He was ready to curse Grayson’s awful choice in people again when something piqued his interest. A harlot was engaged in battle with an angel. And from the look of discomfort on the harpy’s face, the blue-eyed beauty was winning.

He knew he shouldn’t have followed her when she left but he felt a strong pull towards her. He knew she felt sick but he hadn’t expected her to puke on him. Granted, he was hiding and the balcony was pretty low... but still. He screeched in disgust as his suit and hair were covered in what looked like bird shit. It smelt like it too. So yeah, pretty horrible day. At the very least, he could look forward to Gina coming to the mansion later today. She’d cheer him up. He just knew it.

Damian was annoyed. Gina was late. Very late. And he’d been waiting for hours for her to arrive. When was she going to get here? A soft rap on the door sent him flying out of his seat as he scrambled to unlock the door. He’d expected Gina but on their doorstep was that angel from earlier.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Go check out the salt version @loveswifi

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[qvid-pro-qvo]

running away, across an ocean

aaron hotchner x reader, taking place before and during “it takes a village (season 7, episode 1)”

word count: 3347

rating: teen, for language and sexual tension, as well as a little bit of heartbreak

-

There was a beauty there. Each night, falling asleep beneath the stars, the cool wind rushing across the desert floor. Sure, sand got kicked up, but that wasn’t the worst part of it all. It wasn’t even close.

No, the worst part was the job.

The cases themselves were either dull or dead ends. The people were either assholes or incapable. There was never a middle ground, just… a lot of men who thought the world should go their way or the highway. And then there was you, one of three women who managed to get in the game, and struggling like hell because of it.

“Do not call again unless you have some solid intel,” you snapped. “I don’t have time for games, and I sure as hell do not have fucking time for a rookie looking for a promotion.” Your eyes closed, and you pulled the phone away from your face, slamming the antenna down on the satellite phone before clipping it back onto your belt. Your hands immediately went to your hair, pulling out the ponytail only to tie it back up tight and high.

Two years in the desert, and while the stars were always a highlight…

With a huff, you moved to stand over the table where your files were, fingers tracing over the black and white photographs before you heard the flutter of the tent flap.

“Ma’am. I’ve got an agent here, says he was detailed to come to you when he landed.”

“An agent?” you called back, not turning around. You weren’t aware of any new CIA lackeys coming in to try and do your job better than you could. “Who sent him?”

“FBI, ma’am.”

Well. Wasn’t that a surprise, as well as an annoyance.

Your head lifted from the study of the photos, allowing you to turn and face the two men at the entrance to the tent. One of them, a soldier, one you’d seen around base, a low-ranking guy who did the errands the older ones didn’t like to do. The other, definitely the agent, the suit being a dead giveaway. He was handsome, at the very least, but that didn’t mean much when looks usually matched ego.

“Dismissed, private. Go get some grub,” you told the soldier, who nodded and gave a salute, backing out of the tent and jogging off to grab a meal. It left you alone with the agent, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the knucklehead as you walked around the table to lean against it. “So, they send the FBI when the CIA can’t get the job done? Doesn’t seem like this is your purview, Agent…?”

“Hotchner, Aaron Hotchner,” the man said, and you watched as his eyes seemed to pick apart the whole tent. Scanned it front top to bottom with eyes so brown they looked black, especially in the lamplight of the place. If he was trying to make you squirm, it didn’t work, but a lesser person would be fidgeting under a sharp gaze like that. “I’m a special supervisory agent with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m to report to Agent Y/L/N, get debriefed.”

“You’re in the right place, Agent Hotchner, but you’re gonna need to change first,” you told him. “An outfit like that gets a target on your back.”

“What kind of target?” His voice is low, gravelly, and when he looked at you again there was something in them that told you he was tired. Worn. And yet, he was here.

You shrugged. “The kind you see through a scope. We’ll get you the garb. Ugly as hell, but it gets the job done. You’ll be sweating through it in no time.” With a little gesture to your own attire, dirty cargo khakis, the combat boots, and the vest over a shirt that looked like every other shirt you had with you, you gestured back to him.

“Understood, Agent.”

His… quiet demeanor. It was unnerving. You worked with a lot of alpha males who chose yelling as the best form of communication, and this agent looked like the lot of them. Short cropped hair, sharp job, hooked nose. The only thing he was missing was a beard, something you doubted he’d ever sported in his life. But even though he looked the part, and would fit in even more so once he got changed, you couldn’t help but think he wouldn’t ever get in with the guys.

Maybe that he wouldn’t even want to.

It was silent for a few moments, the two of you sizing each other up. “We’ll start in the morning,” you finally offered, when you admitted that the only thing you had waiting for you was a phone call to headquarters about this guy. Get a background. “There’s nothing here that can be fixed overnight, so get some shuteye if you can. First night is always the hardest.”

The agent nodded, and you watched as he turned to opening in the tent. You started to turn yourself, before he paused, the flap open to the night air.

“I’m not here to step on any toes,” he told you. That low voice was almost quiet, respectful, even. More than you’d gotten from anyone else in this place. “You’re the agent-in-charge. I’m just a resource. But I’m good at my job, and I can help you catch who you need to catch, if you’ll let me.”

That made you laugh again, and when he raised a brow, you just shook your head.

“Agent Hotchner,” you told him, “you being here has already stepped on more toes than you can imagine.” Your feet carried you across the tent, fingers skating over the photos, the files. When you stopped, it was in front of the corkboard you had, various skirmishes of note pinned up. “Now, that’s not your fault, not even close. But I’m telling you that while I appreciate your intel, your job while you’re here is to make sure I’m not failing at mine. So, forgive me for not being the most welcoming, but you’re gonna be out of here in a week, and I’ll still be here, digging in the sand.”

When you turned back towards the agent, he hadn’t flinched, but his brow was still raised. You grimaced again, an almost smile, before nodding toward the outside. “Your tent will be a few down from the mess. Find it first, get some food, and then… tomorrow we’ll get started.”

-

You ended up being right. With a beard and in the essential uniform, Aaron Hotchner (or Hotch, as he insisted you call him) looked like all the other guys who came in and out of your tent. Especially when he had those sunglasses on, a holdover from his days as an FBI agent stateside, he blended in.

You knew what he really was, though. There wasn’t an ounce of military in him, and more than that, the respect he had never left, even when you blew him off that first meeting. He respected your place as the agent-in-charge, called you ma’am, and you worked together.

You liked him.

That one week turned into three months. Cases had a tendency to go cold when you couldn’t exactly go investigate crime scenes further than what photos gave you. You’d go days without a lead, which was definitely less time than the weeks you had before Hotch came, but those periods in between were enough to leave anyone frustrated.

But Hotch – he didn’t blink. He took your frustrated scoffs and hands slamming on tables. He took your anger and annoyance with the people who doubted you, and he helped you use it. And when you saw that eyebrow of his raise, saw his own anger flare up when someone else flew in to push you around, you showed him just how capable you were.

You were a team. Partners, almost, in the new home away from home.  

It was the evenings when you got to know him. When working all night didn’t make sense that time, and so dinner was when you wrapped up. You’d offer him a beer or two, and you’d shoot the shit, sitting outside while the moon rose above you, hovered there.

He told you about his son, back home, with his aunt until he flew back. You told him about your mom, the only person you really called so she could hear your voice. He told you about law school, the FBI, and profiling, and you broke down your trajectory through the ranks of the CIA.

He told you about his wife. And he told you about the BAU. About his team, every one of them. And if you saw his eyes get a bit glossy when he mentioned them, well… you didn’t mention it.

Perhaps it was those conversations that got you thinking about him. About what Aaron Hotchner was like back home in the States, what his team was like in person and not just anecdotes. Did he crack jokes? Did he smile? Did he laugh with his team at Quantico? Did he look at the stars, like you both did every so often, when the beers settled well and the morning felt far away.

“The only time I really think about seeing stars is when I see them outside a jet window,” he admitted, and when you turned to him it was with disbelief. He chuckled, because of course he did, and you just kept your gaze trained on him.

“You guys have a jet? You gonna tell me where the FBI gets jet money while I get a cot and a tent to sleep in?”

He didn’t reply, but you could see his smile, and when your eyes turned back up to the sky, you felt his own land on you.

Three months came and went, the two of you working shoulder-to-shoulder. You helped him navigate a new territory, and he helped you inch closer and closer to finding the bastard you were sent to Pakistan for in the first place.

“It shouldn’t be this hard finding this guy,” you groaned for the third time, fingers running through your hair. Your tent was your regular meeting spot, with intel from across all branches of government making its way onto your wall. With another pull through, you finally felt satisfied enough to yank it back again, this time into a bun that held it tight against your head. “We’ve followed the money, we’ve followed the aliases, we’ve followed the victims. He’s just… he’s three steps ahead of us.”

“We’re close. A few days, and he’ll make a mistake. We just have to be there to catch it.” When you looked at Hotch, you saw him bent over a photo with a magnifying glass, looking every inch the Sherlock Holmes you’d come to see him as. He’d find clues with the littlest of things, and you’d watch him piece together intel without breaking a sweat. “Did you call that contact of ours?”

You shrugged, standing from a stool to move so you were standing side-by-side with Hotch. “He’s holding steady. He’ll reach out if he has something of use, but I don’t know how we’re supposed to find this guy with old information.”

“Any information is good information. We just have to put the pieces together.”

When you nodded, he seemed pleased, and you turned to face him with a smile. “You a fan of putting pieces together?” you asked him. “These things seem like games to you.”

“I don’t do it for the thrill of the chase, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied, but his tone was light. His arms crossed over his chest, and when he turned to face you it took a moment to realize the sleeves on his shirt were rolled up over his elbows.

He looked like he belonged here. There was a hint of a tan in his skin, and as you scanned him you realized the beard was the fullest it’d ever been. He hadn’t bothered shaving after that first week, and it suited him, the facial hair.

It all suited him.

The silence was dense. As you were watching him, he was watching you, and you realized that his gaze had drifted down, over your chest, down over your hips. You wondered what those eyes saw when you turned around, or, even better, when they closed at night.

“So it’s to impress me, then?” you asked him, and if you were a little breathless, it was only because he was close enough that he was taking up all the air.

Was that nod imagined?

You drifted together. One hand of yours moved to lay flat on the table, steadying yourself. One of his followed suit, on top of yours, and his other hand seemed to be thinking about sitting against your waist.

You were so close. Just one push forward, one turn of your head, and it’d be over. All you could see were his eyes, half-lidded, dark as they scanned your face, lingering on your lips. You could do it, could take a step forward and let him overtake you.

Would he pin you against the table? Would you straddle him in a chair? Would he tilt his head back for you, or would you bend forward for him?

Reality hit first. Getting caught would be the least of your worries, never mind what the rest of the whole damn command center would think. It’d spread like wildfire, and you’d never see the light of day again, your power stripped from you.

All for one… one damn kiss. A fantasy, come to life.

A shuddering breath left you. The spell seemed to break, and Hotch’s eyes blinked away the evidence of his desire. When you pulled back, it was with a swallow and a shake of your head. He seemed to get the memo, and his thumb stopped stroking the back of your hand, but you couldn’t let yourself mourn the loss. You had a job to do. One that needed your full attention, one that would prove yourself.

Your hands moved up to your hair again. Tightened your ponytail. “We’ll… we’ll talk strategy in ten minutes. I need to update the colonel,” you offered, and when he nodded you walked away, feeling a pang for the loss of a good lay. Of something else that you couldn’t put your finger on.

Whatever. There was always time. You didn’t regret it, not planting one on him, if only because the thought of something to come was still so alluring.

-

Some part of you, deep down, knew that this would be a temporary position. Perhaps that part of you kept you from kissing him that night. Knowing that at the end of the day, you were nothing but a distraction from what haunted him in those quiet moments.

Of course, when it did end… you just didn’t think it’d be like this – all over with a phone call, one he took after staring at the caller ID, going outside where the wind and Humvees would stop you from overhearing him. Of course, you heard it anyway, heard his breath catch. Heard him tell the person over the phone that he was on his way, no trouble at all. No fanfare.

It was just… over.

And it hurt.

When you pushed open his tent, Hotch was packing up his bag with his meager belongings, and when he opened his bag you caught sight of that damn suit he’d worn when he first showed up. For some reason it made your anger flare, and one hand reached out for him before you realized that you had no right to touch what wasn’t ever yours to begin with. He turned, to look at you, but when he did it was like he was looking past you, through you.

“You want to tell me who was on the other end of that phone call?” you asked.

It was like he was already gone. Even looking at you he didn’t stop folding, putting away the meager belongings he brought. “A member of the BAU. I’m being reassigned.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? You’re leaving?” Your voice was sharp, and for a minute you realized something you should’ve caught onto a long time ago. He was just like all the others. “We’re not – we’re not done. You said it yourself, we’re a couple of days away –“

“I’m needed back in Quantico.” His own voice was annoyingly calm, but there was an undercurrent that had your jaw clenching. As you looked at him, you seemed to see more of him than he’d ever revealed before. Saw the bags under his eyes. The ragged weight of his beard, unkempt at the edges, up the sides of his face. The gauntness of his cheeks. “An ongoing investigation got a lead, and I need to be back there with them.”

“Hotch, it’s fuckin’ two days. You’re telling me you can’t spare two days for this case? For me?” At this point you were incredulous, and your hands were thrown up in something like disbelief, not even realizing that you’d just broken what tenuous line had remained uncrossed.

That’s when he stopped, of course. His hands stopped moving, and his head ducked. He was basically packed; the only thing left a photo next to his cot. His son, he’d told you once, after a couple of weak beers, when the two of you moved past a fragile alliance and more into a solid team.

“This case isn’t over. And it’s important, you’re – you’re important.” He said it hesitantly, like it pained him to admit it, to face the reality of what this had become in a short three months.

You didn’t hold your breath, though. You knew what was coming. You weren’t the BAU. You weren’t his team. You were important in the macro sense, in the way that human life was something he always sought out to spare. In the way that open cases would always linger. In the micro, this team was a part of his DNA.

“They’re my family. And I need to be with them. This… this one is on me.” You could see the tension in his body for a moment lift, his decision his own and one that he wanted to make. His shoulders, always curled forward over papers or a meal from the mess or your notes, were straight, for the first time in a long time.

The conversation was over. You knew it. He knew it. As soon as you left that tent, the two of you would never see each other again. He’d made his decision, and he’d take it to his grave. He cared about them. Loved them.

In that moment, with all of that running through your head, it felt silly, getting worked up over Aaron Hotchner. It felt childish, begging him to stay forty-eight extra hours so that there could be some kind of closure. He deserved this, a clean break, without any extra weight keeping him from the people he cared about.

So you didn’t beg. You’d asked, he’d declined, and so everything else got shoved away, never to be mentioned again.

“All right,” you finally whispered, and when he looked up at you, your gaze was stony. You wouldn’t let regret weigh you down. You’d finish this case. You’d catch this guy. “Good luck, then, Agent Hotchner.” Your hand reached out to him, a professional handshake.

He took it, his grip firm. If he noticed you shutting down, shutting him out, he didn’t mention it.

“Be safe, Agent Y/L/N. Call me when it’s over.”

“Sure. Catch the bastard you need to catch.”  

The last thing you saw of Agent Hotchner were the pieces of his family – his son’s picture, reverently placed on top of his folded suit – before you walked out the tent and back into the desert air, thinking about how you’d watch the stars a little while that night.

They were the best part of the desert, after all.

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 23/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: The party begins, and Belle makes some new friends.

Notes: OH MY GOD. Writing in the latter part of this hell year has been like pulling teeth. From a dinosaur. I'm sorry this chapter doesn't include the dance, but it was a struggle to just get it this far. I am now actively writing the dance and aftermath and hopefully will not be so long with the next update. Unbeta'd, typos abound I'm sure. Also, tags have slightly updated. ;) This is Belle’s dress, for those who are interested.

[AO3]

Gold frowned at the paper in hand and then glanced up at Jefferson.

“Is this the last of it?”

Jefferson tilted his head. “Yes, I promise,” he replied, watching as Gold scribbled his signature at the bottom.

“And everyone is here?”

He looked further exasperated. “Yes, the Countess was the last one, as usual.”

Gold smirked. “Well, her Ladyship does run on a different time than the rest of us.”

They shared a short laugh, which trailed off as they took note of someone else at the top of the stairs.

Belle took a cautious first step, her hand hovering over the stair rail, and Gold’s eyes went wide. His lips parted and his breath was shallow as she came down towards them. By the time she reached the last step, he was feeling almost lightheaded. She’d chosen the light blue gown, and it looked every bit as lovely on her as he’d imagined.

His wife was a vision, and he felt like an utter bastard. She married him because there had been no other choice, and because she was first and foremost a kind and generous person who cared about the people supported by her family estate. Last night she had said she wasn’t unhappy with the situation and with her life here, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was truly happy or content. In spite of what happened with Gaston, she would have been desired by many, and could have had a true marriage, with love and children, but he had taken all that from her.

Belle looked from Gold to Jefferson, who immediately stepped forward.

“You look...” He shook his head and let his gaze drift up and down the dress. “Lovely. Radiant even.”

At that she smiled and reached out her hand, which Jefferson took and kissed. “Thank you, Jefferson.”

“You’ve apparently stunned my friend into speechlessness,” he added, nudging Gold with his elbow.

Gold blinked and shook his head, looking from Jefferson to Belle. “Yes, yes, you look - very... nice.”

Jefferson’s eyes closed briefly as Belle glanced at him, but Gold remained still, contemplating if it was too late to cancel the ball entirely to save everyone seeing, very publicly, what a terrible person he was to have taken Belle for himself.

“Thank you,” Belle said quietly, her hands fidgeting with the folds of her dress.

Jefferson looked between Belle and Gold, and then gave a short bow as he excused himself. The silence lingered for a bit, before Gold finally found his bearings again.

“Shall we?” he asked.

She nodded, and slipped her arm through his, and he swore he felt her tremble.

They entered the large dining hall, which until now had not been used since Belle arrived at Thornhill. Candles and oil lamps were everywhere, bathing the room in a warm glow, and the fireplace at one was blazing. Winter floral arrangements of white primrose, jasmine, and red pansies were set on each pedestal at the four corners of the space, and smaller vases were dotted across a collection of smaller tables with eight chairs each. A spray of pine bows decorated the fireplace mantel with all manner of shiny baubles in silver and gold tucked into it, reflecting the light.

Belle let out a faint gasp, and Gold turned his head, delighting in the awed look in her eyes.

The long dining table had been moved to one side with another, shorter table pushed up against it. Both were covered in vibrant red table cloths and an assortment of finger foods, desserts, punch, and wine. All of the estate staff were present, and wearing their finest attire. Astrid waved to them from the side, and Gold smiled at the young maid’s enthusiasm.

“It’s - it��s beautiful,” Belle managed, as Gold finally led her forward into the room.

He nodded in agreement. “Yes, once again my staff have done wonderfully.”

The attendees gathered in front of the tables, and Belle looked to Gold as he made his customary speech to commence the festivities. He thanked the staff for their efforts, which received a smattering of applause, and invited everyone to enjoy themselves. He exhaled a sigh of relief when he was finished, and turned to Belle, who was smiling up at him.

“You don’t like speeches do you,” she said.

He shook his head and started to lead her over to one of the tables which had been placed at the front and specially designated for them, along with seats for Bae, Jefferson, and Grace. “Not particularly, no. I don’t like being the center of things, but I suppose it’s my duty, and I want to make sure that my people know they are appreciated.”

She slid her arm around his again and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know many among the nobility who would not. It’s sad that it’s such a novel courtesy.”

Gold made a noise of agreement as he extracted his arm from hers, and pulled out a chair for her to sit. She had no sooner turned around than Astrid called out to her, and came over with two other women; one older with curly gray hair, and another closer to Belle’s age with long, dark hair, swept up on the sides and tied with a large red bow in the back.

“m’Lady,” Astrid said excitedly, “this is Ms. Lucas and Ruby from Lamton. I met them last week when I was running an errand in the town. Gran - I mean, Ms. Lucas, runs the inn and the tavern.”

Belle smiled at the two women and gave a small curtsey, which seemed to surprise them. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Lucas. And you, Miss Lucas.”

“Call me Granny,” Ms. Lucas replied. “Everyone does, except him.”

Ms. Lucas gave Gold a look and a nod, and he rolled his eyes before taking his seat. “Nice to see you too, Martha.”

Belle looked back and forth between them, eyebrows raised, but left the comment alone. “And you look very well, Astrid. Is that new?”

Astrid blushed as Belle looked her new dress up and down. It was pink and the skirt was ruffled, both of which suited her, but wasn’t too overdone that it was ridiculous. The neckline shimmered with small pearls set into a lace trim, which was repeated at the waist and the cuffs of the sleeves where they came down to just above her elbows. It was shorter than a standard gown, ending at her ankles, which not only made it easier to walk in but also showed off a pair of silver heels.

“Y-yes. It, uh, it was a gift.”

Belle’s eyes went wide. “From...?”

Gold lifted his hand and smiled at Belle’s surprised expression. “That would be me.”

“My red dress had seen better days,” Astrid explained. “And m’Lord has been very kind.”

“Indeed.” Belle replied softly, meeting Gold’s eyes with a warm look and a quirk of her lips. Then she turned back to Astrid. “Well, shall we have some of this delicious food?”

She walked off with Astrid, Granny, and Ruby, to browse the buffet, and Gold sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He was already tired and likely wouldn’t see his bed before midnight, but it was a well deserved celebration. It was also an opportunity for Belle to meet people outside of Thornhill, and gain a further understanding of the villages and towns that depended on the estate.

“Well, Gold, you have outdone yourself again.”

Gold looked up and gave Countess de Vil a smirk. “Have I indeed?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, looking across the room at Belle. “When I heard you’d remarried I was expecting some gray haired dowager, not a lovely young thing like that.”

He frowned and took a sip of wine. “I’m sure you mean that as a compliment, Lady Ella.”

She grinned at him and motioned with the glass in her right hand. “Of course it is. Now, are you going to introduce me properly?”

Sighing, he pushed himself up and offered his arm, then led the Countess over to where Belle was sitting and chatting with Astrid and Ruby. The conversation ceased as they approached, and Gold could feel all the eyes in the room on him once again.

“May I present the Countess de Vil,” he said smoothly, slipping his arm from Lady Ella’s as he stepped back.

Belle’s mouth opened and closed, and then she stood abruptly, giving a hasty curtsey to Lady Ella. “My Lady, it’s lovely to meet you.”

The Countess looked from Belle to Gold and back again, a smile curving her lips. “And you as well. I’ve been so curious to see the woman who finally cracked the heart of Lord Gold.”

Belle blushed. “I, uh, well -”

“How cruel of you, Gold!” the Countess continued, turning to him as though Belle had not spoken at all. “Depriving the royal court of such an ornament. We are bereft of fine, well bred young women, among the chaff of gossips and courtesans, though I can understand why you would want to keep your beautiful new wife all to yourself.”

Her eyebrows lifted and her smile was wide and toothy as she nudged Gold with her elbow.

“I have done no such thing, Ella,” he replied. “We have been quite busy these last weeks, and as you know I have little tolerance for the games of the royal court.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, laughing with a strange delight. “A pity, indeed. Now, Lady Belle...” She came to stand beside Belle and took her by the arm. “What do you say we have a little chat, hmm? I’m quite anxious to get to know you.”

Belle’s mouth opened and she looked plantively at Gold. “I, uh, I had not -” She looked up at Ella, who was nearly a head taller than herself, and found an expectant, yet outwardly kind expression. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

The two women walked off together, Ella bent towards Belle in quiet conversation, and Gold winced. He went back to his seat and picked up his glass, finishing the last bit of wine in a large gulp. He saw Ella cajole Belle into sampling something or other from one of the food trays. He wasn’t able to make out what it was, but it must have been favorable to Belle because she smiled, even with her mouth full, and Ella threw her head back and laughed.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Jefferson said, dropping down into one of the chairs next to Gold. “The Countess will be pestering us daily to go to court and parade Belle around.”

Gold sighed. “No, she will not. I’ll have a word with her before she leaves. Though I’ll have to make sure she’s sober enough to hear it.”

Jefferson grinned. “She’s staying the night you know.”

“Wonderful,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Well, then I suppose it can be over tea and breakfast.”

“Are you sure you will want to be sober for that?” Gold gave him a flat look, and Jefferson laughed. “It could be a good thing, you know. Ella does have a way of bringing people out of their shell.”

He shook his head, and watched as Ella stood by one of the tall windows, her head tilted as she listened to what Bell was saying. Her expression was softer than he was used to seeing, and he wondered what the two women could be talking about. His thoughts were disrupted by a clatter from the other side of the room, where Bae, Grace, and another boy, had upended a tray of tarts, and there was a momentary pause in the din of the room as the attendees noted what was happening.

Following a quiet round of laughter, Jefferson excused himself to make sure the children were up to no further mischief, and Gold found his gaze drifting back to Belle. She had chosen the blue dress, which pleased him immensely. It had been his favorite of the fabric samples he’d surveyed prior to having the dresses made, a color that wasn’t too dark or too light for her skin and which matched her eyes perfectly. Set against the snowy landscape beyond the windows and lit by the glow of the room, she looked like a queen.

He thought perhaps he should send Master Aemon a little extra for his fine work, and more still for such timely delivery.

After what felt like the longest quarter of an hour of her life, Belle finally escaped the prodding curiosity of Countess de Vil, and hurried to the safety of Astrid’s side.

“Please don’t leave me,” she said, taking Astrid by the hand and giving Ruby a pleading look, “at least until the Countess finds someone else to talk to.”

The two women laughed.

Ruby patted Belle’s shoulder. “Lady de Vil takes some getting used to.”

Belle blew out a breath and took the glass of wine Astrid offered with a grateful smile. “That seems like an understatement, Miss Lucas.”

“Ruby, please,” she replied. “We’re all friends here, or we will be.”

Belle smiled and gave a short nod. “Yes, yes I think we will.”

Astrid proceeded to introduce Belle to some other residents of Lamton, and the surrounding area between the village and Thorhill, including Leroy the groundskeeper. She was surprised she hadn’t met him before now, but he said he had been away when she first arrived, taking a much needed break after the end of the growing season. There was an old cottage on a lake up about a mile north, which served as a hunting and fishing lodge for anyone who so desired to visit it.

Once again she was struck by the sense of community and the way everyone seemed to think nothing of sharing and maintaining such things together. She knew many lords who would treat even the smallest, most rundown shack as their most coveted property should anyone else decide to use it for themselves. She wondered then why Gold sat alone at a smaller table, visited only by Jefferson, Baeden, and occasionally the Countess de Vil. It appeared he went out of his way to make sure those who lived on and around his lands were taken care of, but they regarded him with a strange coolness that she couldn’t understand.

As the evening went on, Belle found herself in as delightful company as she could have imagined, and even more at ease than she had anticipated. She passed from table to table with Astrid or Ruby at her side, exchanging not simply polite introductions, but genuine interest and conversation. Her mind was bursting at the seams with names and occupations and relations, that she was sure, after some time and nudging from Astrid, she would remember.

It was nearing nine when Leroy, Jefferson, and a few other men shifted the tables further to the edges of the room, as a group of musicians gathered in the wide corner to the left of the hearth. Belle watched the adjustments to the space with a bit of trepidation. She had known there would be dancing, there always was at such an event, but it had been well over a year since she had attended a ball, or been out in society. After the incident with Gaston, rumors had started to spread, making her nervous and afraid of being around anyone outside of Avonlea. The dissolution of their engagement had only made it worse. Her close friends like Ariel and Astrid, had stuck by her, but it was as if she could feel the world she had known slowly receding. Only her marriage to Cameron and the stability it brought to Avonlea improved her situation, though King George seemed oddly determined to undermine it.

The musicians began to tune their instruments, and Belle pressed her hands to the front of her skirt as she exhaled slowly. Her body was suddenly tingling with nervous energy, and hoped that she wouldn’t embarrass herself if she was asked to dance. The intermittent musical noise and din of conversation died down, and, as if on cue, Gold pushed to his feet, adjusted his coat, and came down the line of tables to stand in front of her.

“Lady Gold,” he said, his lips slightly curved as he bowed before her, “may I have this dance?”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The White Crest Job || Morgan & Felix

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @streetharmacist & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Felix take a field trip to rescue a very important item from an auction house on Erin’s behalf.

CONTAINS: gun use, violence

Stupidity got people killed. Talking got people killed. Now both in the same suit? They did a bang up job with that kinda thing. As Felix waited and tapped his feet, he had to attribute that to why he had a cooler full of brain on a weeknight. One man’s stupidity was another’s advantage and the fae kept that in mind. There was that telltale jittering under his skin, that sensation before a job and the wonderment at whether or not it would be pulled off. After everything, he felt more than ready to tag in. Erin had gone through enough and she could use a night off of crime. As it worked out, he could use a night of crime. Desperately. With a little luck and pixie dust, he and Morgan might be able to come bearing good news that would make the whole thing sting a little less.

At the sight of Morgan approaching, he stood up from the rickety bench and adjusted his suit tie. It was a special night at the auction house and he wore some of his sharpest attire. He smiled at her and waved. “It’s real nice to see you, Morgan,” he greeted. “You excited?” They were about to walk into the mouth of some sort of beast but as long as they had their eye on the prize, it should be fine. He reached for the cooler and offered it to her. “I got something for ya. One of Roy’s finest. I wanna say the old sport worked at the auction house.” His grin grew. “Not anymore though.”

Morgan could swear her body was vibrating with the need to do something straightforward and easy. Or at least easier than the past few weeks had been. Sure, the primary criminal activity of her life had been charging people for rocks she transmuted from dirt and trash, but Morgan was nothing if not a good student, and being a walking dead girl leant itself to certain advantages. Mushrooms could strike, ghosts could rise from the deep, worlds could fall apart, but Morgan’s limbs would always grow back shiny and limber no matter how many times they snapped off. And this errand, at least, was for a good cause. Morgan rolled up the sleeves of her turtleneck and beamed at the fae waiting for her. “Sorry I’m late, I wasn’t sure what the dress code was for our clandestine date,” she said with a smirk. “Me? Oh I’m ready to dance. It’s been a rough fall, and Erin’s one of my best friends. It’s kinda nice, having something to do that makes an easy kind of sense. All the steps are clear. No back-and-forth, no second guessing.”

She shook her worries back to the far side of her mind and turned to the cooler. “Mother of earth,” she chuckled. “Dinner and dancing? If this is how you treat your friends, Bea’s a luckier gal than I thought.” Flipping open the lid, she fished out the sliced brain, wrapped in sandwich paper like a happy meal burger. Tentatively, hoping that the old whoever had at least been a nice gangster, she took a bite. “Is this to help me blend in?” She asked between bites. “Because I’ll have you know I’ve killed a woman with just my own sparkling personality bouncing around my head.” She took another bite, moaning with pleasure. “Not that I’m complaining, obviously. Think this’ll magically download everything he knew about this place?”

Felix beamed as much as he safely could in return. He intended to save that old song and dance for a special occasion. One maybe an hour or so away, he thought. They would just have to see how the night went. As it was, he was more than interested in seeing an auction hall go off the deep end. The job that he and Morgan had on their docket took precedence over seeing a few strangers lose it for a bit. He smiled at her and was inclined to agree. He did as much with a tip of his head. It did make an easy sort of sense, didn’t it? Easy as snapping a neck. They just needed to get their hands on it first. “Right there with you, my friend. See, I think this’ll be good for us. All of us.” A brow lifted. “I think we got a real nice night ahead of us. As for everybody else in there?” He shrugged.

At the mention of Bea, an easy smile slid into place and his skin warmed. Buzzed even. He didn’t want to think of the night going any way but up for them. He had a gal to get home to. He was sure Morgan could relate. “You know, I’d say we’re all pretty lucky,” he said as he framed his chin with his thumb and index finger. “You, me, Bea, and Deirdre!” As much as he knew that they could spend the rest of the night waxing poetic about their loves, they had some skulls to crack. Speaking of...It didn’t bother him when Morgan took to the brain. Over the years he had developed an iron stomach, of all things. Blood and brain, guts and bone. It all sorta mushed together. He struck a match and lit a thin cigarette. He considered dust briefly earlier in the evening. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced he wouldn’t need it. Smoke billowed out of his mouth and curled around his glasses as he laughed. “Oh hell, I believe you,” he said with a smile. “I’m not too familiar with how the ol’ brain works, especially in this sorta case, but I think it’ll be a nice thing to have on our side. Y’know, the whole knowing is half the battle thing?” He offered Morgan the crook of his elbow. “Ready to paint this whole gig red?”

“I guess we are lucky, huh,” Morgan mused, smiling into her next bite. Stars above, it tasted so good, she had to ask herself why she didn’t do this more often. She groaned shamelessly as the rich, meaty flavor spread over her tongue. “Felix, you’re making me miss my Texas burgers,” she said, smirking with her mouth half full. “Tell you the truth, I could use a lucky night. I know you’re not supposed to let the bastards get you down, but stars, it’s...fucking hard sometimes. But!” She scarfed down the last of her brain. Nothing felt immediately off the way the urge to listen to a hockey game that night at Erin’s had felt off, but she did feel a little more verve and fire in her bones as she got to her feet. She took Felix’s arm and grinned up at him. “Felix, pal, I’m ready to dance like there’s no tomorrow. I just got one question for ya.” She quirked up a brow at him, nodding to his car and the joint they were about to bust open. “What kinda guns you got stashed in your car? I’m feelin’ like blowing some fireworks.”

“That’s why I’m a big advocate of getting back at the bastards!” Felix said cheerily. Whether it was through bloody footprints or a bullet in the head, things had a way of coming back around. “Nothing really perks up the spirit like some old fashioned vengeance and looking good while doing it. But this is business tonight. The rest can come later.” Heck, would it. The amount of receipts they owed people had started to stack itself high. “Oh, Morgan, I’m so glad you asked. I think you’ll like it,” he said as he looked at her. The tone of her voice, the fire behind it, danced a little differently and he couldn’t help but grin. It reminded him of an old friend. Tommy Toblerone, a fella that had earned his name from the rather unorthodox and sweet ways he could take a person out. “I had to leave the Tommys at home since I don’t think we wanna get the toys taken away early and all.” After he tugged on a pair of black leather gloves as a safety precaution, he pulled out a .38 Smith & Wesson and a .357 Magnum. Without a second thought, he handed her the magnum revolver and a handful of cartridges. “I think you’ll like that one,” he said smoothly as he slid the .38 into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m more about slicing and dicing myself but I got this one just in case. Old faithful! Been awhile since she’s seen action but I’m feeling good about tonight. You?”

Morgan loaded the revolver. She hated guns, didn’t know the first thing about them except how to hide from one thanks to all the safety videos she’d had to watch for all her shitty jobs. But her hands spun the cylinder and admired the shine of the metal in the night like it was something familiar. Something powerful, even cozy. She loaded the chambers, then popped the beauty back into place. She stroked the frame, smiling at the moon’s reflection. “I feel like a shiny new penny,” she said.

Millie Mayfield didn’t like being interrupted from her movie time, but Roy wasn’t dicking around when he said please, honey, so instead of watching pretty teenagers get cut up by a chainsaw, Millie was getting her boots dirty slipping in to take some delicate goods off the hands of the less deserving. If she could only do it without the B-Squad posse, she might even have herself a good night. “Hey, Mac?” She asked, twirling her bat as she approached the guy behind her. It wasn’t the same as her cheerleader batons, but it killed the time in a pinch. “Can you run and get me some McDonald’s? One of the really sad, dried up specials. You can tell when their tag says FIVE YEARS! With a party hat sticker. Pretty please with cream cheese?”

Mac would, because Roy also said she was in charge, and he knew she’d bust his kneecaps into confetti if he didn’t.

Something rattled at the end of the warehouse. Company. Roy hadn’t mentioned anything about it being a party, but she was an adaptable girl. Millie sauntered into the warehouse, bat held out and ready to strike. She signaled to Mac to get out his gun. “It’s not nice to gate crash,” she called inside, her voice almost sing-song. “If you came to play with the big kids, let’s play.”

As fun as it would have been to crack a couple jokes at the expense of the rich, Felix and Morgan didn’t have that luxury. They had a docket to make a couple checkmarks on. As it went, his patience was thin to nonexistent. Maybe it was because of the mushrooms or maybe it was because things had a way of not going their way lately. He checked over his knives and the gun in his hand. Even clicked his heels for the knife he kept there. All in tip-top shape. The knives were slid back into place. The back of the auction house had a padlock on it but that didn’t matter much as he jimmied it open with a grin flashed Morgan’s way. The chain rattled as the fae toed the door open. From where they stood, there seemed to be plenty of shadows.

Perfect. That good feeling fluttered in his chest again. Even when a voice called out. As a pair of steps entered the auction house’s backroom. Even better. If there were ever a night to have a tussle, it would be this one. He slipped off to the left. Slipped into darkness.

“Do me a favor and let us know when they show up, yeah?” He took his switchblade in hand. “Much appreciated.”

Millie had two choices. Go for the goods, or go for the party crashers. Roy said the merchandise would be small, easy to miss. Not exactly something you could nab with some sleeze pulling your hair. Besides, Millie never turned her back on a fight. “Real funny, Tricky Dicky. Maybe you should run back home to the kiddie p--” A gunshot burned through the air and into her chest. “Ow!” Millie looked down at the scorch mark in her dress. “That was genuine vintage!” She shrieked.

There was still smoke at the end of Morgan’s revolver when she realized her mistake. This dame wasn’t the kind you pinned down with a bum shoulder or a busted kneecap. For all her grousing about the clothes, there wasn’t even a lick of blood coming out of the wound. It had been a rookie mistake, thinking she’d go down easy. This dame wasn’t human anymore than Morgan was. “Sorry, sweet cheeks. I don’t make exceptions for people who get in my way. Equal rights and all that,” she said, stepping into the light. She risked a glance at Felix, who was visible only by his switchblade. She hoped he was watching too, that he saw her little nod to go for the gold. She could keep one little dame busy for him. “You might wanna dance back to your go-go party before this gets worse. It’d be a shame to knock such a pretty block off.”

Millie was already marching forward, bat ready. “Try me, bitch.”

Nothing like the sound of a revolver and the smell of spent gunpowder to remind Felix of home. Let alone a heist! The fae tipped his blade Morgan’s way before he started to climb over boxes and through shadows. What they were after was small, easily concealed. But if he had heard right, it packed one hell of a punch. A bullet that would be real damn nice for them to have in the chamber. While Morgan dealt with the dame with the bat, he’d get what they needed. The light of a waning moon overhead bled through the smallest tear in the roof. Caught on something that shone with iridescence. He sure as heck hoped it was the something they were after. There wasn’t any hesitance to the way he moved toward it, hard-charging if there ever was any.

A hard charge into a forearm that caught him right across the throat. He puffed out a few breaths as he skittered back and recuperated enough to bring him to his feet, back into the shadows. His throat smarted as he looked at what had caught him. A forked tongue flicked out of a fanged mouth. Their head swiveled to follow him as Felix moved. They had a knife too. One with a jagged sort of blade.

“I can smell you, shadow.”

Morgan had seen too much violence since coming to White Crest to mistake the sound of a fight. The smirk on her lips flickered as she turned. “Felix—?”

“You got way bigger problems than that, Dollface,” the same sneered. She swung her bat, hard enough to knock Morgan off her balance.

Her head felt like it was off kilter, but that was just her skull bones bending around the wound. It was right again in seconds and Morgan leveled her revolver again to fire off another round, this one landing square into the girl’s eye. Faintly, she knew she hated guns. The sound, the way they looked, how they went from zero to disaster with just a bang. But something strange in her liked it too. She readied another shot, but the dame was already charging her, anger blazing out of her now ruined face. She was hell in high heels and creamsicle orange. Hell and payback. The bullet hadn’t even moved her an inch. Morgan threw away her gun, useless, and tried to run. A hand caught her by the hair by the hair and dragged her back.

“Zombie, huh? This is gonna be fun.”

“Morgan, ya alright?” Felix’s eyes were ahead but his ears were behind him. His expression wavered from one of confidence to one of concern. He liked Morgan. A great deal. And they had people to get home to, let alone a fucking point to get across. Any wavering halted. When he moved, the lamia’s eyes followed him. They placed themselves as a body between the box full of iridescence and the lampade itching to get his hands on it. Felix slipped his jacket off and wadded it up. It could be said that Felix was a planner but as he rocked off his heels and went forward, not much thought went into it. The lamia struck out, their knife cutting easy through the fabric. The tip nicked Felix’s palm as he let go and danced back. The lamia’s tongue flicked out again as he stepped through the shadows.

The fae hit his heel against the ground hard enough to spring the knife from his shoe before he lunged forward with a kick. The lamia was larger than him, muscle packed tight together, and he felt it when the knife in his shoe clipped through the lamia’s suit pants to lodge itself in. It wasn’t the strongest of knives and it broke off as Felix pulled his foot back. The lamia jabbed at him again with the knife and cut a line of black, ink blood across his chest. Felix hissed then grinned as he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, switchblade still in hand.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered out with a laugh. “So much for working this out, huh?”

The next time, it was the lamia that moved to meet him in the dark. Knives out.

Morgan caught the dame’s hands and twirled in her grasp, getting enough space to knee her in the stomach, get a new grip on her arms, and throw her into a stack of crates. She didn’t run this time, but picked up her opponent and slam her down again. Maybe if she’d been some lousy human, it would’ve broken her in a couple of pieces, but this girl wasn’t the type to roll over easy. She pulled out a knife from the front of her shirt. It wasn’t big enough to lob off her head, not quickly anyway, but her eyes burned red and Morgan realized she was staring down a bonafide vampire.

They tousled, slinging blows with all their strength and all the ruthlessness of two women desperate for a win. No more maybe this times. Morgan was walking out of here with her prize for Erin. With something done the right way. Crates shattered under Morgan as the dame threw her again. Glass and powder spilled onto the floor. Morgan didn’t care, those goods weren’t her problem. She grabbed some of the broken wood and swung it hard enough to crack the damn thing to bits. When she was through, she had a nice stake sized piece, sharp and jagged, as far as the stuff went.

The vampire dame snarled and leapt out of her reach.

“What’s the matter, doll?” Morgan asked. “I thought we were gonna dance.” If nothing else, she sure as hell hoped Felix found this magic blade soon.

It had been a hot minute since Felix had been in a knife fight. After everything that had happened, he supposed it was only a matter of time. As he weaved through the shadows of the warehouse, the lamia was there with him. His glamour had dropped the more that black wisps of blood smoked out of his dress shirt. Knife fights were ugly, feral affairs. He couldn’t help but grin as he ducked back from the lamia’s swipe. Only for him to come to a stop as a painful tug spread pain along the top of his skull. The lamia’s hand was wrapped around the main beam of his right antler, close to the fork. Felix reared his head back and flipped the knife in his hand to stab at the lamia’s hand. The blade nicked skin but it wasn’t much. The lamia who had him locked in place kicked at the side of his leg and brought him down hard to his knees.

His eyes widened and flashed white as the lamia brought the serrated edge of his knife to the bone. Felix frantically shook his head violently and tried to rear back. Dig his heels into the ground to force himself back into the dark. It didn’t matter. The lamia would find him and he wasn’t going anywhere.

The lamia knew what he was doing. Maybe it hadn’t been the first time for them. But it had been the first time for Felix. Breakage. The crack deafened him. Dulled his senses to anything other than pain and pure, undiluted rage. As the antler separated from him, the lamia stepped back from the force of it. Felix was on them in an instant as he threw his full weight into him. The antler clattered from their grasp and the fae took it in hand. Didn’t second guess when he started to plunge it through the lamia’s scales. The ones that lined their neck, their chest, their organs. All the soft parts that made the rest crumble.

He didn’t realize he was yelling until the lamia went still underneath him and inhuman blood splashed his chest. His chest heaved as he sat back, eyes wide and wild. His throat hurt. His head hurt. Momentarily, he forgot what they were there for until his eyes locked on the box and he brought himself to stand. Antler still in hand, he went to it and looked back to where he could hear the sound of Morgan’s own scuffle.

“Morgan,” he rasped out. “Fucking kill her, huh?”

They were bounding through the warehouse, chasing each other like filthy animals. Somewhere between running around crates, the dame found Morgan’s gun and had herself a nice time driving the rest of the bullets into her body. The steam was still on the muzzle when the wounds healed up, but the rounds must’ve sounded like pennies from heaven all the same. She heard the shouting and stopped to turn. It was the wrong move. The dame’s bat smashed against her skull, hard enough to send sparks through her vision.

“Maybe get the fucking knife, huh?” Morgan called back.

She still had a grip on the stake, but the vampire was hanging around her like a goddamn flying monkey. Morgan lost count of how many surfaces she bashed her into befor she let go and slid off. It wasn’t every day you regretted bringing a gun to a knife fight, but that was White Crest for you. Morgan pinned the dame down and decked her with her fist. Felix hadn’t sounded so hot when he called out to her. They needed to end this quickly. The stake came up--and splintered in the vampire’s grip. Morgan didn't even see her arms come up to knock her down, just the view of those damn go-go boots as she ran away. Good riddance.

“That’s gonna be a ‘negative’ on that kill,” she groaned, easing up to her feet. “But she’s out of our hair. Maybe some son of a gun hunter will have a better night. You find it yet?”

“If not,” Felix started as he approached the box. “I’m sure I can hire somebody. Plenty of fucking nobodies that wouldn’t mind getting a tooth or two from her.”

He tried to ignore the splinter ache in his head. Even as he tilted it, it felt lighter. Unbalanced. Uneven. His forehead felt wet and as he touched his fingertips to it, pulled them back, he saw more bloody wisps. His skin felt cold, his nerves even more so. The fae looked at Morgan with dim half-moon, a fist clenched around his broken antler. The knife sat unbothered atop a heap of fabric. With the exception of its glass blade, it was otherwise unexceptional. Bullets and blades for another kind of destruction. What the fuck else was new.

“I did. You alright?” The question was clipped with an aimless agitation. No, it wasn’t aimless. He knew exactly who he was pissed at. He gestured loosely at the knife and leered at it. “That’s the fucking thing right there. It better be worth it after all this shit.”

Morgan shuffled over to Felix, giving a whistle when she saw how worse for where he was. “You had a worse time than me. Guess Roy got the same tip we did, and wanted to get ahead of the game. And now that dame knows who Erin’s friends are. She’s gonna blab to Roy and give him the scoop.” Morgan spat on the ground, shaking her head. She was too small to see from the ground, but one hop onto one of the few crates that wasn’t busted and she could see what all the fuss was about.

The hilt wasn’t anything special, but the glass was a beaut, thick enough that you could spit on one end and not tell from the other, and serrated, brought to a deadly point. Morgan couldn’t imagine you made something like this in any old forge, but what did she know about this stuff. “In the right hands, it’ll stick Roy in the ground for good, and that ain’t nothing,” she said. “Come on, compadre. I’m feelin’ like a cigar. This ol’ brain is a doozie, and you need to get the edge off before that ride home.”

Felix made a low sound of affirmation. “It’s not every day you break an antler,” he intoned. It truly fucking wasn’t and his lip curled. “That sounds about par for the course in this town, huh? Word travels fast.” He glanced at the dead body of the lamia. Whether or not they had been close to Roy, he didn’t care. A dead body was a message all the same. He shrugged loosely as he looked back at Morgan. The night was still fun in its own way, breakage and bullets be damned. “Lucky us.”

“Think I’ll need more than a cigar but I ain’t about to turn that down,” he said with a glance to Morgan as he pieced his human glamour back together. His glasses were somewhere but he wasn’t in the mood to look for them. He wasn’t in the mood for much other than that cigar she offered. “Roy will be in the ground before he fucking knows it and y’know, I like the sound of that very much. Let’s get out of here. We did good and ought to treat ourselves to something nice.”

With the knife in their possession, they could leave the warehouse and good riddance to that. It’d be nice to burn it down, he thought. Burn it all down. His anger was loud and alive in his head. His hate. As they made to leave, one thought crossed his mind. Just how tired he was of only walking White Crest’s streets. He wanted to fucking own them.

[havana-story-time]

Mr. Wheezy sighed as he sat down on the sofa in the staff beak room. Finally, he could catch his breath. The casino was busier than usual that night and nobody had a chance to sit down until it all died down later. Weezy took out a cigar from his pocket and held it between his teeth as he searched for a lighter. He sighed, took a breath and blew hard like one would try to pop their ears as the top of his head glowed red and grew hot. Wheezy put the cigar at his head and the tip lip at last. Wheezy relaxed and started to smoke his cigar. As he enjoyed a few long and slow puffs, the door opened and closed behind him. He didn’t need to look up as the person walked past him and sat down at the table across the room.

Wheezy felt his heart skip a beat when he noticed who it was. It was Red, one of the new entertainers for the casino, that bet her soul on the Devil. He didn’t know her that much and only spoke to her briefly before she was whisked away to do other things or she’d usually totally ignore him. At least he was finally alone with her; he could finally get the courage to talk to her. He studied her as she sat at the table, not totally gawking and not totally looking away. She was dressed in her usual red mermaid gown; her brown hair was up and curled at the ends but was pushed away by her slender gloved hand as she rested her cheek against her palm. Her eyes were looking down at what looked like a book of sorts, like she was studying the little details of the pages. Wheezy noticed the book was blank so she wasn’t really reading. In her other hand she held a pen and she nibbled on the end as she was in deep thought. Wheezy looked closer at her lips, which were parted and were red like a rose. Wheezy wandered his eyes down from her lips down to her neckline. She never did fancy jewelry, and even if she did it’d mostly be a bracelet or earrings. He went down further hoping to catch a glimpse of her bosoms but was damned with her arm blocking a perfect view.

Wheezy took a drag of his cigar and looked away nonchalantly and studied the clock a moment. Wheezy heard Red sigh and drop her pen on the table. He looked over and saw Red lean down and rest her head on the table. Her hair slid down the sides and revealed her back. Her skin was a light peach and her dress reached low to about her lower back. At least he got a better view of her hips, which he was actually grateful for. Before Wheezy spoke up, the door opened. Wheezy looked to see it was Chips Bettigan. He strolled in wearing his usual “cowboy” look: a tan blazer, white shirt, jeans and brown cowboy boots with his signature hat on his head.

“Red, there ya are, girl!” Chips said with a smile as he waltzed in like he owned the place. He saw Wheezy, nodded, and went right over to the table where Red sat and took up a seat for himself in front of her. “Ya’ll right?” His accent was thick Southern Texan. It made Wheezy want to vomit.

“I’m fine.” Red looked up and straightened back up into her chair. She again rested her head in the same hand she had earlier. “I’m just… having some trouble writing a new song. You know how the boss is. HE thinks I can come up with songs on the spot… I can’t.”

“Well, maybe ya’ve been workin’ too hard?” Chips shrugged and rested his head in the same fashion Red was. “Take a break and maybe… I dunno, somethin’ would come to ya?”

“I work a few nights a week and you call that “busy”, Chips?” Red’s lips curved up at one side. “I also help out the boss with a few errands here and there, I help out you guys from time to time on your needs if we’re busy, I get dance lessons from Pirouletta for my routines… I got a full house here.”

Chips nodded as he listened. Wheezy looked over and saw Red slump her forehead into her hand. “I can’t even find the muse for a new song… If it keeps goin’, I’m useless here.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Red! ‘Sides, the boss ain’t the one to toss out great talent like that!”

“What about that duo on unicycles that juggled chainsaws?”

“Um…”

“And that one lady who was a “magician” and couldn’t swipe a full wallet out of that one guy and got caught?”

“But that’s—”

“What about that skeleton comedian? He was funny, despite his stupid puns, right? And look what happened to him. Stuck in the underground somewhere.”

“Wait, I don’t—”

Red sighed, stopping him. “No. I’ll have to keep writing until something comes up.”

“If ya want, Miss Red, I was thinkin’… Maybe I could take ya out of the casino for a bit? I hear there’s this picture out that has a character in your predicament. Maybe that’d be a nice thing to see sometime?” Chips took off his hat and held it in between his hands. “I mean, if you were willin’ to get out. It does get a bit stuffy in here.”

“Well, mostly because of that cigar smell. Isn’t it getting stronger in here, Chips?” Red looked over and noticed Mr. Wheezy, the tip of his head glowing a dull red like a cigar being dragged for an inhale. “Oh, Wheezy I didn’t notice you were here.”

“Peh.” Wheezy huffed and turned away. He took a drag of his cigar and blew smoke out from the gap between his teeth and ignored the two as they went back to their conversation like he wasn’t there. That pissed him off a little bit. But it stopped when Red said something that piped his interest.

“Look, Chips, I’ll… I’ll sleep on it. I can’t really think straight with my head poundin’ like a jack hammer.”

Chips nodded and put his hat back on his head. “Well, I’ll leave ya to it then. Hope ya get rid of them writer’s blocks in yer head, Miss Red.” Chips stood up from his seat, tilted his hat towards Red, and walked out.

Bingo. Weezy looked back over to Red, who paid him no mind as usual, as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She leaned her head back and let her hair fall down from her shoulders as she closed her eyes.

“Y’know, Wheez?”

Wheezy looked up when Red said his name out of the blue. He looked over behind her in surprise. She still had her eyes closed as she continued. “Is there somewhere I can go? This room is killing me.”

“W-what’dya mean?” Wheezy spoke up.

“I mean, is there somewhere, anywhere, I can go to in the casino? What areas are blocked off?”

“Uh… obviously the Devil’s room is off limits unless ya get “special permission”. Never bother the boss at his office unless ya really wanna bother ‘im or have important info.” Wheezy looked up and thought some more. “I mean, Dice usually goes to the music room and muse on the piano for a bit, and—”

“Does he mind if others use the piano?”

“What?”

“Where’s the music room at? Maybe playing something would help me, that usually helps me get a melody.” Red suddenly stood up practically ran out the door. “Nevermind, I’ll look for it myself!”

Wheezy watched as Red straight up bolted from her chair and run out the door. Wheezy looked at the table to see that she left her book and pen there. He finished off his cigar, thinking Red would return any minute to get the book, but she never did. After snuffing out the last of his cigar he got up and went to the table where the book lied open. He turned a few pages and noticed the pretty handwriting on some and others being a bit sloppy and rushed. He decided to land on a page and began to read.

“… Havana, how I miss you already. I’m stuck in literal Hell as I write to you, my dear Havana. I will always miss being in the warm embrace of your calm winds, your gently kisses on my cheeks from the sunshine, the smell of the morning dew on fresh lilacs by my windows… […] After being in Hell, it’s always warm here. I mean, I can come and go on certain times of the day/night as long as I have a chaperone with me. Even then, I can only go to certain shops here and there and not spend too long. Everybody has a tight schedule here. It feels like I have a bit too much freedom sometimes. But sometimes it also feels like I’m restricted […] Some of the Casino folks are nice to me. Pirouletta, though serious, is like an older sister to me, I think. Pip and Dot are also nice, mostly Dot because she finally has somebody to talk to about clothes and such while her husband Pip ignores us most of the time or make sarcastic remarks.”

Wheezy skimmed the pages a moment as he tried to look for his name. She seemed to have written about at least everyone in the Casino. “Mr. Chimes… Mangosteen… Oh…”

“I caught Mr. Wheezy stealing glances my way when I was hanging out with the Devil today. He was a bit far from the table, but I could tell he was looking at me. Well, my chest mostly. I pretended I was cold so Dice could let me borrow his jacket for the rest of the evening. It seemed Lady Luck was on my side at that moment. At least King Dice’s fancy cologne masked the disgusting smells of hard liquor and cigars. Mr. Wheezy is… how do I put it? I have no words that can describe a person of his nature. One minute he’s cracking jokes and the next he seems to be undressing me with his eyes. Sometimes in the same sentence. It’s…”

“Mr. Wheezy, what are you doing?”

Wheezy jumped a little and quickly turned around when he heard the voice. He didn’t notice the door was still open when Pirouletta walked in. She was a craps roulette wheel and didn’t have her usual attire on, mostly the white blouse and black pants attire in place of her skirt as she helped on the casino floor for her shift. Pirouletta saw Wheezy with the book and raised a brow. “That is Madame Red’s book. Why do you have it?”

“I didn’t steal it. Red was here earlier and she left in a hurry and forgot about it. I wasn’t readin’ or nuthin’.”

“I was here for a few minutes but your eyes never left the pages.” Pirouletta suddenly took the book and shut it closed. “I know this is Red’s favorite journal. She uses it to write songs and keep her private thoughts down on it. I will bring this back to her now.”

“Nah, I’ll do it. Oh, and since we’re on the subject, what’s her story?”

“We were not on subject, Mr. Weezy. But if you want to know… Madame Red would tell you.”

Wheezy groaned. “C’mon, you two talk all the time! All I know is she bet her soul. What else?”

“Why are you suddenly so interested in her?” Pirouletta raised a brow at the cigar.

“Uh, because she’s talked to everybody but me?”

“Hmph. I only heard it from her, but she and her sisters are famous on the Mainlands. They were to come to the Isles to perform but decided to stop by the Casino for fun. They were to all meet up on the Isles as they were coming in from different areas. Only Madame Red and her sister came in together, the others were separate. One of Madame Red’s sisters placed a bet for her own soul but Madame Red took her place. And she is here now as a new performer. Happy now?”

“Uh, I guess. I thought it’d be kinda different… Anyways, I’m gonna go return this to her. She might actually be lost, y’know?” Weezy gently slipped the book from Pirouletta’s hands and slid it into his pocket in his coat.

“Hm. We DO help her, you know. After all, we ARE “family”. Do not forget that, Wheezy.” Pirouletta soon turned heel with grace and soon left the room.

Wheezy huffed and walked out of the room in the opposite direction and headed over towards where the music room was. He reached into his coat pockets and rested them inside for a moment. As he turned a corner, he ran into a tall figure.

“Shit, watch where you’re--!” Wheezy looked and saw a large purple bow tie and knew who it was right away. “D-Dice! I didn’t see ya there!”

King Dice’s lips turned into a scowl as he glared down at Mr. Wheezy. “Just be glad you didn’t finish that sentence, Mr. Wheezy. And, pray tell me, what are you doin’ off the floor?”

“I uh… I was lookin’ for Red.” Wheezy brushed himself off and stood upright. “She forgot somethin’ and I’m gonna return in to her!”

King Dice’s expression still didn’t change, but he did raise a brow. “Oh? Usually you’re the type that keeps “forgotten” things for your own desires, Mr. Wheezy. If you may, I’ll return it to her personally.” King Dice held out his hand towards Wheezy.

“Wait, what are YOU doin’ here? It’s busy as hell out there. Do you really got time for takin’ a stroll, let alone returnin’ something to Red?”

“Actually, I helped Madame Red find the music room. She should still be there now, if I’m not mistaken. And it’d be a nice break before I return to the casino.”

“Nah, I got this. After all, it’d leave me a good impression on her if she knew I returned this to her.”

“You never did leave good impressions on anybody, Mr. Wheezy,” Dice said flatly.

Ouch.

“Well, first time’s the charm, boss!” Mr. Wheezy walked around Dice as he soon headed towards the music room. “I’ll, uh, let’cha get back to what you was doin’ then!”

Mr. Wheezy bolted and turned a corner, sighed once he caught his breath and noticed a soft tune coming from the hallway. He walked towards where the music room was. The door was opened ajar, just enough for Wheezy to take a peek inside. The room was open with bright lights, a simple stage to practice dance acts on, several different instruments like drums, bass, guitar, saxophone… typical jazz instruments. Wheezy looked and saw Red sitting at the piano, where she strummed a sad melody. He thought he heard it before, Beethoven? Mozart? He knew just them, really, as he wasn’t too keen on slow “classical” music. He was more of a jazz and swing kinda guy. But he did know that Pirouletta would often dance to this on the phonograph.

Wheezy slipped into the room and watched from the door as he listened. Red’s eyes were closed as she played each note like a tender touch, like she’d break them if she wasn’t careful. It even seemed she knew the song by heart, as Wheezy didn’t see any sheet music on the piano. She gently leaned in to the piano, leaned back and tossed her hair back as she picked up the pace of a fast part. Wheezy recognized this part as Pirouletta would usually pick up the pace and dance a little faster to this scene, before pausing and continuing again with the slow rhythm once more. Red once again leaned in to the piano as she soon slowed down for a dramatic finish. Then, she sneezed.

"Gesundheit."

Red whipped around and looked at Wheezy in shock. "Christ Almighty you scared the shit out of me!" Red yelped. She turned back around and started to strum the keys again. "But thanks. Why are you here?"

"I heard ya playin' and thought I'd listen?" Wheezy got closer to Red and played a few keys of a random tune he made up on the spot. "So, Dice let you use his piano?"

"This is his?" she asked.

"Yeah. I mean, he plays it all the time. He never lets nobody play it."

"That's a double negative, Wheez." Wheezy gave Red a puzzled look. Red sighed in annoyance. "Anyways. Mr. Dice said it was fine for me to play his piano. It... it's actually better than the one I have at home."

"Back on the Mainlands?"

"I don't recall ever tellin' you anything about my life, Wheez. But, yes, back on the Mainlands I have a piano, but it's black. This is white." Red soon started to play another song on the piano. "Odd, such an instrument being in hell being white as porcelain, while the one I have is black as ebony. Poetic, is it not?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess?" Wheezy scratched the back of his head and shrugged.

"Hm. Thought so."

"Wait, you thought what?" Wheezy leaned over the piano and looked down at Red, who continued to calmly play.

"You're certainly not the type to appreciate certain things."

"Sure I got... things I like!"

"Yes, strong drinks, fancy cigars, and women come to mind when I think about it. But you don't appreciate it, do you?"

"The hell are ya tryin' ta say?" Wheezy was starting to get pissed off now. "That I can't appreciate shit?!"

Red stopped playing and stood up from her seat and glared down at Wheezy, who straightened up and glared down at her. "You and I will never get along, Mr. Wheezy. I'm water, you're oil. Now, if you'll excuse me I best be off before I lose my temper."

"What does the boss even sees in ya anyways? Everybody's always talkin' that yer some shit lady that can sing! Yer nice and laughin' and jokin' but behind closed doors you're... a fuckin' bitch!"

Red raised her hand to slap him, causing Wheezy to coil in defense, but she huffed. "And here I thought you were tough shit, Mr. Wheezy. I was wrong." Red carefully closed the piano and walked out of the music room without another word. Wheezy growled under his breath and took out Red's journal once again. He sat on the stool and started to read again. He could use some information against her as revenge. Teach her place and see who's "tough shit".

"Seems a bit "girly" for you, Mr. Wheezy. Are you queer? I'm not gunna say anything if you are." Mr. Wheezy felt his spine run down with a cold chill, causing him to sit up straight and suddenly close the book. "So. Red's been havin' problems with your sorry ass again, huh?" The Devil took a long drag of his cigar as he leaned against the door frame to the music room. Usually the Devil would never be in here but today was one of those special occasions. Before Wheezy could respond, the Devil took the book from his hands and skimmed a few pages as he held his cigar in his teeth. "Hm. Knowin' thy enemy, huh? She seems to have a lot to say 'bout the Casino. See, in the beginning it's how she got this here journal a few days before she got to the Isles. Then here it's the ferry, and a day or two after she got her soul taken away. Seems she's got a lot to say about everybody here, too." The Devil skipped a few pages and laughed when he saw his own name. "Oh, man she even has me in here! How delightful."

"I was gonna return it to her, I swear! I just wanted to know why she hates me!"

"Hate's a strong word, Wheez. Hold on." The Devil took a closer look at a certain page and smirked. "Dirty, dirty girl. What language!"

"What?" Wheezy got up and attempted to read over the Devil's shoulder. The Devil responded by crouching over the book and blocking Wheezy from view.

"Hold yer horses! I'll letcha see that in a minute. She wrote quite a bit 'bout me and Dice here. Juicy things. Wait, listen to this!" The Devil tried to mimic Red's low feminine voice, but it ended up higher pitched. "Oh, that King Dice and Devil sure are something! They make me weak at the knees whenever I see them strut their stuff! I can never keep my composure when they're around! My mouth gets so dry and I always get a huge lump in my throat whenever I see them. I wish I had something of THEIRS stuck in my throat!"

"Bullshit!" Wheezy replied, but he couldn't help it but smirk.

"Man, you wish!" The Devil took a drag of his cigar and flicked the ashes off onto Wheezy's head. "Anyways, she's gonna want it back now. She probably has a LOT to say after today." The Devil caused the journal to go up in smoke and flame before it disappeared into thin air. The journal landed in Red's room, right on her bed, safe from any scorch marks.

[sharvaanis]

I choose the gender I want to be!

“Bastard!” my very first nickname; the only inheritance I had received from my Mother. My mother was a special woman. She gave me everything I needed to discover my identity. She gave me the love that every child deserves, a little too much at that. She cared for me like all mothers do. So what if her ways were unconventional. It’s her intent that mattered after all! She must be given due credit for making me the person I am, today.

“Where is my red lipstick Mother?” I would ask her and she would simply say “Use mine instead, dear.” I loved to browse her dressing shelves. The essence of her body enticed me to become like her.

“This little rascal has nothing in common with other boys,” Sheila aunt, the whore next door would comment, every time she would poke her nose into my one bedroom abode.

“Who said I was a boy?”

I never understood why the gorgeous and curvy women in the brothel, would resist when I tried to be like one of them, after all they consisted of a large and undeniable part of my identity…? I simply adored their attire, their makeup, their jewellery and above all the seductive gaze they possessed day in and day out. I craved to love them and be loved, by women like them.

I respected their profession and never did I express contempt towards God for giving me the life I had. Every day began with my Mother’s pooja on the window sill, where she prayed to Lord Krishna. She often told me, “Never lose faith in Krishna, he will rescue you, the day you need him most.” I was never much of a believer myself, as I had more interesting things to engage myself with.

Mother loved to dress me up every day for school, until one day, in grade seven, when I refused to go, as I had become a stock of laughter for students and teachers alike. The Founders’ Day was approaching. The tradition said that all children must give their measurements for costumes, to the school tailor. At my turn for giving measurements, the tailor almost felt me up near the crotch and deliberately noted a smaller size for my crotch line, than the inch tape indicated. I was humiliated by his uncouth gesture, but more disgusted at his spiteful intent to make me suffocate in those hideous pants, which the school finalised, for lack of funds. The embarrassment did not end there. I told my best friend Munni, “I wish I had a vagina like you and other girls, so that other men like the Tailor, could not treat me this way.” To my nightmare, Munni was not my only audience, it was the entire class, standing behind us, in the queues for measurements.

Munni was my best friend, but a girl after all. She started weeping, as she assumed that I made an obscene comment about her assets, to mock her. She complained to the class teacher, Ms. Lathika. Ms. Lathika, asked me to apologize to Munni, in front of the whole class. She also made me stand outside the classroom the entire day. I tried to explain things to her and to the class and my exact words were, “…but Miss, I was not trying to mock her. I seriously wish I were a woman, in order to avoid the cupping I got from the Tailor. He had no rights to feel my private parts.” I had a tone of apology and anger. The combination certainly did not work in my favour.

Ms. Lathika, baffled and antagonized further, now considered my explanation an act to insult her personally. She asked of me to leave her sight, lest there be severe consequences.

I still did not know why was I made to be the baddie in the picture? I was the one molested and victimized, not the women! I asked Mother, “Is honesty really the best policy?” She said, “Sometimes, one may be required to be sensitive about what one says and where…” Since that day, I concluded that I must never be honest about my yearning to become a woman. Not even to Mother.

Years elapsed, and in no time, my secondary sexual features appeared all over my body. I had hit puberty. I was fourteen and I hated it! The immense growth of facial hair and body hair, made me feel like throwing up. I hated the development of my genitals. Why was God doing this to me? Why could not I have a smooth and curvaceous body like Mother’s? I craved for that body. I loved that body. I wanted to possess that body and be touched by another such body. I loved the beauty of making love to another woman and be loved in reciprocity by another woman.

I wanted a woman’s body, with no facial hair, luscious lips, long black hair, dangling-round breasts, a peaceful vagina, which rubbed against mine, with no intercourse activity or the pressure of an orgasm. I felt miserable in my own skin.

One day, which happens to be the most unfortunate day of my life I confronted Mother with the truth. “I want to become like you Mother. I hate every strand of masculinity in my body. I want to walk like you, with my bosom high up, my buttocks adding to the curves of my body; hair falling down like yours do.”

“Why do you hate yourself so much? Do you know how rare it is in our community to get a perfect masculine body from God?” demanded Mother angrily, after I confessed to her that I didn’t like my birth as a man.

“So what if I have a perfect male body? I don’t want one! Most men anyway are useless in our community. Do you want me to be a pimp and increase the business of this hell?”

At this point, Mother lost it. She came close and slapped me hard.

“Is this why I worked so hard and got you educated? To make a pimp out of you? If you are accusing me of that sin, then you might as well stop living with the devil of a Mother, that I am. Get out of my house right now, and never to return.”

She slammed the door in my face and abandoned me from her life. I banged on the door through out the night. She would not open. My banging had awakened the entire neighbourhood. They all looked at me with confused eyes. As a boy child, many of these whores had tried to force me into penetrating them. Mother had been my shield throughout. But today, I had lost both, the lust of these women and Mother’s protective blanket, which I felt so comfortable in. The whores wanted a real man, who could make them feel young about themselves and not a sissy who wanted to be one of them, because there were plenty of women available anyway, but a healthy, macho man always came for a high price.

Ostracized by the whore house, I had nowhere to go. I was about fifteen now, with only little education to support me. I slept on station platform for many days. How comfortable had Mother’s creaky bed been! Sometimes, even sleeping under it, when she had customers, was better than sleeping on the floor. Eventually, a fellow being suggested that I work as domestic help in households, considering my education, that was the only decent job I could hope for.

I was lucky to have got a civilized home. They treated me like their own children and made arrangements for me to attend government school in order to complete my education. I was an above average student. I liked school. Though managing house chores with keeping up good grades was a bit challenging, this was my best bet at life. I could not complain.

At nights, I would gaze at the sky and miss Mother, wondered what must she be doing, while I was away and her youth touching retirement. I wanted to help Mother in her old age. I was her only alive relative. I missed her. I wanted to go back.

With God’s grace I graduated from High school and fared well at my exams. I was sent to work at office now, by my master and mistress. I did menial jobs at office. Running errands, getting coffee, managing the printing machine. I was happy. But even then, at nights, when I would sit to introspect, I felt like a loser. I hated every bit of being denied a female body. The women at office were mostly clad in professional attire. That made them even more attractive to me. It’s the stiffness of tight shirts, skirts and trousers, which highlights a woman’s bosom and buttocks. I dreamed of living that reality some day, when I would be rich enough to wear those finely ironed clothes and walk confidently, with my hair left open

In a matter of years, through my dedication and hard work, I graduated from the coffee-guy to clerk. How I hated the safari suits, given to me! The rough texture itched my skin all over. I wanted cotton shirts instead. I had saved up some money for my clothes. But there was no point in buying women’s clothes for my ugly hairy body. I still missed Mother. I wanted to tell another person about the internal turmoil which I underwent.

At that point, I came across a brochure for a psychiatry clinic, near the office locality. I had heard that psychiatrists were mental doctors. For the first time in my life, I felt I was a mental patient. There was no way a man could hate his body. It was my irrevocable sin. I wanted a cure.

“Gender Dysphoria” exhaled the lady in front of me. She was a qualified psychiatrist, with the perfect body, hard to miss. Apparently, I had a mental condition wherein I had cross-gender identification. That is, I identify with the opposite sex.

I was terrified. “Is there a cure?” I asked in anticipation.

“Well, there are different alternatives to deal with this situation. We shall go with whatever you wish for yourself. I shall recommend the best surgeons for you. However, a sex change operation will cost a huge sum of money. Are you willing to go ahead with a surgery?”

“Is that my best option?”

“It depends on the degree of your urge to get a feminine body. If you can manage to live with the trauma all your life, then I could give you some medicines to tackle with the stress. On the contrary, some men prefer repressing these urges, which can also be catered to with the help of advanced drugs.”

That day, that moment, sitting in front of a psychiatrist, I felt I had my moment of truth. She was demanding an answer from me point blank, which translated to “Can you live a life of lie? Or would you rather stay true to yourself?” How could I lie to myself, especially now, when I knew the truth about myself?

The best part about this diagnosis was the awareness of the fact that there are many others like me,  out there! I am not the only one who feels this way. I am normal! I am a normal person! My gender can be my choice! I just could not be any happier!

I thanked the Doctor and asked her for the surgeon’s contact details. As I left her office, I felt like a different person. Someone, Mother would also be proud of! She need not think of me as a misfit in the community anymore! I was normal like any other transgender!

The next day, I was to meet a certain Ms.Sheila. Waiting at her clinic were the hardest twenty minutes of my life. I did not know how the surgery would proceed. What would the exact changes in me, be? Would I be able to afford the surgery? Did I want a life like that?

“Mr. Nair, you can come in. Ms. Sheila is ready.” Announced the angel-like secretary of Ms. Sheila.

“How are you  Mr. Nair?” asked Ms. Sheila, glancing through my case file.

“As great as I could be.”

“Well, please do not worry about anything. You are in very safe hands. I shall explain you all aspects of the surgery, you must only decide whether you would like to undergo the Sex reassignment surgery?”

“Sex reass…sorry? I think I didn’t get that right.”

“Sex reassignment surgery. It shall transform the masculine parts of your body into feminine. It shall take about a week. It will cost you Rs. 5 lakhs only. You could use the EMI scheme of the clinic, and pay up the sum in instalments...”

As she went on about the business scheme, I was wondering, how exactly would I be able to pay up even the instalments? I barely made Rs. 5000 a month. It would take a lifetime, before I could really live the changed life that I was aspiring for. Breaking her monotonous speech, I finally gathered the courage and said, “How exactly do you go about the surgery? How do you convert the penis into a vagina?”

“Well, it is not as complicated as it sounds. The genitals of both males and females have the same basic structure. They only grow into different organs over a period of time.”

“So then, where does the penis really go?”

“The general idea of the surgery is that we deconstruct the penis into its parts, the skin, the erectile tissues, the testicles, the scrotum. We resize them and reshape them and put them into female positions. We basically recycle a lot of the material of the penis into the vagina.”

“Uhm, okay.” I was so nervous. It was awkward to hear a person of the opposite sex, speak so blatantly about my genitals! I was perspiring. I didn’t know if I were really ready to let go off my parts. Besides, how could I trust this system blindly? What if I died? What if I did not survive the surgery?

“Considering my miserable financial condition, could you grant me a waiver of some portion of the amount?”

“I think, we could maximum cut it down to four and a half lakhs. Sir, this surgery requires exclusive skills, not available everywhere in India. We call for many surgeons from all over India. I am sorry but that is the maximum I can do.”

“Okay. Thank you for the guidance Madam.” I left her office in apprehension. I had no clue as to what the future had planned for me. I wanted a woman’s body. That had been my childhood dream, and finally today I had been told that with the development in Science, I could in fact do it. I could be me! I could tell Mother that I am still her child, only packaged differently!

Today, after one year, two months and thirteen days, I finally have the money for the first instalment, Rs. 50,000 only! I worked hard, burnt midnight oil, but I had to do this in order for my dream to come true; to finally live the life of my choice. I cannot be any happier! I am heading to Ms. Sheila’s nursing home now.

I feel proud and victorious. I feel that I have finally conquered my fears and anxiety. I can now live in the body of my choice. I feel empowered.