#to the point that a lady i briefly talked to last week assumed i was born in hk and moved here when i was younger

[difeisheng]

learned tonight that cheng yi is representation for those of us messy bitches who get needled at by their families for their accent in their 家鄉話

[apollyonsdarksecrets]

You can call me, Sir.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

Summery: She’s reserved, emotionally cut off, and spiraling down a dark path; one she can’t get out of on her own. Aaron Hotchner may be her only help, but at what cost? When he shows up to her hotel room, contact in hand, she realizes it may be more than what she bargained for.

Warning: 18+ Only MDNI SMUT. Language, BDSM, Dom Aaron, emotionally detached reader, typical CM violence, childhood trauma, abusive father figure, age gap (reader 25 Aaron 40) doesn’t line up with a specific time line, use of Y/n because story is set in 3rd person for the first half then switches POV, last name for reader is Smith,

Specific chapter warnings : Failed CPS case, implied abuse with belt, clothes shopping (I tried my best to be as body neutral as possible), sugar daddy Arron, sales lady is rude towards reader, Things are getting spicy, first rules, use of pet names, reader is described as having hair long enough to sweep over one shoulder, trying on clothes, Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: The amount of love that has been shown for this story so far has absolutely filled my heart! I’m sorry this chapter took a minute to come out, I got married last week sooooo 😍 that slowed the process down a little. Haha 💜

*~*~*~*~*~*

9 years ago

The worst part was the way her nose stung, like a million tiny needles stabbing her all at once. But she had to breath through it, because only selfish, weak, incompetent people cried. So she forced her thoughts solely on the older woman who sat across from her, her grey hair loose around her shoulders, and the bright pink blazer she wore with matching skirt. ‘I think name is Deloris?’

Not what you would have thought when you heard the term ‘CPS worker’. She smiles at the young teen as if she was Y/n’s best friend and there isn’t a care in the world as her fountain pen taps against her yellow notepad. “You’re mother must have been a lovely woman.”

A muscle in Y/n’s jaw twitches, but she manages to return Deloris’ smile briefly. “She was.”

“So is that really the reason you have been skipping school?” Her green eyes were full of mock sympathy, and Y/n can only assume how many of these ‘troubled teen cases’ she has had to work.

“Yes ma’am.” It was the 8th anniversary of Y/n’s mother’s death. Today. She can hear her father in the other room, moving about the kitchen, pretending to not be listening through the thin walls. Y/n squeezes the pillow in her lap tighter to her churning stomach, already anticipating how the rest of the night will go.

“I’m sorry, dear. I know losing a loved one can be hard, but that doesn’t mean we can go about making things hard for the ones we still have.” Deloris tilts her head, her lips in a slightly pout as she regards Y/n, who only bites her cheek to keep quiet. She drops her chin to her chest, fanning shame with a small nod, placating the woman. “Good. I’m going to go talk with your father now, I hope you understand the severity of the situation you’ve almost caused. I expect to hear you are in school tomorrow.”

Deloris doesn’t take long in the kitchen with Y/n’s father, her pitchy laughter grating on Y/n’s ears. Her father escorts the worker to the door, his hair is combed, beard neat and he’s dressed still in his work clothes. A fitted grey collard shirt and jeans. His usual Forman outfit. At one point in Y/n’s life she can remember thinking her dad had been very handsome, but that had all been before the drinking.

“Have a good evening Miss. Deloris.” Her fathers southern accent is always laid on heavy whenever he is trying to impress someone, or to get his way. And for most of his life it worked well. Y/n wonders sometimes if that is how he had charmed her mother.

As the pine door shut, Y/n closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath before the storm. When she opens her eyes again, she’s staring at the brown tweed couch across from her, out of the corner of her eye she can see her father’s still form in the archway of the living room.

The sound of leather hissing through his denim belt loops makes her stomach drop, her breath quicken in her already tight chest. “Gone an got me in trouble huh?” He folds the worn leather over in his hands, snapping it together watching as she jumps in her seat. Her gaze remains focused on the spot Miss. Deloris had occupied, the old springs and cushioning holding her shape. “You ain’t learned trouble girl.”

Present Day

It’s almost unbearable how cold it is outside, the dark clouds over head threatened to snow on the busy sidewalk as you shove your hands as far into your jacket as they will go. Aaron is pressed against your side, his arm wrapped around your back, directing you through the crowd and to the front of a large store.

Chic’s End

Your nose scrunches slightly at the different mannequins in the brightly lit windows who’s clothing is on the higher end of fashion. Pieces you’d never find in your own wardrobe. Aaron guides you towards the door but you stop abruptly shaking your head. “Hotch, aren’t there places a little less… fancy?” Your tone gives away your discomfort as you scan the nearly empty store.

Aaron sighs, stepping around you so he can look you in the eye. “Rule number one: call me Aaron when it’s just the two of us, Hotch is too formal. Now I’m sure there are, but you deserve to be a little spoiled…” He pauses, his phone vibrating in his pocket making him frown. “Now go inside, let me check this and I’ll be right in.” As he fishes for his phone he pulls open the door for you, letting you walk in with a small head rush.

‘Our first rule?’

You take the moment you have some to look around the store front, a few customers are mingling about the rows of clothing, associates putting away inventory or helping their guests. A brunette is standing at the register, her hair sprayed and pinned into a tight bun atop her head. She glances at you, her nose turned up at your simple outfit, without a word of welcome she goes back to her work.

The door is opening a moment later, a small bell going off as Aaron steps in, the icy breeze trying to follow. “Sorry, David was checking in.” His voice reaches the woman at the counter, grabbing her attention. She watches as he shrugs out of his winter jacket, her gaze fixing on the flash of jewelry on his wrist with a smile.

“Is he okay?” You ask, handing Aaron your own jacket as he hangs them on a coatrack.

“Oh yes, he’s-.”

“Good afternoon, is there anything I can help you with?” You turn, the same woman from before now standing in front of you. She’s wearing a form fitting black dress, the apparent dress code for the establishment, a silver name tag pinned to her collar reading ‘Denise.’ Gone is her dismissive attitudes from before, her blue eyes staring intently at Aaron with a sly smile.

You feel something in your chest squirm, making you take a step in front of Aaron as you pull your best smile into place. “Oh thank you, but we are just-.”

A warm hands is suddenly on your shoulder, pulling you into Aaron’s side. “We’re looking for some work attire; blouses, pants, skirts and such. Along with more casual wear.” He squeezes your shoulder as you slide him a disgruntled look.

Denise regards you with a tight lipped smile, nodding her head slightly. “Of course. Right this way.” She turns on her heel, an extra sway in her her step that makes you roll your eyes as you pull out of Aaron’s grip following her. He follows behind a few paces, regarding you with masked amusement.

She takes you to the back of the store, pointing out the sections of racks you’ll need and where on the walls you can find work appropriate pants and skirts. Denise turns to Aaron once again, stepping to close for comfort as she stares openly at his suit. “You know, we have the latest in Brioni’s suit jackets that I think would complement you rather well, Mr…” She brushes her hand against his arm and your eyes widen.

“No thank you. I’ll let you know if we need any further assistance.” Aaron comes to stand beside you, his expression hard to read as he places a hand on your lower back. Denise’s eyes narrow slightly, her smile faltering before she pulls her emotions back.

“Please do.” She saunters of, throwing one last look over her shoulder.

You laugh unbelievably, “Jesus… she was a bit forward.” You turn toward the rack beside you, picking up the first shirt your eyes land on. It’s a simple white blouse with navy blue pinstripes, the neckline is a little low for your taste but otherwise it’s very pretty. You pick up the tag and instantly drop it, your mouth falling open.

“What?” Aaron asks, sliding the clothes along the pole, looking through the selection.

“This! These clothes are way to over priced.” You turn the tag towards him, and he squints at the small numbers. ‘75.56’. He frowns slightly and you think he’s about to agree with you, call this whole ridiculous thing off until he shrugs.

“That’s not so bad.” He grins at the incredulous look you level him, showing perfect teeth. “Darling you’ll come to realize the value that comes with certain things. Soon enough you’ll see the value in yourself as well.” He chucks you under the chin softly and you think that’s it.

You’re going to explode.

Everything it too much.

“Hotch, I can’t just let you waste that kind of money on me. You don’t know what you will need it for later, bills, or -.”

Aaron steps into your space again, bending down until he’s eye level with you and you clam up. His eyes are dark, burning with an intensity that has your shoulders slumping slightly. When he speaks his voice is quiet but direct, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “What did I say our first rule was?”

You stammer, your grip tightening on the fabric still in your hands. “You said… to call you Aaron.”

“Correct. So that’s one. Now, when I say I am doing something for you, buying you something, getting you something; do not doubt me. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. Do I make myself clear?”

All you can do is nod, your throat dry and tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. “Good girl. Now if you really find calling me Aaron to difficult, you can always call me sir.” You suddenly look like a fire had been lit underneath you, your face flushing a new shade of red he’d yet to see before. You turn away from him, trying to hide your emotions and aggressively shuffle through the clothes before you.

Aaron straightens with a satisfied smile.

*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour in and there is a mount pile of clothing in the cart in front of you. Everything you’ve selected draped over one side and everything Aaron selected on the other. You had found a discount rack, the red tags a twisted mess by now, but the 15% off sign did little to quell the guilt eating you.

“Okay… this is more clothes than I think Garcia even owns. I think we should-.” You’re talking absently, glancing up only to find Aaron is walking in the opposite direction of the checkout. “Oh for the love of all things holy.” You quickly follow, pulling the cart behind you as the hangers rattle together. He stops in front of a display of eloquent evening gowns and you follow his stare to the forefront of the display. A deep emerald green satin dress takes your breath away, with a sweetheart neckline and a slit that goes half way up the mannequins thigh. You peak around the back in awe, it plunges well down to the lower back, a sheer material with beautiful rhinestones occupying the negative space.

Aaron watches as you pick up the bottom of the dress, rubbing the buttery material between your fingers. “I would love to see you in it.”

You shake your head, though your focus remains on the dress. “There’s no reason to, when would I ever wear this? Besides we’ve been here for nearly an hour, if we don’t leave soon I’m sure Denise is going to jump your bones.”

Aaron chuckles at that with a shrug. “You might not be wrong, she’s been lurking around the corner ever since I took my jacket off and she caught sight of my watch.” You glance down at his wrist as he shows you a golden Rolex. You hum in understanding, putting the two together. A handsome, stylish man, with a nice suit and a watch that coasts a couple of grand. She sees dollar signs. “Go ask her for a fitting room.”

Glancing around you notice she’s no more than ten feet away, pretending to be busy with an already neatly arranged display of sweaters. You walk over, hands clasped behind your back. “Excuse me?”

She doesn’t bother to look up, her head tilted as if in contemplation as she stares at the stack in front of her. “Yes?”

Your jaw clenches slightly, but you smile regardless. “I’d like to try that green dress on, where are your dressing rooms?” That finally catches her attention, she looks around you to the dress your talking about and then to the cart beside Aaron, the red tags turned her way. With a bemused smile she finally looks you in the eye.

“Sorry, that dress isn’t on sale, dear. Maybe come back some other time.” Her high voice carries farther than she thinks, reaching Aaron who’s eyebrows raised in surprise before furrowing as anger bubbles in his chest.

Before you can say anything he is by your side, startling you both. “She didn’t ask you if it was on sale. She asked if you had a fitting room.” Denise pales, his voice is harsh and edged making her shift on her feet as she begins to stammer

“Well I… it was just-.”

“Just what? It’s a simple question, this is a clothing store so you must have fitting rooms. She would like one opened.” Denise can no longer keep eye contact, her gaze flickering from his face and away again. “Now.” The command in his voice makes her move, her mouth agape and she’s pointing indirectly over her shoulder. She turns, quickly walking away and you’re left to stunned to react. Aaron’s hand finds your back again, pushing you forward, his other hand on the end of the cart.

The dressing area is three beiges booths with deep red curtains for doors. A large mirror takes up one wall that is lit up like Time Square during Christmas, and there are mirrors in the booths as well. “You said the green dress?” You nod, giving her your size and she’s running off again, her head down and face red. Aaron takes a seat in one of the mahogany chairs, folding his arms across his chest. He’s watching Denise leave with that same look he gives every unsub as they are being hauled off to their final destination.

“Um… thank you, for… for that.” You speak up, breaking the silence waiting on Denise to return.

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his black shoe tapping the polished floor. “You don’t typically show when you’re upset or irritated, I had to step in. I also couldn’t stand by and let you be berated like that.”

This time it’s you who crosses their arms, glowering at him. “I wasn’t showing I was upset, so what she was being rude? It didn’t affect me.”

His lips pull into a sarcastic smile, head shaking. “Sweetheart, I’ve been working with you for three years, nearly four. When you get upset over something, even if it is trivial, you dig your nails into your palms. Most likely because you would rather focus on that then what’s stewing in your mind and your chest.” You blink at him, awareness washing over you as you shake out your hands, crescent indents marking your flesh.

Before you can snip at him Denise is back, placing the dress in one of the rooms and leaving without a word. Aaron raises an eyebrow and you huff, turning and walking into the booth before snatching the curtain closed. You take a moment to breath, your annoyance merging on anger as you begin to undress.

You have to force yourself to remember this is all apart of the contract, this is all small steps to whatever greater end goal he has. You can’t fully trust he’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart, no one is like that. Working a career where you catch murderers and kidnappers and rapists has shown you such. The thought lingers at the back of your mind that maybe he’s pushing you to break and go to therapy where they will force your leave. It wouldn’t happen, you’ve come to far to let anyone treat you that way.

You step out of your pants, bending down to pick them up when you notice movement in the mirror. You look up, making eye contact with Aaron from where he sits and you go still. The only thing that moves is your heart as it suddenly jumps into double time.

Aaron’s eyes slowly rake over your body, the hunger in his eyes evident even from where you stand and you can feel your body respond. Heat rushes through your veins, leaving you lightheaded. He shifts in his seat, your eyes dropping to where he tugs at his pants legs, a noticeable bulge in his lap that makes your guts clench. From anxiety? Want? Curiosity? You aren’t sure. You quickly look away, his smile turning wolfish as you straighten and spin around, giving him a full peak at the matching black bra and panties your wearing before yanking the curtain fully closed.

All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears, your fingers suddenly tingling and your lungs working for air. Shakily, checking the curtain again and again you strip out of your bra, and pull the dress over your head. The satin is soft and cool, the green leaving your skin glowing in the light. It hugs your body in ways you wouldn’t of imagined and you… like it. It screams seduction, fun, and someone you’re not but someone you once might have wanted to be…

The only issue is you can’t zip it yourself. You struggle for a few minutes, contouring your body this way or that, but you can’t get the zipper more than half way up your back.

Reluctantly you pull the curtain aside just enough to peak your head out, your eyes instantly finding Aaron’s. He raises an eyebrow, his hands clasped together in his lap and you are more than aware of why. “I need her help.” Your voice is floaty and you clear your throat. “I can’t zip it up.”

“I’ll help you.” He stands, crossing the small distance in three long strides, quicker than you can reject his help.

“Wait- no, I’m-.” But he is pulling the curtain away from the other side and you curse the interior designer with a flourish of silent profanities. In the small space he seems larger than life, all broad chest and long limbs. He steps closer and you back up, an all to familiar dance you two have rehearsed before.

He holds his hand out, a gesture of reassurance but he is still looking at you like a starved man. “Spin around, pretty girl.” Your legs feel suddenly numb, like you’d never used them before in your life as you continue to stare. “It’s okay.” He whispers, taking another half step forward.

“It’s fine, it fits well enough without it zipped I’m sure it’ll fit great when it is.” You fight to keep your body lose and face expressionless, trying to mask the feelings bubbling in your guts. Aaron doesn’t say anything, only continues to stare you down, gaze never wavering. “Really.”

“Turn around.” You don’t want to listen, but the timber of his voice makes your body ache in a way that catches you more by surprise than anything else has these past 24 hours. Cautiously you lay your hand in his, letting his pull you in before spinning you around so you’re facing the mirror. He sweeps your hair over your shoulder, his fingers grazing across the naked skin pulling gooseflesh to the surface.

You stand as still as possible, hardly breathing as he gently slides the zipper up. His palms spread across your ribs, warm through the thin fabric. “What do you think?”

“It’s a beautiful dress.” You whisper quietly, trying not to back down from his stare.

“You make it beautiful.”

“You’re only saying that.” He pulls you closer, your back hitting his chest, your body molding to his. A gasp disappears on your lips, his hips pressing into you lower back his erection prominent making you shiver.

“I can promise you I’m not.” His hand slips to your stomach, splaying across your abdomen, and a small noise hitches in your throat. He tilts his head down, pressing a tinder kiss to the crown of your head and all you can focus on is where he’s touching you and where he isn’t, but where you want him to. Your panties are suddenly slick feeling as you shift against him, his erection digging further into your ass.

“Aaron…” You try to warn, and he watches the way your eyes flutter, the shields you’ve so desperately and carefully constructed cracking under the weight of his stare. Some logical part of your brain, buried beneath the mush of your thoughts, is screaming and begging to run away. But how long had it been since you’d felt that fire in the pit of your stomach, curling your toes and making your thighs pinch together?

You’re about to open your mouth, say something, anything at all, when he is suddenly pulling away. “Come out here so I can get a better look at you.” Aaron steps behind the curtain leaving you to your spiraling thoughts and an ache you’d never imagine. Your face is flushed, eyes wide and pupils blown out over the color of your irises. It’s hard to keep the air in your lungs from rushing out in soft pants.

All you can think is that if this is how you react to a few simple words and actions, you’re screwed.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The next half hour is spent paying for your clothing, a bill Aaron wouldn’t allow you to see, then moving the bags from the car to your hotel room. You stare at them now, laid out on your bed with furrowed eyebrows and your thumbnail caught between your teeth. How would you get these in your bag and on the plane with as little notice as possible?

“Maybe we can go get you another duffle bag tomorrow.” Aaron answers as if he could read your thoughts, and if you didn’t know better you would say he did.

“It’s okay.. Thank you for the clothing.” You manage, giving him a tight smile as you glance to where he is standing at the foot of the bed.

The entire car ride was filled with tension, his presence alone setting you on edge, all while he remained calm driving down the busy streets and helping you to your room.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He smiles at you, possibly more so from your compliance, his eyes like coffee. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

You bite your nail harder, looking back to the bags. “I’d like to just order my food to my room, I need to get this organized and finish my reports.” You expect him to argue but he only nods, coming around the bed and kissing the top of your head before he walks towards the door.

“I’ll check on you in a little while.” With that he leaves, and as the automatic lock slides into place you crumple. You sit heavily on the bed, running a hand through your hair like it might comb your thoughts back into place.

What are you doing?

What is he doing?

You groan in frustration, the feeling of not having control over what happens next beating on your bones and muscles. You haven’t relaxed since this began and you have a feeling you won’t for a long time to come.

*~*~*~*~*~*

If you would like to be tagged in the next parts please comment below and I will gladly add you! Thank you all for your support!

@kneelforloki @hmett20 @axionn @ncis0mrs0gibbs

[oh-stars]

Faulty Tunes

Love is tolerating your partner’s terrible singing.

a @steddielovemonth prompt | 570 words | CW: briefly mentioned sick character | Rating: G

--

Everyone assumes Eddie can sing. They see him jamming in the car, rocking air-guitars at red lights and in the passenger seat whenever Steve drives. He’s always screaming at concerts, shouting along to the lyrics with the crowd and dancing until his body’s ready to give out. He slings his guitar around, can play any melody with only one listen, and could probably learn any instrument in record time if he actually tried. 

The thing is, he can’t.

Eddie doesn’t try to hide it, either, Steve finds. Sure, he doesn’t sing with the band and the few times he’s “sung” around Steve and friends, Eddie was mostly talking the words to the melody. And Steve can tell he likes to sing, can see him mouthing the words while he works around the house with his Walkman, bobbing his head as he sings into a soapy spoon. 

It’s absolutely adorable. 

So when Steve’s sitting in the passenger seat as Eddie drives them to their favorite date place, he’s giddy with excitement as Eddie sings to his heart’s content – scratchy, off-key voice and all. It’s a song Steve knows, too, one he learned for Eddie to impress him when he was trying to convince Eddie he did really, for real, like him. And when he starts to sing along, Eddie’s face gets brighter and the music gets turned up even higher. 

Even if he doesn’t claim to have a good singing voice nor is he outwardly ashamed, it still takes some encouragement to get Eddie to sing when there isn’t a backing track of another artist in the background. 

Steve’s laying on Eddie’s bed, stomach roiling with nausea from a bad case of the flu the kids brought home from school. Eddie’s already recovered from it, doting on Steve as tenderly as Steve had for him last week. He’s curled up, hugging Eddie’s pillow and watching him work at his desk with big, watery eyes. 

He sniffles and mumbles, “Eds?” 

Eddie glances up from his guitar, pencil in his mouth and notebook in front of him. “Yes, baby?” 

“Will you play for me?” Steve asks, blinking at him with what he hopes are his best puppy eyes. He’s sick, so that’s an extra bonus point in his favor. “I want to hear what you’re working on.” 

“Are you sure? It’s not that great yet–” ‘ 

“Please?” 

Eddie sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Fine. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” 

It takes a few minutes for Eddie to get comfortable and to read through his freshly written lyrics, but once he does, Steve relaxes into the mattress. The guitar is super soft, not plugged into the amp like it usually is because Steve’s prone to headaches on a good day, much less a sick day, so all Steve can hear with his clogged ears is Eddie. 

He sings the ballad like a whisper, voice breaking and pitching in weird places as he follows the melody or mock screams where Jeff and Frank will inevitably take their stylistic liberties later.  

Eddie may not have the best voice, certainly won’t be getting a record deal from it, but he’s Steve’s favorite singer by far. 

When he finishes, Steve asks for another and another until he falls asleep to the warm lullabies of his love. The last thing he remembers before he falls into a deep sleep is Eddie kissing his temple. 

--

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

[waitimcomingtoo]

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: when the Avengers notice signs of Peter having a girlfriend, they suspect he’s not as innocent as he seems

Masterlist

“Hey Pete the treat.” Tony greeted Peter as he passed him in the hallway. “Have you seen my screwdriver with the orange handle?”

“Oh, yeah.” Peter remembered. “I used it to fix my web shooters. It’s on my desk in my room.”

“Mind if I grab it?”

“Would you listen if I said no?” Peter asked, assuming he knew the answer?

“Nope.” Tony smiled at how well Peter knew him. “I’ll go get it.”

Tony waltzed into Peters room and went straight to his desk, rummaging through the papers and sketches he had strewn about.

“Now where are you hiding?” Tony drummed his fingers on his chin as he looked around Peters desk. He opened the top drawer and found nothing, so he opened the next drawer and began to rummage around. After moving a notebook to the side, Tony found an unopened box of condoms among Peters things.

“Hm.” Tony furrowed his eyebrows at the surprising find. “Well it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

He put it down and continued searching through the draw before the box caught his eye again.

“Value pack?” Tony read off the box. “Jesus.”

He shut the drawer and found the screwdriver in the next drawer, mindlessly tucking it into his pocket. As he left Peters room, the box stayed in his mind. He walked into the living room and found the rest of the Avengers chatting.

“What do you guys think about Peter?” Tony wondered as he toyed with the screwdriver.

“I don’t think about Peter.” Sam deadpanned.

“He seems lonely, no?” Tony shrugged. “He could use a companion of the female variety.”

“We should set him up.” Steve suggested. “He could use someone.”

“I don’t know.” Nat scrunched her nose. “He seems too young to be dating.”

“He’s in college now. It’s about time he gets a girlfriend.” Tony decided. “I had dozens by the time I was his age.”

“Are we even sure he likes girls?” Rhodey asked.

“He complimented my hair color once.” Nat shrugged.

“There we go.” Tony nodded, getting excited now.

“What are you guys talking about?” Bucky asked quietly as he entered the room.

“We want to set Peter up on a date.” Steve told him.

“Parker? I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend.” Bucky said, making everyone look at him.

“What?” Tony asked. “No way.”

“Yeah. My room is next to his.” He shrugged. “He’s on the phone all night almost every night.”

“What?” Nat laughed in surprise. “With who?”

“Someone named Y/n I’m pretty sure.” Bucky went on. “I hear her name a lot.”

“Y/n.” Tony rolled it around his mind. “Interesting. I have to know more.”

“I think if Peter wanted us to know more, he’d tell us.” Nat clicked her tongue.

“And I think I don’t care.” Tony retorted. “I’m gonna find out more.”

That night, Tony sat in the dark as he waited for Peter to come home. He heard the elevator coming up and shivered with excitement at the incoming confrontation.

“Hey, Parker.” Tony dramatically turned on the light once Peter walked in the room, making Peter jump.

“Hi Mr. Stark.” Peter stammered as he took off his coat.

“Are you just getting back?” Tony asked coyly.

“Yeah, I was out with my…friend.” Peter shifted his eyes at the mention of you.

“Oh really?” Tony feigned a gasp. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Y/n.” Peter said casually. “I was with her.”

“So I see.” Tony nodded. “Is she from school?”

“Yeah. She’s in my organic chemistry class.”

“So one might say you two have…chemistry?” Tony shrugged as he walked closer to Peter.

“Anyone with our schedules would say that.” Peter laughed nervously.

“Whats she like?” Tony persisted. “Is she pretty?”

“She’s great.” Peter smiled. “She can talk circles around me about just about anything. I don’t even know why we’re in the same class. She’s so much smarter than everyone in the room, even the professor. She’s just...she’s great.”

“So I hear.” Tony smirked. Peter completely avoided the “pretty” question, and that told Tony everything he needed to know.

“Hear?” Peter asked curiously. “What did you hear?”

“Thin walls, buddy.” Tony knocked on the wall. “Bucky told us all about your late night phone calls with your lady friend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Peters face heated up. “I’ll be quieter.”

“You don’t have to be quieter.” Tony told him. “Bucky doesn’t deserve a peaceful nights sleep.”

“Why do you say that?” Peter asked.

“Because he murdered my parents. Night!” Tony threw up a peace sign before leaving the room. Peters jaw dropped a little before shutting. He quickly pulled out his phone and clicked on your contact.

“I think Mr. Stark is onto us” He texted you.

“Good. He can pay for our wedding 👀” You wrote, making him smile. He put his phone away and went to bed himself.

~

A few weeks later, Tony needed the screwdriver again and had an idea of where he could find it.

“Hey Pete. Did you use the screwdriver again?” Tony asked when he found Peter in the hallway.

“Yeah. It should be in the same place.” Peter informed him.

“Thanks.” Tony nodded and went into Peters room. He went to the desk, expecting to find the screwdriver in the same drawer it was in last time. When he didn’t find it there, he opened the drawer above it. Right on top of a pile of notebooks was the box from last time.

“I shouldn’t.” Tony sighed and chewed his lip. “But I’m feeling snoopy.”

Tony picked up the box and to his surprise, it was significantly lighter. Tony opened it up and peered inside, only to see it was nearly empty.

“Who did this to you?” Tony gasped. “Who took your goodies?”

Elsewhere in the tower, Peter was heading back to his room when he crashed into Natasha.

“Oh, sorry.” Peter apologized as he caught her before he could knock her over.

“It’s fine.” Natasha assured him, sniffing the air a little. “Why do you smell so good?”

“Hygiene is very important to me.” Peter straightened his shoulders to solidify his lie.

“Yeah, but,” she sniffed him again, “you smell fruity.”

“I’m a fruity boy.” Peter stated, regretting it immediately.

“Oh.” Natasha backed away a little, giving him a strange look.

“Not that kind of fruity.” Peter stammered. “I have to go.”

Just as Peter scurried away, Sam walked into the hallway.

“Am I crazy or did Peter smell like perfume?” Natasha pointed behind him.

“I don’t care.” Sam mumbled as he walked by.

“Romanoff.” Tony rounded the corner after leaving Peters room. “I think the Manchurian Candidiate was right. I think Peter has a girlfriend.”

“I think so too.” Natasha nodded. “He smelled like perfume just now.”

As Tony and Natasha exchanged evidence, Sam passed by Peters room just as he was going inside.

“Hey Sam.” Peter greeted before he shut his door.

“Don’t talk to me, Parker.” Sam mumbled without looking up.

“Sorry.” Peter chuckled and rolled his eyes, making Sam briefly look up.

“What’s that?” Sam narrowed his eyes when he spotted something peeking out over Peters collar.

“Whats what?” Peter asked as he pulled away.

“On your neck.” Sam caught his collar and pulled it down. “Is that a hickey?”

“No.” Peter said quickly as he covered his neck with his hand. “I burnt my neck with my curling iron.”

“Oh, okay.” Sam was satisfied with the answer. “Wait, what?”

“Bye Sam!” Peter stammered as he quickly shut the door.

~

Tony’s plans to interrogate Peter about his love life the following day were halted when he found Peters room empty. A quick check in with Friday showed Peter leaving earlier that morning with a few presents in hand. Tony sighed and went on with day, anxiously waiting for Peter to come home to get more information.

“Another late night.” Tony announced his presence as he flicked on the light. It wasn’t until after midnight that Peter had come back, so Tony waited him out in the living room.

“Oh, hi Mr. Stark.” Peter waved awkwardly, not having expected anyone to be there.

“Were you with Y/n again?” Tony asked casually.

“Yeah.” Peter smiled shyly as he shed his jacket. “It’s her birthday so I spent the day with her.”

“How come I never see her here?” Tony proceeded with caution, not wanting to overstep.

“She lives kinda far.” Peter shrugged. “That’s why we talk on the phone so much. I don’t want her driving all the way out here and she doesn’t want me swinging at night.”

“She knows?” Tony raised an eyebrow, not realizing they were at that level yet.

“Yes. But I only told her because I trust her.” Peter quickly assured him. “She won’t tell anyone. She promised me.”

“Oh, I’m not mad.” Tony smirked. “Trust is good. Especially in relationships, so I hear.”

“Yeah.” Peter smiled at the thought of you. “It’s good. We’re really good.”

“Have you told her you loved her yet?” Tony jumped to the point, taking Peter by surprise. “Because that smile on your face says you do.”

“I have.” Peter admitted as his face flushed. “And she told me she loves me too.”

“Aw.” Tony couldn’t help but smile at his protégé being in love. He was so moved that he took out one of his business cards and scribbled something on the back of it.

“Here.” He handed it to Peter. “Don’t abuse it.”

“Whats this?” Peter curiously looked at the number Tony had written in the card.

“It’s the number for my personal driver. One of them.” He corrected himself. “I always forget who I employ so I have about 18. This one makes unforgettable coffee cake, though.”

“Thanks Mr. Stark.” Peter smiled in appreciation. “But why are you giving this to me?”

“So you and Y/n can see each other.” Tony said simply. “And so more people can experience this coffee cake.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.” Peter said softly, knowing Tony wasn’t much for displays of affection.

“Don’t mention it.” Tony brushed it off. “Really, don’t. I don’t have enough personal drivers for everyone. I mean, I probably do, but I’m not known to share.”

“I won’t tell.” Peter nodded. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

Tony have Peter a fond smile before nodding as well.

“Night kid.”

~

“Mails here.” Tony announced the following morning as the team sat around the kitchen table.

“Thanks for bringing it in.” Steve reached for an envelope addressed to him. “Who delivered it today? Was it Michelle or Rodney?”

“Michelle.” Tony concurred.

“Oh, nice.” Steve smiled. “I like her. She’s always friendly to me.”

“Yeah. Nice girl. Nice name too.” Tony put the plan into action. “That was the name of the first girl I ever kissed.”

“I remember my first kiss.” Steve recalled. “It was at a school dance when I was in high school. I bought her a milkshake after and she never spoke to me again.”

“What about you, Peter?” Natasha asked causally. “Have you had your first kiss?”

“Um, yeah.” Peter chuckled like it was obvious.

“With who?” Steve asked curiously, and the rest of the team leaned in to hear the answer.

“Um, my girlfriend.” Peter flushed a deep red as he avoided eye contact with the group. Everyone collectively let out a gasp at the news, making Peter flush even deeper. He looked up to a table full of dropped jaws and wide eyes and felt his ears turn red.

“Isn’t it neat?” Tony tried to take the attention off Peter. “The innocence of young love.”

“Yeah. Innocence.” Sam narrowed his eyes at Peter as the hickey on his neck suddenly made sense.

“When can we meet her?” Nat asked, and everyone nodded softly. Peter looked around in surprise, not having expected everyone to care as much as they did.

“You want to meet her?” He asked with a small smile.

“Of course.” Tony shrugged. “You’re on our team and if she’s your girlfriend-“

“She’s on our team too.” Sam concluded with a gentle nod. Everyone nodded in agreement, making Peters heart swell in appreciation.

“She was gonna come over so I could swing her around the city.” Peter told them. “I could ask her to come up and say hello.”

“I think you should.” Natasha encouraged. Peters lips twitched into a smile as he pulled out his phone to tell you to come up. Within a few minutes, you were coming up the elevator and Peters heart was pounding in his chest. He met you at the elevator and escorted you to the rest of the Avengers, his hand holding yours.

“Hi.” You smiled shyly as you met the team. “It’s nice to meet all of you. I’m Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Steve said politely. “I’m-“

“Steve, right?” You smiled a little. “Um, Peter talks about you guys all the time. You’re also a little famous.” You chuckled, and everyone laughed as well, breaking the ice.

“Yeah, I guess we are.” Steve smiled back at you. “So you’re the girlfriend? I can’t say Peter has told us that much about you.”

Peter looked at you anxiously, hoping you wouldn’t take that the wrong way.

“It’s okay.” You laughed and rubbed his shoulder. “We agreed to keep it on the down low. Plus, I doubt there’s anything about me that could impress the Avengers.”

“That’s not true.” Peter cut in as he twirled your hair around his finger. “You’re very impressive.”

“Tell us more.” Nat smiled as she leaned on her hand. Everyone watched you and Peters display of affection with childlike wonder, a collective peace settling in the room as they watched the baby of the team experience happiness.

“Y/n volunteers as a candy striper at the children’s hospital a few blocks from here. When she’s not with me, she’s there.” Peter bragged about you. “And she’s a lifeguard in the summers, CPR certified, valedictorian of her class, organ donor-“

“These are not impressive things.” You laughed as you cut him off.

“Yes they are.” Peter insisted. “She can make the worlds best brownies, her ponytails are always perfect on the first try, she can parallel park, she-“

“She sounds amazing.” Tony cut him off as he smiled at you. “And we’re very happy to finally meet her.”

“I just can’t believe the guy who watches Dance Moms in the living room with no shame actually has a girlfriend.” Sam snorted. “And a normal one too.”

“Why is it so surprising?” You wondered as you leaned on Peter arm.

“Because he’s so innocent.” Sam shrugged. “I doubted he ever even held a girls hand.”

“Wait, you thought Peter was innocent?” You laughed abruptly. “He literally webbed me to the headboard last night and-“

“Ah ah ah.” Peter quickly cut you off. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

“I think she should say them.” Bucky chuckled as he sipped his coffee.

“One time, he used his-“

“Well, Y/n and I really need to get going.” Peter cut you off and quickly ushered you to the door. “We won’t be out late.”

“It was nice meeting you all.” You called as Peter pulled you out the door.

“Nice meeting you too.” Tony yelled back. He and the team exchanged knowing looks, a collective happiness for Peter settling among them.

Tag List 🏷

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[lucytara]

Yeah I get wanting some variation in your writing and whatnot. Hmm.

Gold. "I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her." Bumbleby.

Have fun!

it’s possible. that i went. a little overboard with this prompt. 

"I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her."

All four candles are lit in the corners of the small room, wicks burning purple and melting black wax. Her offering sits in a dish at the feet of the small statue - an old, worn piece of paper, bent and torn around its edges - and she herself kneels in the center of the floor, her hands clasped.

“I’ve never done this,” she begins, “but my name is Yang Xiao Long, and I humbly request an audience.”

Nothing happens, though she isn’t sure what she would’ve expected even if it had; the flames flicker with her unsteady heartbeat, the blood in her ears crashing as if waves in a storm. For some reason it’s embarrassing, calling on a higher entity who decides to put you through to voicemail.

She tries again, and aims for theatrical exaggeration; maybe the gods like a bit of a show. If she’s making a fool of herself, she might as well do it brilliantly. “O, Great Goddess! I call upon thee - All-Knowing Ruler of the Dead, Empress of the Night, Most Holy Lady of Darkness, Reigning Queen of Entropy--”

“I think that’s probably enough,” a voice comes from in front of her, amusement evident beneath its tone. “What was that one in the middle? ‘Empress of the Night’? I might keep that.”

Her head whips up towards the sound, and a woman in a deep purple cloak is leaning against her own statue, arms crossed and watching her performance with a look that can only be described as shameless delight. Gorgeous black hair framing golden eyes, like the sky wrapping itself around stars; the statue doesn’t do her justice.

“Oh my God,” Yang says, sitting back on her heels. All the preparation and rehearsing she’d done isn’t enough to conquer the shock of a beautiful, unearthly woman appearing in front of her and--

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

--mercilessly mocking her.

“Well, Yang Xiao Long?” the woman continues. “Why have you called upon me?”

“How do you know my name?” Yang says stupidly.

“I’m a god,” the goddess replies, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. “I’m the all-knowing ruler of the dead or whatever. Also, you said your name when you summoned me.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, struggling to regain her composure and failing spectacularly. “I - yeah. Right. Okay. Is it rude to swear in front of gods? And what do I call you?”

“I’ll allow it,” the woman says. “And you can call me Blake.”

“Blake,” Yang repeats; her hands open and close like a nervous tick. The name is a heavy weight in her mouth, settling her into steadiness. “I’ve come to request guidance.”

“Guidance?” Blake repeats, and gently lifts the note from the offering dish, turning it carefully around her hands without opening it to read it - she doesn’t need to. Yang registers faint surprise in her expression; yes, she’d assumed the sentimentality would fetch a rather large price. “This is quite the payment.”

“It’s the last note I have from someone who loved me,” Yang says. “I figured it would be sufficient.”

Those bright, inquisitive eyes glance over to her, and now the playing field has been reversed: intrigue and curiosity outweigh Yang’s atrocious initial delivery.

“Stand, please,” Blake commands softly. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Obediently, Yang rises to her feet, and with an odd jolt realizes she’s a few inches taller than the goddess. It’s unexpected, and it seems to unnerve Blake for a moment, too. Or maybe that’s the candlelight, throwing shapes and colors, turning the room cavernous. Maybe Blake is shrinking and she’s growing. Maybe once she was so tall the entire world trembled beneath her feet.

“You already have power,” Blake says, circling her curiously, and now she’s seeing what isn’t visible, looking for handprints on her soul. “You have been claimed. Whom do you answer to?”

“I didn’t receive this power from a god,” Yang says quietly. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, and her gaze is piercing into Yang’s heart; she sees its strength, but she sees its scars, too. And its emptiness. There is plenty of that.

“Touch me,” Yang says. “You’ll find no prior claim.”

“I don’t need to.” Blake takes another step closer to her, the way you’d inspect a painting in a museum. Hands at her sides, cautious of glass and rope. “I can see your aura. But it’s impossible.”

“I’m looking for something,” Yang says, and Blake glances up, briefly meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. But I’ve been looking for something for what feels like my entire life.”

Quizzical, now. One by one the candles are burning down. The room is collapsing in on them, or perhaps that’s simply the god in front of her, looking like she’d dive into Yang’s veins and unravel her if it were permitted.

“Why me?” Blake asks finally. “You know what I’m the goddess of, don’t you?”

“You guard death,” Yang says, her voice impossibly gentle; dusk flows river-like from her mouth. There is a world Blake can almost see. “But you can’t guard death without also guarding life, right? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I imagine you encompass it.”

“Poetic,” Blake responds, and waits further. “I would like the truth, please. Our time is running short.”

There’s no point in playing games with gods. “The truth is stupid,” Yang says bluntly, and the corner of Blake’s mouth tilts again.

“Try me.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Yang says, and Blake’s eyebrows raise in amusement. Bold, reckless, and absolutely pushing her luck to the furthest corners it can inhabit. “Accept me as yours, and when the time is right, I will tell you the truth.”

“Is the truth that powerful?” Blake says, curious despite herself.

The last candle flutters, throwing shadows from Yang’s eyelashes to her cheek. “I think it is.”

--

“Welcome back, Empress of the Night,” Ruby says upon her return to the Kingdom, giving her an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed your summon, My Lady of Perpetual Darkness.”

“What the hell was that about?” Weiss asks. “I haven’t even heard you crack a joke for, like, a millennia, and suddenly you’re the court jester?”

“She was amusing,” Blake says, shrugging. “Usually people are so timid and terrified. I felt like having some fun.”

“You?” Weiss says dubiously.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Ruby says. “You mustn’t speak that way to Our Patron Saint, Duchess of Death.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t you both have work to do?” Blake says, ending the interrogation before it can really begin. She’s not sure she’d have the answers for them, anyway.

--

Yang journeys east.

Find me again, Blake had said. The closer you get to my temple, the more I can see of you. She’d brushed aside Yang’s bangs, touched a single finger to her forehead. It felt like a teardrop, or a meteor shower. It felt like digging up a grave, or chiseling into stone. It felt like the last explosion. It felt like the first breath.

You are mine, Blake had said, and something about it had felt far too right.

She crosses from Sanus to Anima, spends days traversing forests and mountains, fending off bandits and monsters. Eyes flashing red and fire licking up her skin. Aura glowing golden before breaking. There is something wrong with the trees, she thinks; there is something wrong with the sky. Like I’m looking at them from the wrong side.

Nobody is there to answer her, and not for the first time, she wonders how she came to be so alone.

--

Blake watches Yang’s power unveil itself from above. Yang is hers, now, and though she can’t make house calls to the world below without a summon, she at least has instant access to her claims. There aren’t many of them, and Yang is different.

It reminds her of the God of Vengeance, almost - how he absorbs power before returning it, strike by vicious strike - but Yang’s is personal, sacrificial. She feels the pain before she can utilize it, and her anger is never cruel, her actions never misplaced. And she doesn’t complain.

Sometimes, Blake wishes she would: she can hear when she’s being talked to, even if she can’t respond. Every prayer, every curse, every devastation, every hope.

She waits for the sound of Yang’s voice, but it never comes.

--

There’s a small shrine in a village called Shion, which is still weeks out from the docks where she can potentially get a ferry to Menagerie, but the locals are kind, and honor her far too greatly for being touched by their ruling god. They direct her to their place of worship deep in the woods, and leave her without looking back. It’s a sacred thing, a bond between a god and their chosen, and law forbids them from watching her ceremony.

Yang pulls the candle from her pouch, lighting it at the foot of the shrine. She kneels down on the stone, worn with the imprints of a thousand prayers, and says, “Blake.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.” The voice comes almost immediately, as if its owner had been waiting to be beckoned.

It’s still a bit of a shock, though she’s much better prepared for it this time. “Hi,” Yang says, and stops there before she can fuck it up.

“Hi,” Blake says, and seems to be amused against her will. More guarded, less open. Yang can read the warning signs, but she’ll cut them off at the source.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, getting to her feet. “If I waited too long to contact you, I mean. I’m...not familiar with this area.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake says, lowering her arms. “It’s only been a few weeks. I won’t smite you until at least a month.”

Yang laughs, and unexpectedly to the both of them, Blake goes deadly still. Her body language says Yang’s done something wrong, but her expression says she’s hearing music.

The candle is burning. The moment can turn itself over gently, if Yang knows how to guide it. She keeps her smile on, but makes it quiet. “You know, I didn’t expect the Goddess of Death to have a sense of humor.”

It seems to work. “I like to surprise people,” Blake says, and moves closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You never talk to me,” she says, pretending to be in control of something she clearly isn’t. “Why not?”

Only the forest speaks for a moment, branches creaking, leaves rustling. And then: “Do you want me to?” Yang asks.

“It’s...something people tend to do,” Blake says slowly. “But not you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yang says.

“It’s not a bother.” The words come out too quickly, tone too reassuring. Blake’s own want is what laces the conversation, rather than Yang’s uncertainty. That’s a new, dangerous line.

Yang takes a careful step forward, her eyes lowered to the ground as if in apology; they raise slowly, trailing over Blake’s form until meeting her gaze. Looking for lines she’s crossed, and should step back over; searching for lights that say go. Instead, she only finds an intense, hungry confusion - I want it without understanding what it is.

“You know,” she murmurs, “these statues - they never do you justice.”

And she lifts a hand to Blake’s cheek, hesitating over her skin - is that Blake’s catch of breath, or is it the wind? - before gently cupping it in her palm. She could lose an arm for this; touching a god without being explicitly asked is the greatest sin a mortal can commit, but Blake only stands there, unmoving, eyes wide and lips parted, the moon sitting in the hollow of her throat.

“Blake,” she whispers, and it can only be a god’s strength keeping her voice steady, “I’m never not thinking of you.”

The candle goes out.

--

Nobody is waiting for her when she returns. This is how gods give each other gifts - by saying, no, I see everything but I didn’t see you.

--

Yang starts talking to her, and changes her routes so that rather than taking the most direct path to Menagerie, she’s able to stop at some of the smaller shrines on the way. There are only two more, and she hasn’t called Blake since Shion. Yang hopes she’ll still come.

“Isn’t it strange,” Yang says, “how much easier it is to think about someone than to talk about them? I think about you differently than I can talk about you. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

No response; not that she expects one. At this point, she assumes Blake’ll just kill her if she gets too annoying. Maybe a tree will fall on her, or she’ll do something embarrassing like trip over a rock and break her neck. “I can’t remember much about my life. I know there were people I loved, but I can’t see their faces. I must’ve traveled a lot; I don’t like sitting still. I don’t know how old I am, or even when my birthday is.” She’s never admitted this before; never admitted she came to lying on the ground, with only her name left ringing in her skull and a note in her pocket.

“I think you’re beautiful,” she tells the warm night air. “That’s what I was trying to say. Before. Blake, I think you’re beautiful.”

A star shoots across the sky, light trails leaving imprints against the swirling blue-purple-black of the galaxy, but it must be a coincidence.

--

Another shrine, another candle. This one burrowed into the side of a mountain, a dome of a room with a hand-woven rug for kneeling, several long benches behind. The statue sits against the far wall, centered.

“They’re getting better,” Yang says, getting to her feet. “This one, at least, gets your eyes right.”

“Hm,” Blake says, pressing her lips together. She moves to stand next to Yang rather than in front of her, and they both examine the statue together. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Were the compliments too much?” Yang asks, impressed with how light her voice sounds. She nudges Blake’s elbow with her own. Oh, she’ll see how much distance she can cross. She’s already walked miles - she’ll swim oceans, too. “You said you wanted me to talk to you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Blake denies unconvincingly, and then pauses. “And in regards to your first question - I didn’t say that, either.”

Yang could tease her - so even gods like being called pretty, huh - or she could be brave, turn to Blake, take her face in both of her hands and lean in--

“Yang,” Blake says, and does step one of that plan by turning to her. “What do you want from me?”

Maybe the idea’s overwhelmed her to the degree that she can no longer see its risks - its potentially horrible, literally life-ending consequences - and that's what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s that Blake is looking at her like a poem; something beautiful, not to be understood by anyone but the artist who made her.

“What would you do if I kissed you?” Yang says, as if it were merely an interesting, hypothetical concept to explore and not the end of the world. “Is that possible, even if you wanted me to?”

This room is warm and close and silent. The clay is cracking where the floor meets the walls. A tunneled-through skylight is the only thing that keeps Blake from swallowing the place in shadows, instead coating them in an amber, dream-like glow. Like if you mixed the two of them together, you’d still be left with light.

“I think,” Blake murmurs, “we’re both going to have to find that out.”

Step two of her plan. Both of her hands cupping Blake’s cheeks. She’s strangely aware of her lifelines - do they mean anything to you, she wants to ask, does my life mean anything to you now and if it doesn’t, will my death - she leans in, their noses brushing, Blake’s breathing as if she needs to, Yang isn’t and she does; teach me about magic, teach me about memory, tell me how I knew you before I knew myself--

Blake kisses her, tired of her caution and hesitancy, lips parting and fists knotting around the fabric of her shirt. Yang expects them to crash together, like comets. She expects them to crumble and collapse under the impact, buried in the ruins of each other and suffocating. She expects them to decay there, reveling in their own destruction.

What she doesn’t expect is sunlight.

Her skin set aflame, Blake’s tongue in her mouth, hands traveling from her face to her lower back and pressing close - somewhere a rule is being written about the gods and desperation - Blake pulls away, gasps, her fingers begging for Yang’s heart.

“This power,” she says, mesmerized, staring at things only she can see, golden gossamer roots running up Yang’s veins. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Yang breathes out, and kisses her one last time before the candle burns out. “But I swear I’ve never felt closer to finding out.”

--

Nobody attempts to stop her from barging through God’s door. Weiss and Ruby, Sun and Neptune; they all avert their eyes. I see everything, but I do not see you.

“What is she?” Blake asks, standing before them with her head bowed. “Please, God. I need to know.”

“If you weren’t already sure,” God says, “you wouldn’t be here.”

She hates it when they’re right.

--

Yang hits the docks; situated on the outskirts of a fishing village called Ito, and with constant transport to Menagerie, their shrine to Blake is the largest one yet.

“And this one?” Blake asks, before Yang has even begun to pray.

“How did you do that?” Yang says, staring up at her, startled. “Are we, like, super close now?”

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s smiling. She extends a hand, helping Yang to her feet. “Your soul calls me. You barely even have to light the candle, anymore.”

The sound of the ocean knocks on the door; the smell tackles the windows. Above, the seagulls are crying out, angry at all the fish they can’t have. Yang says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Blake says, and kisses her. Soft and chaste. Something so human and so immortal. “I missed you.”

“I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Yang teases, her fingers catching Blake’s chin in her hands.

“No,” Blake says, and for the first time, smiles with her teeth. Oh, this is happiness. “I do this with everyone who requests my presence. I’m very popular.”

“I can imagine,” Yang says, brushing a thumb across her bottom lip. “So what else are you the god of?”

“You had a few of them right,” Blake says nonchalantly, settling against Yang’s body. She could be taller, if she wanted to be, but there’s so much beauty to see when looking up. “Night, and all things within it. Darkness, shadows. Death.”

“What else?” Yang says, watching her mouth shape every letter.

“Forgiveness, and justice,” Blake murmurs. Oh, there’s a fine print for this, and she’s violating every word. “Promises,” she continues. “Seduction.”

Hook, line - a heavy wave rattles the walls; oh, the sea, the sea! - Yang shudders against her mouth, salt sinking into her blood. Leaves her bouyant and floating, the earth bubbling up beneath her. Rising and rising and rising.

“Shockingly,” Yang says, letting Blake press kisses into the crook of her neck, “I don’t find that hard to believe.”

--

“God,” Blake finds herself standing before them once again, hands clasped and head bowed. She speaks formally in the presence of God, as is customary of respect. “Please, God. I am supposed to be guiding her, but I fear all I’ve done is lead her astray. I need to know where she came from, and where she is going.”

“Blake,” God says, and touches the top of her head with their hand, “she is close to your temple. Look at her, and tell me what you see.”

--

Menagerie is a busy, populated island, and Blake’s temple is the primary reason for that. Pilgrimages are made from around the world to pray at her shrine and leave offerings at her feet. Protect me from loss, help me navigate my grief, let me fulfill my promise.

Yang is none of those things. And when the keepers of the temple ask the reason for her journey, she says, “I am in love with her.”

“You have been touched,” one says, and bows to her upon entry. “You have as long as the goddess is willing to give you.”

The heavy doors close, but the room shimmers, firelight glittering over golden-accented walls. A large moon is carved into the marble floor, crossing over a sun. Before her is the largest, most intricately carved statue of Blake she’s ever seen, and it looks exactly like her.

Yang kneels.

“You know,” Blake says from behind her, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“No,” Yang says. “But it - it’s been a long journey. And I’m only here because of you.”

  Blake’s footsteps echo, her boots stopping at the north point of the sun. “How do you feel?”

It’s enough to make Yang smile. “I know you heard me,” she says pointedly, but her amusement is apparent. “You hear everything I say.”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me yourself.”

For the last time, Yang rises to her feet. Blake’s eyes glitter, mischievous and playful. She looks as she always has, but clearer, somehow; defined and resolute. She carries the truth in the way she extends a hand, in the way she searches for Yang’s mouth. When they kiss, Yang swears she can see another world.

“I’ll tell you something better,” Yang says. “The truth.”

She leans down, bumps their foreheads together. Blake’s arms loop around her neck automatically. Oh, Yang thinks, if I were the god of anything, I’d want it to be habits.

“So what’s the truth?” Blake asks.

“The truth,” Yang says unshakably, “is that it was you. I woke up with no memory and a note, and somehow, I knew I had to find you. The only thing I’ve been searching for is you.”

It’s you, she says. It’s you. You. You.

--

“God,” Blake says, and this time God is ready for her.

“Blake Belladonna,” God says, and inclines their head. “Come. Show me what you have.”

In her hands is a small slip of paper, worn and ripped around the edges. “It is a note,” she says, and unfolds it gingerly. “It is a note, God, in my handwriting.”

“And what does it say?” they ask.

“Find me,” Blake recites, “and I promise I’ll bring you home.”

“Well,” God says whimsically, “you are the Goddess of Promises.”

--

Tears build in the corners of her eyes, shipwrecks gaining water. “Yang,” Blake whispers, and now that she is close, she can see everything. Meteors falling from their showers; the day the sun went out. “Yang. I’m sorry. I’m so, so--”

“Shh,” Yang murmurs, pressing her lips into Blake’s hair. “What are you apologizing for? I found you, and you brought me home.”

--

“Oh, this is exciting,” God says. “I so rarely get to come to Remnant on business.”

“God,” Yang says, and bows her head. The temple doors remain locked; Blake’s hand is clutched tightly in her own. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” says God. “You fell in the last war, over five-hundred years ago. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” she says. “I was trying to protect my sister.”

“And what happens when a god falls?”

“We forget them,” Blake says. “Their power is forfeit; they are erased from our memories, and our world.”

“It is not a law of justice, but a law of reality,” God says. “Or it was, previously. Only you did not forget immediately, Blake Belladonna. I did not know it was possible for two souls to be so intrinsically bound that they leave traces in the other, but you did not forget, just long enough to leave her a message. It took five hundred years for Yang to fall to earth, and when she awoke, she did not forget, either.

“Gods are made, and this means that what we are gods of can change,” they continue. “Blake, you were not previously the Goddess of Death. You became it because you believed that Yang had died, and no god had as strong a connection to loss as you. Your power became a beacon, just as it now will be a beacon for Remembrance.

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” God says. “Goddess of the Sun, of Loyalty, of Sacrifice. You were many things. And now you are the Goddess of Rebirth.”

[innuendostudios]

I was invited to give a talk on GamerGate over Zoom in early 2021. I've long been frustrated that there isn't a good timeline of GG and its origins on YouTube. When people ask "what the hell was GG anyway?" they often get referred to my or Dan Olson's videos on the subject, but both of them were made while GG was ongoing, and presumed a degree of familiarity on the part of the audience. There was just too much to say about what was already happening to spend time getting the audience up to speed, and it was safe to assume our audiences had enough context to follow along. But time moves fast on the internet, and many people who now care about such things weren't there while it was happening, and are lacking the necessary context to follow the better videos. For a long time, I've only been able to direct them to RationalWiki's timeline, which is excellent but so exhaustively comprehensive that it's likely to scare off first-timers.

I realize an hourlong lecture isn't necessarily helping matters, but the first 20-or-so minutes of this video are my attempt at streamlining the timeline such that people can be up to speed on the most important stuff fairly quickly. The rest is talking about what it all meant, how it prefigured the Alt-Right, and using it to better understand digital radicalization.

This video was made with the help of Magdalen Rose, who edited the slides to the audio while I was laid up with a back injury. Go sub to her channel! And please back me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

FUCKING VIDEO GAMES? FUCKING VIDEO GAMES. THEY MADE DOZENS OF PEOPLE MISERABLE FOR YEARS OVER VIDEO GAMES! NOT EVEN FUCKING VIDEO GAMES, FUCKING ARTICLES ABOUT FUCKING VIDEO GAMES. THIS IS WHAT PASSES FOR LEGITIMATE GRIEVANCE. ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT??

Hi! My name is Ian Danskin. I’m a video essayist and media artist. I run the YouTube channel Innuendo Studios, please like share and subscribe.

I’m here to talk to you about GamerGate, and I needed to get all that out of the way. I’m going to talk about what GamerGate was and how it prefigured The Alt-Right, and there are gonna be moments where you’re nodding along with me, going, “yeah, yeah I get it,” and then the sun’s gonna break through a crack in the wall and you’ll suddenly remember that all this is happening because some folks - mostly ladies - said some stuff - provably true stuff, I might add - about video games and a bunch of guys didn’t like it, and you’re gonna want to rip your hair out. By the end of this, you will have a better understanding of what happened, but it will never not be bullshit.

Also, oh my god, content warning. Racism, sexism, antisemitism, homophobia, transphobia, rape threats, threats of violence, domestic abuse - I’m not going to depict or describe at length any of the worst stuff, but it’s all in the mix. So if at any point you need to switch me off or mute me, you have my blessing.

Brace yourselves.

Some quick prehistory:

In 2012, feminist media critic Anita Sarkeesian ran a Kickstarter campaign for a YouTube series on sexist tropes in video games. And, partway through the campaign, 4chan found it and said “let’s ruin her life.” And a lot of the male general gaming public joined in. And by “ruin her life” I’m not talking 150 angry tweets including dozens of rape and death threats per week, though that was a thing. I’m talking bomb threats. I’m talking canceled speaking engagements because someone threatened to shoot up a school. I’m talking FBI investigation. The harassers faced no meaningful repercussions.

And in 2013, Zoe Quinn released Depression Quest, a free text game about living with depression. They received harassment off and on for the next year, most pointedly from an incel forum called Wizardchan that doxxed their phone number and made harassing phone calls telling them to kill themself. The harassers faced no meaningful repercussions.

(Also, quick note: Zoe Quinn is nonbinary and has come out since the events in question. When I call Zoe’s harassment misogynist, understand I am not calling Zoe a woman, but they were attacked by people who hate women because that’s how they were perceived. Had they been out at the time things probably would’ve gone down similarly, but on top of misogyny I’d be talking about nonbinary erasure and transphobia.)

Okay. Our story begins in August 2014. The August that never ended.

Depression Quest, after a prolonged period on Greenlight, finally releases on Steam as a free download with the option to pay what you want. In the days that follow, Zoe’s ex-boyfriend, Eron Gjoni, writes a nearly 10,000-word blog called The Zoe Post, in which he claims Quinn had been a shitty and unfaithful partner. (For reference, 10,000 words is long enough that the Hugos would consider it a novelette.) This is posted to forums on Penny Arcade and Something Awful, both of which immediately take it down, finding it, at best, a lot of toxic hearsay and, at worse, an invitation to harassment. So Gjoni workshops the post, adds a bunch of edgelord humor (and I am using the word “humor” very generously), and reposts it to three different subforums on 4chan.

We’re not going to litigate whether Zoe Quinn was a good partner. I don’t know or care. I don’t think anyone on this call is trying to date them so I’m not sure that’s our business. What is known is that the relationship lasted five months, and, after it ended, Gjoni began stalking Quinn. Gjoni has, in fact, laid out how he stalked Quinn in meticulous detail to interviewers and why he feels it was justified. It’s also been corroborated by a friend that Quinn briefly considered taking him back at a games conference in San Francisco, but he became violent during sex and Quinn left the apartment in the middle of the night with visible bruises.

Off of the abusive ex-boyfriend’s post, 4chan decides it’s going to make Zoe Quinn one of their next targets, and starts a private IRC channel to plan the campaign. The channel is called #BurgersAndFries, a reference to Gjoni claiming Quinn had cheated on him with five guys. A couple sentences in The Zoe Post - which Gjoni would later claim were a typo - imply that one of the five guys was games journalist Nathan Grayson and that Quinn had slept with him in exchange for a good review of Depression Quest. Given the anger that they’d seen drummed up against women in games with the previous Anita Sarkeesian hate mob, #BurgersAndFries decides to focus on this breach of “ethics in games journalism” as a cover story, many of them howling with laughter at the thought that male gamers would probably buy it. This way, destroying Quinn’s life and career and turning their community against them would appear an unfortunate byproduct of a legitimate consumer revolt; criticism of the harassment could even be framed as a distraction from the bigger issue. Gjoni himself is in the IRC channel telling them that this was the best hand to play.

The stated aim of many on #BurgersAndFries was to convince Quinn to commit suicide.

Two regulars in the IRC, YouTubers MundaneMatt and Internet Aristocrat, make videos about The Zoe Post. Incidentally, both these men had already made a lot of money off videos about Anita Sarkeesian. Matt’s is swiftly taken down with a DMCA claim, and he says that Quinn filed the claim themself. (For the record, in those days, YouTube didn’t tell you who filed DMCA claims against you.) Members of the IRC also reach out to YouTuber TotalBiscuit, who had been critical of Sarkeesian and dismissive of her harassment, and he tweets the story to his 350,000 followers, saying a game developer trading sex for a good review might not prove true, but was certainly plausible.

This is where GamerGate begins to get public traction.

Zoe Quinn is very swiftly doxxed, with their phone number, home address, nudes, and names and numbers of their family collected. Gjoni himself leaks their birth name. The Zoe Post, and the movement against Quinn - now dubbed “The Quinnspiracy” - make it to The Escapist and Reddit, which mods will have little luck removing. The Quinnspiracy declares war on any site that does take their threads down, most vehemently NeoGAF. People who defend Zoe against the harassment start getting doxxed themselves - Fez developer Phil Fish is doxxed so thoroughly, hackers get access to the root folder of his website.

In what I’m going to call This Should Have Been The End, Part 1, Stephen Totilo, Editor-in-Chief at Kotaku where Nathan Grayson worked, in response to pressure not just from The Quinnspiracy but an increasing number of angry gamers buying The Quinnspiracy’s narrative, publishes a story. In it he verifies that Quinn and Grayson did date for several months, and that not only is there no review of Depression Quest anywhere on Kotaku, not by Grayson nor anyone else, but that Grayson did not write a single word about Quinn the entire time they were dating.

In response, The Quinnspiracy declares war on Kotaku. r/KotakuinAction is formed, which will become the primary site of organization outside of chanboards. The fact that their entire “movement” is based on a review that does not exist changes next to nothing.

Some people start to see The Quinnspiracy as potentially profitable. The Fine Young Capitalists get involved, a group ostensibly working to get women into video games but who have a Byzantine plan to do so wherein they crowdfund the budget and the woman who wins a competition gets to storyboard a game, but another company will make and she will get 8% of the profits, the rest going to a charity chosen by the top donor. 4chan becomes the top donor. They like TFYC because the head of the company has a vendetta against Zoe Quinn, who had previously called them out for their transphobic submission policy, and he falsely accused Quinn of having once doxxed him. 4chan feels backing an ostensibly feminist effort will be good PR, but can’t resist selecting a colon cancer charity because, they say, feminism is cancer and they want to be the cure to butthurt. They also get to design a character for the game, and so they create Vivian James, who will become the GamerGate mascot.

Manosphere YouTubers Jordan Owen and Davis Aurini launch a Patreon campaign for their antifeminist documentary The Sarkeesian Effect and come to The Quinnspiracy looking for $15,000 a month for an indefinite period to make it, which they get.

In what will prove genuinely awful timing, Anita Sarkeesian releases the second episode of Tropes vs. Women in Video Games, and, despite not being a games journalist and having nothing to do with Quinn or Grayson, she is immediately roped into the narrative about how feminists are ruining games culture and becomes the second major target of harassment. Both she and Quinn soon have to leave their houses after having receiving dozens and dozens of death threats that include their home addresses.

After being courted by members of the IRC channel, Firefly star Adam Baldwin tweets a link to one of the Quinnspiracy videos and coins the hashtag #GamerGate. This is swiftly adopted by all involved.

In response to all this, Leigh Alexander writes a piece for Gamasutra arguing that the identity that these men are flocking to the “ethics in games journalism” narrative to defend no longer matters as a marketing demographic. Gaming and games culture is so large and so varied, and the “core gamer” audience of 18-34 white bros growing smaller and septic, that there was no reason, neither morally nor financially, to treat them as the primary audience anymore. Love of gaming is eternal, but, she declared, “gamers,” as an identity, “are over.” Eight more articles contextualizing GamerGate alongside misogyny and the gatekeeping of games culture come out across several websites in the following days. GamerGate frames these as a clear sign of [deep sigh] collusion to oppress gamers, proving that ethics in games journalism is, indeed, broken, and Leigh Alexander becomes the third major target of harassment. These become known as the “gamers are dead” articles - a phrase not one of them uses - and they make “get Leigh Alexander fired from Gamasutra” one of their primary goals.

Something I need you to understand is that it has, at this point, been two weeks.

Highlights from the next little bit: Alex Macris, a higher up at The Escapist’s parent company, expresses support for GamerGate; he will go on to write the first positive coverage at a major publication and cement The Escapist as GamerGate-friendly. Mike Cernovich, aka “Based Lawyer,” gets GamerGate’s attention by mocking Anita Sarkeesian; he will go on to hire a private investigator to stalk Zoe Quinn. GamerGate launches Operation Disrespectful Nod, an email campaign pressuring companies to pull advertising from websites that have criticized them. They leverage their POC members, getting them, any time someone points out the rampant racism and antisemitism among GamerGaters, to say “I am a person of color and I am #NotYourShield”; most of these “POC members” are fake accounts left over from a previous, racist disinformation campaign. Milo Yiannapoulos gets involved, writing positive coverage of GG despite having mocked gamers for precisely this behavior in the past, and gets so much traffic it pulls Breitbart News out of obscurity and makes it a significant player in modern conservative news media.

[Hey! Ian from the future here. This talk mostly addresses how GamerGate prefigured the Alt-Right strategically and philosophically, but if you want a more explicit, material connection: Breitbart News took its newfound notoriety to become, as its Executive Chair phrased it in 2016, "a platform for the Alt-Right." That Executive Chair was Steve Bannon, who threw the website's weight behind The Future President Who Shall Not Be Named, and, upon getting his attention, would then go on to become his campaign strategist and work in his Administration. So, if you're wondering how one of the central figures of the Alt-Right ended up in the White House, the answer is literally "GamerGate." Back to you, Ian from the past!]

In what I’m calling This Should Have Been The End, Part 2, Zoe Quinn announces that they have been lurking the #BurgersAndFries IRC channel since the beginning and releases dozens of screenshots showing harassment being planned and the selection of “ethics in games journalism” as a cover. #BurgersAndFries has a meltdown, everyone turns on each other, and the channel is abandoned. And they then start another IRC and things proceed.

It goes on like this. I’m not gonna cover everything. This is just the first month. It should be clear by now that this thing is kind of unkillable. And I worry I haven’t made it obvious that this is not just a chanboard and an IRC. Thousands of regular, every day gamers were buying the story and joining in. They were angry, and no amount of evidence that their anger was unfounded was going to change that. You could not mention or even allude to GamerGate and not get flooded with dozens, even hundreds of furious replies. These replies always included the hashtag so everyone monitoring it could join in, so all attempts at real conversation devolved into a hundred forking threads where some people expected you to talk to them while others hurled insults and slurs. And always the possibility that, if any one of them didn’t like what you said, you’d be the next target.

To combat this, some progressives offered up the hashtag #GameEthics to the people getting swept up in GamerGate, saying, “look, we get that you’re angry, and if you want to talk about ethics in games journalism, we can totally do that, but using your hashtag is literally putting us in danger; they calling the police on people saying there’s a hostage situation at their home addresses so they get sent armed SWAT teams, and if you’ll just use this other hashtag we can have the conversation you say you want to have in safety.” And I will ever stop being salty about what happened.

They refused. They wouldn’t cede any ground to what they saw as their opposition. It was so important to have the conversation on their terms that not only did they refuse to use #GameEthics, they spammed it with furry porn so no one could use it.

A few major events on the timeline before we move on: Christina Hoff Sommers, the Republican Party’s resident “feminist,” comes out criticizing Anita Sarkeesian and becomes a major GG figurehead, earning the title Based Mom. Zoe Quinn gets a restraining order against Eron Gjoni, which he repeatedly violates, to no consequence; GG will later crowdfund his legal fees. There’s this listserv called GameJournoPros where game journalists would talk about their jobs, and many are discussing their concerns over GamerGate, so Milo Yiannopoulos leaks it and this is framed as further “proof of collusion.” 4chan finally starts enforcing its “no dox” rules and shuts GamerGate threads down, so they migrate to 8chan, a site famous for hosting like a lot of child porn. Indie game developer Brianna Wu makes a passing joke about GamerGate on Twitter and they decide, seemingly on a whim, to make her one of the biggest targets in the entire movement; she soon has to leave her home as well. GamerGate gets endorsements from WikiLeaks, Infowars, white nationalist sites Stormfront and The Daily Stormer, and professional rapist RooshV. And hundreds of people get doxxed; an 8chan subforum called Baphomet is created primarily to host dox of GamerGate’s critics.

But by November, GamerGate popularity was cresting, as more and more mainstream media covered it negatively. Their last, big spike in popularity came when Anita Sarkeesian went on The Colbert Report and Stephen made fun of the movement. Their numbers never recovered after that.

Which is not to say GamerGate ended. It slowed down. The period of confusion where the mainstream world couldn’t tell whether it was a legitimate movement or not passed. But, again, most harassers faced no meaningful repercussions. Gamers who bought the lie about “ethics in games journalism” stayed mad that no one had ever taken them seriously, and harassers continued to grief their targets for years. The full timeline of GamerGate is an constant cycle of lies, harassment, operations, grift, and doxxing. Dead-enders are to this day still using the hashtag. And remember how Anita had nothing to do with ethics in games journalism or Zoe Quinn, and they just roped her in because they’d enjoyed harassing her before so why not? Every one of GamerGate’s targets knows that they may get dragged into some future harassment campaign just because. It’s already happened to several of them. They’re marked.

(sigh) Let’s take a breath.

Now that we know what GamerGate was, let’s talk about why it worked.

In the thick of GamerGate, I started compiling a list of tactics I saw them using. I wanted to make a video essay that was one part discussion of antifeminist backlash, and one part list of techniques these people use so we can better recognize and anticipate their behavior. That first part became six parts and the second part went on a back burner. It would eventually become my series, The Alt-Right Playbook. GamerGate is illustrative because most of what would become The Alt-Right Playbook was in use.

Two foundational principles of The Alt-Right Playbook are Control the Conversation and Never Play Defense. Make sure people are talking about what you want them to talk about, and take an aggressive posture so you look dominant even when you’re not making sense. For instance: once Zoe leaked the IRC chatlogs, a reasonable person could tell the average gater, “the originators of GamerGate were planning harassment from the very beginning.” But the gater would say, “you’re cherry-picking; not everyone was a harasser.”

Now, this is a bad argument - that’s not how you use “cherry-picking” - and it’s being framed as an accusation - you’re not just wrong, you’re dishonest - which makes you wanna defend yourself. But, if you do - if you tell them why that argument is crap - you’ve let the conversation move from “did the IRC plan harassment?” - a question of fact - to “are the harassers representative of the movement?” - a question of ethics. Like, yes, they are, but only within a certain moral framework. An ethics question has no provable answer, especially if people are willing to make a lot of terrible arguments. It is their goal to move any question with a definitive answer to a question of philosophy, to turn an argument they can’t win into an argument nobody can win.

The trick is to treat the question you asked like it’s already been answered and bait you into addressing the next question. By arguing about whether you’re cherry-picking, you’re accepting the premise that whether you’re cherry-picking is even relevant. Any time this happens, it’s good to pause and ask, “what did we just skip over?” Because that will tell you a lot.

What you skipped over is their admission that, yes, the IRC did plan harassment, but that’s only on them if most of the movement was in on it. Which is a load of crap - the rest of the IRC saw it happening, let it happen, it’s not like anybody warned Zoe, and shit, I’m having the cherry-picking argument! They got me! You see how tempting it is? But presumably the reason you brought the harassment up is because you want them to do something about it. At the very least, leave the movement, but ideally try and stop it. They don’t, strictly speaking, need to feel personally responsible to do that. And you might be thinking, well, maybe if I can get them take responsibility then they’ll do something, but you’d be falling for a different technique I call I Hate Mondays.

This is where people will acknowledge a terrible thing is happening, maybe even agree it’s bad, but they don’t believe anything can be done about it. They also don’t believe you believe anything can be done about it. Mondays suck, but they come around every week. This is never stated outright, but it’s why you’re arguing past each other. To them, the only reason to talk about the bad thing is to assign blame. Whose turn is it to get shit on for the unsolvable problem? Their argument about cherry-picking amounts to “1-2-3 not it.” And they are furious with you for trying to make them responsible for harassment they didn’t participate in.

The unspoken argument is that harassment is part of being on the internet. Every public figure deals with it. This ignores any concept of scale - why does one person get harassed more than another? - but you can’t argue with someone who views it as a binary: harassment either happens or it doesn’t, and, if it does, it’s a fact of life, and, if it happens to everyone, it’s not gendered. And this is not a strongly-held belief they’ve come to after years of soul-searching - this is what they’ve just decided they believe. They want to participate in GamerGate despite knowing its purpose, and this is what would need to be true for that to be ok.

Or maybe they’re just fucking with you! Maybe you can’t tell. Maybe they can’t tell, either. I call this one The Card Says Moops, where people say whatever they feel will score points in an argument and are so irony-poisoned they have no idea whether they actually believe it. A very useful trick if the thing you appear to believe is unconscionable. You can’t take what people like that say at face value; you can only intuit their beliefs from their actions. They say they believe this one minute and that another, but their behavior is always in accordance with that, not this.

In the negative space, their belief is, “The harassment of these women is okay. My anger about video games is more important. I may not be harassing them myself, but they do kind of deserve it.” They will never say this out loud in a serious conversation, though many will say it in an anonymous or irreverent space where they can later deny they meant it. But, whatever they say they believe, this is the worldview they are operating under.

Obscuring this means flipping through a lot of contradictory arguments. The harassment is being faked, or it’s not being faked but it’s being exaggerated, or it’s not being exaggerated but the target is provoking it to get attention, which means GamerGate harassers simultaneously don’t exist, exist in small numbers, and exist in such large numbers someone can build a career out of relying on them! It can be kind of fun to take all these arguments made in isolation and try to string together an actual position. Like, GamerGate would argue that Nathan Grayson having previously mentioned Zoe Quinn in an article about a canceled reality show counts as positive coverage, and since Grayson reached out to Quinn for comment it’s reasonable to assume they started dating before the article was published (which is earlier than they claim), and positive coverage did lead to greater popularity for Depression Quest. But if you untangle that, it’s like… okay, you’re saying Zoe Quinn slept with a journalist in exchange for four nonconsecutive sentences that said no more than “Zoe Quinn exists and made a game,” and the price of those four sentences was to date the journalist for months, all to get rich off a game that didn’t cost any money. That’s your movement?

And some, if cornered, would say, “yes, we believe women are just that shitty, that one would fuck a guy for months if it made them the tiniest bit more famous.” But they won’t lead with that. Because they know it won’t convince the normies, even the ones who want to be convinced. So they use a process I call The Ship of Theseus to, piece by piece, turn that sentence into “slept with a journalist in exchange for a good review” and argue that each part of the sentence is technically accurate. It’s trying to lie without lying. And, provided all the pieces of this sentence are discussed separately, and only in the context of how they justify this sentence, you can trick yourself into believing this sentence is mostly true.

So, like, why? This is clearly motivated reasoning; what’s the motivation? What was this going to accomplish?

The answer is nothing. Nothing, by design. GamerGate’s “official” channels - the subreddit and the handful of forums that didn’t shut them down - were rigidly opposed to any action more organized than an email campaign. They had a tiny handful of tangible demands - they wanted gaming websites to post public ethics policies and had a list of people they wanted fired - but their larger aim was the sea change in how games journalism operated, which nothing they were asking for could possibly give them. The kind of anger that convinces you this is a true statement is not going to be addressed by a few paragraphs about ethics and Leigh Alexander getting a new job. They wanted gaming sites to stop catering to women and “SJWs” - who were a sizable and growing source of traffic - and to get out of the pockets of companies that advertised on their websites - which was their primary source of income. So all Kotaku had to do to make them happy was solve capitalism!

Meanwhile, the unofficial channels, like 8chan and Baphomet, were planning op after op to get private information, spread lies with fake accounts, get disinformation trending, make people quit jobs, cancel gigs, and flee their homes. Concrete goals with clear results. All you had to do to feel productive was go rogue. In my video,

How to Radicalize a Normie, I describe how the Alt-Right encourages lone wolf behavior by whipping people up into a rage and then refusing to give them anything to do, while surrounding them with examples of people taking matters into their own hands. The same mechanism is in play here: the public-facing channels don’t condone harassment but also refuse to fight it, the private channels commit it under cover of anonymity, and there is a free flow of traffic between them for when the official channels’ impotence becomes unbearable.

What I hope I’m illustrating is how these techniques play off of each other, how they create a closed ecosystem that rational thought cannot enter. There’s a phrase we use on the internet that got thrown around a lot at the time:

you can’t logic someone out of a position they didn’t logic themselves into.

Now, there are a few other big topics I think are relevant here, so I want to go through them one by one.

MEMEIFICATION

So a lot of interactions with GamerGate would involve a very insular knowledge base.

Like, you’d say something benign but progressive on Twitter.

A gater would show up in your mentions and say something aggressive and false.

You’d correct them. But then they’d come back and hit you with -

ah shit, sorry, this is a Loss meme.

If I were in front of a classroom I’d ask, show of hands, how many of you got that? I had to ask Twitter recently, does Gen Z know about Loss?!

If you don’t know what Loss is I’m not sure I can explain it to you. It’s this old, bad webcomic that was parodied so, so, so many times

that it was reduced to its barest essentials, to the point where any four panels with shapes in this arrangement is a Loss meme. For those of you in the know, you will recognize this anywhere, but have you ever tried to explain to someone who wasn’t in the know why this is really fuckin’ funny?

So, now… by the same process that this is a comics joke,

this is a rape joke.

I’m not gonna show the original image, but, once upon a time, someone made an animated GIF of the character Piccolo from Dragon Ball Z graphically raping Vegeta. 4chan loved it so much that it got posted daily, became known as the “daily dose,” until mods started deleting every incident of it. So they uploaded slightly edited version of it. Then they started uploading other images that had been edited with Piccolo’s color scheme. It got so abstracted that eventually any collection of purple and green pixels would be recognized as Piccolo Dick.

Apropos of nothing, GamerGate is a movement that insists it is not sexist in nature and it does not condone threats of rape against the women they don’t like. And this is their logo. This is their mascot.

If you’re familiar with the Daily Dose, the idea that GamerGate would never support Eron Gjoni if they believed he was a sexual abuser is so blatantly insincere it’s insulting… but imagine trying to explain to someone who’s not on 4chan how this sweater is a rape joke. Imagine having to explain it to a journalist. Imagine having to explain it to the judge enforcing your abuser’s restraining order.

Reactionaries use meme culture not just because they’re terminally online but also because it makes their behavior seem either benign or just confusing to outsiders. They find it hilarious that they can be really explicit and still fly under the radar. The Alt-Right did this with Pepe the Frog, the OK sign, even the milk glass emoji for a hot minute. The more inexplicable the meme, the better. You get the point where Stephen Miller is flashing Nazi signs from the White House and the Presidential re-eletion campaign is releasing 88 ads of exactly 14 words and there’s still a debate about whether the administration is racist. Because journalists aren’t going to get their heads around that. You tell them “1488 is a Nazi number,” it’s gonna seem a lot more plausible that you’re making shit up.

MOVE FAST AND BREAK THINGS

Online movements like GamerGate move at a speed and mutation rate too high for the mainstream world to keep up. And not just that they don’t understand the memes - they don’t understand the infrastructure.

In an attempt to cover GamerGate evenhandedly, George Wiedman of Super Bunnyhop interviewed a lawyer who specializes in journalistic ethics. He meant well; I really wish he hadn’t. You can see him trying to fit something like GamerGate into terms this silver-haired man who works in copyright law can understand. At one point he asks if it’s okay to fund the creative project of a potential journalistic source, to which the guy understandably says “no.”

What he’s alluding to here is the harassment of Jenn Frank. A few weeks into GamerGate, Jenn Frank writes a piece in The Guardian about sexism in tech that mentions Anita Sarkeesian and Zoe Quinn. In another case of “here’s a strongly-held belief I just decided I have,” GamerGate says this is a breach of journalistic ethics because Frank backs Quinn on Patreon. They harass her so intensely she not only has to quit her job at The Guardian, for several months she quits journalism entirely.

Off the bat, calling a public figure central to a major event in the field a “journalistic source” is flatly wrong-headed. Quinn was not interviewed or even contacted for the article, they were in no way a “source”; they were a subject. But I want to talk about this phrase, “fund a creative project.” Patreon is functionally a subscription; it’s a way of buying things. It’s technically accurate that Frank is funding Quinn’s creative project, but only in the sense that you are funding Bob Dylan’s creative project if you listen to his music. And saying Frank therefore can’t write about Quinn is like saying a music journalist can’t cover a Bob Dylan concert if they’ve ever bought his albums.

And we could talk about the ways that Patreon, as compared with other funding models, can create a greater sense of intimacy, and we also could comment that, well, that’s how an increasing number of people consume media now, so that perspective should be present in journalism. But maybe it means we should cover that perspective differently? I don’t know. It’s an interesting subject. But none of that’s going on in this conversation because this guy doesn’t know what Patreon is. It was only a year old at this point. Patreon’s been a primary source of my income for 5 years and my parents still don’t know what it is. (I think they think I’m a freelancer?) This guy hears “funding a creative project” and he’s thinking an investor, someone who makes a profit off the source’s success.

The language of straight society hasn’t caught up with what’s happening, and that works in GamerGate’s favor.

In the years since GamerGate we have dozens of stories of people trying to explain Twitter harassment to a legal system that’s never heard of Twitter. People trying to explain death threats to cops whose only relationship to the internet is checking email, confusedly asking, “Why don’t you just not go online?” Like, yeah, release your text game about depression at GameStop for the PS3 and get it reviewed in the Boston Globe, problem solved.

You see this in the slowness of mainstream journalists to condemn the harassment - hell, even games journalists at first. Because what if it is a legitimate movement? What if the harassers are just a fringe element? What if there was misconduct? The people in a position to stop GamerGate don’t have to be convinced of their legitimacy, they just have to hesitate. They just have to be unsure. Remember how much happened in just the first two weeks, how it took only a month to become unkillable.

It’s the same hesitance that makes mainstream media, online platforms, and law enforcement underestimate The Alt-Right. They’re terrified of condemning a group as white nationalist terrorists because they’re confused, and what if they’re wrong? Or, in most cases, not even afraid they’re wrong, but afraid of the PR disaster if too much of the world thinks they’re wrong.

ACCOUNTABILITY AND CONTROL

A thing I’ve talked about in The Alt-Right Playbook is how these decentralized, ostensibly leaderless movements insulate themselves from responsibility. Harassment is never the movement’s fault because they never told anyone to harass and you can’t prove the harassers are legitimate members of the movement. The Alt-Right does this too - one of their catchphrases is “I disavow.” Since there are no formalized rules for membership, they can redraw boundaries on the fly; they can take credit for any successes and deny responsibility for any wrongdoing. Public membership is granted or revoked based on a person’s moment-to-moment utility.

It’s almost like… they’re cherry-picking.

The flipside of this is a lack of control. Since they never officially tell anyone to do anything but write emails, they have no means of stopping anyone from behaving counterproductively. The harassment of Jenn Frank was the first time GamerGate’s originators thought, “maybe we should ease off just to avoid bad publicity,” and they found they couldn’t. GamerGate had gotten too big, and too many people were clearly there for precisely this reason.

They also couldn’t control the infighting. When your goal is to harass women and you have all these contradictory justifications for why, you end up with a lot of competing beliefs. And, you know what? Angry white men who like harassing people don’t form healthy relationships! Several prominent members of GamerGate - including Internet Aristocrat - got driven out by factionalism; they were doxxed by their own people! Jordan Owen and Davis Aurini parted ways hating each other, with Aurini releasing chatlogs of him gaslighting Owen about accepting an endorsement from Roosh, and they released two competing edits of The Sarkeesian Effect.

I say this because it’s useful to know that these are alliances of convenience. If you know where the sore spots are, you can apply pressure to them.

LEADERS WITHOUT LEADERSHIP

One way movements like GamerGate deflect responsibility is by declaring, “We are a leaderless movement! We have no means to stop harassment.”

Which… any anarchist will tell you collective action is entirely possible without leaders. But they’ll also tell you, absent a system of distributing power equitably, you’re gonna have leaders, just not ones you elected.

A few months into GamerGate, Randi Lee Harper created the ggautoblocker. Here’s what it did: it took five prominent GamerGate figures - Adam Baldwin, Mike Cernovich, Christina Hoff Sommers, Milo Yiannopoulos, and Nick Monroe, formerly known as [sigh] PressFartToContinue - and generated a block list of everyone who followed at least two of them on Twitter. Now, this became something of an arms race; once GamerGate found out about it they made secondary accounts that followed different people, and more and more prominent figures appeared and had to get added to the list. But, when it first launched, the list generated from just these five people comprised an estimated 90-95% of GamerGate.

Hate to break it to you, guys, but if 90+ percent of your movement is following at least two of the same five people, those are your leaders. The attention economy has produced them. Power pools when left on its own.

This is another case where you have to ignore what people claim and look at what they do. The Alt-Right loves to say “we disavow Richard Spencer” and “Andrew Anglin doesn’t speak for us.”

But no matter what they say, pay attention to whom they’re taking cues from.

AD CAMPAIGN

George Lakoff has observed that one way the Left fails in opposition to the Right is that most liberal politicians and campaigners have degrees in things like law and political science, where conservative campaigners more often have degrees in advertising and communications. Liberals and leftists may have a better product to sell, but conservatives know how to sell products.

GamerGate less resembles a boots-on-the-ground political movement than an ad campaign. First they decide what their messaging strategy is going to be. Then the media arm starts publicizing it. They seek out celebrity endorsements. They get their own hashtag and mascot. They donate to charity and literally call it “public relations.” You can even see the move from The Quinnspiracy to GamerGate as a rebranding effort - when one name got too closely associated with harassment, they started insisting GamerGate was an entirely separate movement from The Quinnspiracy. I learned that trick from Stringer Bell’s economics class.

Now, we could stand to learn a thing or two from this. But I also wouldn’t want us to adopt this strategy whole hog; you should view moves like these as red flags. If you’re hesitating to condemn a movement because what if it’s legitimate, take a look at whether they’re selling ideology like it’s Pepsi.

PERCEPTION IS EVERYTHING

One reason to insist you’re a consumer revolt rather than a harassment campaign is most people who want to harass need someone to give them permission, and need someone to tell them it’s normal.

Bob Altemeyer has this survey he uses to study authoritarianism. He divides respondents into people with low, average, and high authoritarian sentiments, and then tells them what the survey has measured and asks, “what score do you think is best to have: low, average, or high?”

People with low authoritarian sentiments say it’s best to be low. People with average authoritarian sentiments also say it’s best to be low. But people with high authoritarian sentiments? They say it’s best to be average. Altemeyer finds, across all his research, that reactionaries want to aggress, but only if it is socially acceptable. They want to know they are the in-group and be told who the out-group is. They don’t particularly care who the out-group is, Altemeyer finds they’ll aggress against any group an authority figure points to, even, if they don’t notice it, a group that contains them. They just have to believe the in-group is the norm.

This is why they have to believe games journalism is corrupt because of a handful of feminist media critics with outsized influence. Legitimate failures of journalism cannot be systemic problems rooted in how digital media is funded and consumed; there cannot be a legitimate market for social justice-y media. It has to be manipulation by the few. Because, if these things are common, then, even if you don’t like them, they’re normal. They’re part of the in-group. Reactionary politics is rebellion against things they dislike getting normalized, because they know, if they are normalized, they will have to accept them. Because the thing they care about most is being normal.

This is why the echo chamber, this is why Fox News, this is why the Far Right insists they are the “silent majority.” This is why they artificially inflate their numbers. This is why they insist facts are “biased.” They have to maintain the image that what are, in material terms, fringe beliefs are, in fact, held by the majority. This is why getting mocked by Stephen Colbert was such a blow to GamerGate. It makes it harder to believe the world at large agrees with them.

This is why, if you’re trying to change the world for the better, it’s pointless to ask their permission. Because, if you change the world around them, they will adapt even faster than you will.

THE ARGUMENT ISN’T SUPPOSED TO END

Casey Explosion has this really great Twitter thread comparing the Alt-Right to Scary Terry from Rick and Morty. His catchphrase is “you can run but you can’t hide, bitch.” And Rick and Morty finally escape him by hiding. And Morty’s all, “but he said we can’t hide,” and Rick is like, “why are we taking his word on this? if we could hide, he certainly wouldn’t tell us.”

The reason to argue with a GamerGater is on the implied agreement that, if you can convince them they’re part of a hate mob, they will leave. But look at the incentives here: they want to be in GamerGate, and you want them not to be. But they’re already in GamerGate. They’re not waiting on the outcome of this argument to participate. They’ve already got what they want; they don’t need to convince you GamerGate isn’t a hate mob.

This is why all their logic and rationalizations are shit, because they don’t need to be good. They’re not trying to win an argument. They’re trying to keep the argument going.

This has been a precept of conservative political strategy for decades. “You haven’t convinced us climate change is real and man-made, you need to do more studies.” They’re not pausing the use of fossil fuels until the results come in. “You haven’t convinced us there are no WMDs in Iraq, you need to collect more evidence.” They’re not suspending the war until you get back to them. “You haven’t convinced us that Reaganomic tax policy causes recessions, let’s just do it for another forty years and see what happens.” And when the proof comes in, they send us out for more, and we keep going.

The biggest indicator you can’t win a debate with a reactionary is they keep telling you you can. The biggest indicator protest and deplatforming works is they keep telling you in plays into their hands. The biggest indicator that you shouldn’t compromise with Republicans is they keep saying doing otherwise is stooping to their level. They’re not going to walk into the room and say, “Hi, my one weakness is reasoned argument, let’s pick a time and place to hash this out.”

And we fall for it because we’re trying to be decent people. Because we want to believe the truth always wins. We want to bargain in good faith, and they are weaponizing our good faith against us. Always dangling the carrot that the reason they’re like this is no one’s given them the right argument not to be. It’s all just a misunderstanding, and, really, it’s on us for not trying hard enough.

But they have no motivation to agree with us. Most of the people asking for debates have staked their careers on disagreeing with us. Conceding any point to the Left could cost them their livelihood.

WHY GAMES?

Let’s close with the big question: why games? And, honestly, the short answer is:

why not games?

Games culture has always presented itself as a hobby for young, white, middle class boys. It’s always been bigger and more diverse than that, but that’s how it was marketed, and that’s who most felt they belonged. As gaming grows bigger, there is suddenly room for those marginal voices that have always been there to make themselves heard. And, as gaming becomes more mainstream, it’s having its first brushes with serious critical analysis.

This makes the people who have long felt gaming was theirs and theirs alone anxious and a little angry. They’ve invested a lot of their identity in it and they don’t want it to change.

And what the Far Right sees in a sizable collection of aggrieved young men is an untapped market. This is why sites like Stormfront and Breitbart flocked to them. These are not liberals they have to convert, these people are, up til now, not politically engaged. The Right can be their first entry to politics.

The world was changing. Nerd properties were exploding into popular culture in tandem with media representation diversifying. And we were living with the first Black President. Any time an out-group looks like it might join the in-group, there is a self-protective backlash from the existing in-group. This had been brewing for a while, and, honestly, if it hadn’t boiled over in games, it would have boiled over somewhere else.

And, in the years since GamerGate, it has. The Far Right has tapped the comics, Star Wars, and sci-fi fandoms; they tried to get in with the furry community but failed spectacularly. They’re all over YouTube and, frankly, the atheist community was already in their pocket. Basically, if you’re in community with a bunch of young white guys who think they own the place, you might wanna have some talks with them sooner than later.

Anyway, if you want to know more about any of this stuff, RationalWiki’s timeline on GamerGate is pretty thorough. You can also watch my or Dan Olson’s videos on the subject. I’ll be putting the audio of this talk on YouTube and will put as many resources as I can in the show notes. The channel, again, is Innuendo Studios.

Sorry this was such a bummer.

Thank you for your time.

[mistahgrundy]

Please help Rowan

https://www.gofundme.com/f/hp3x4-help-me-not-lose-my-home?member=17624197&sharetype=teams&utm_campaign=p_na+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_source=customer

I know their go fund me looks fully funded but it’s not, that’s the goal that was set back in december and they haven’t updated it. They still need help.

Rowan was kicked from their house in their teens (I’m sorry I’m using they/them because I’m not entirely sure on their pronouns I think it might be he/him but I don’t want to assume) for being queer. They spent some time being homeless and then finally got out of that and went back to school to become a mortician when they got diagnosed with cancer

Since 2020 I’ve been posting in a PMF thread called Passing Time In Chemotherapy: A Diary, which has been equal parts me talking about fighting Stage Four Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and being given two months to live, and equal parts screaming about how horrible the American Healthcare System is and trying to make a case for universal healthcare. Briefly I went into remission and then my cancer returned. I also have Stage 1 breast cancer. These last two weeks I have been in the hospital with a kidney disease likely brought on by my chemotherapy treatments, and a lung disease which I need tests to rule out that it’s lung cancer. The problem is I need $4500 to continue receiving care because I am am several hundred thousands dollars in debt due to my chemotherapy. Each chemo treatment cost me $50k after insurance, which no sane person has, so the debt has built up to the point where I am being held hostage for micropayments in the thousands of dollars range in order to receive life saving treatments. I received mod approval to post a GoFundMe I set up in order to pay just for December healthcare bills. I will either lose treatment or lose my home, and I was recently homeless over a year a few years ago and would not like to repeat the experience. My wife is permanently disabled after her battle with Ovarian Cancer (and needs another $800 down payment foe a surgery but that’s ANOTHER can of worms). Basically, without goon help, I am fucked. I have zero plans for Christmas or any holidays this season because I’m too busy fighting to keep my home and my health. My GFM is nearly halfway funded as it is, and on the off chance that it gets overfunded the excess will go towards my wife’s surgery. Both my GFM page and my PMF thread show I am very transparent with where the money goes and what it’s spent on, so no worries there. You can find my GoFundMe here! I intent to post an update to it this evening to keep everyone up to date with health stuff. If you would rather donate something other than money, which I totally get, I have an Amazon wishlist here which is mostly household things we need and food for the cats. I will happily post pictures of them in the thread. They are very sweet baby who cry if a stranger comes to the apartment and doesn’t pick them up. I’ll try to stay on top of removing items from the wishlist as they get bought. I’m not very good with signing off posts, but if anyone has any questions about Lymphona or chemo or the american healthcare system (or just want to see cat photos!) please feel free to ask and I’ll answer as best I can! Thank you in advance for your generosity and kindness. Bless. Edit 12/10: It was suggested that I throw my Venmo in the OP for those who would rather donate that way! Venmo: @moringottos Paypal (please ignore my deadname it’s a nightmare to change): paypal.me/necromancermoons

This is their update today, May 25 2022:

The minimum payments for my medical bills in arrears (mostly chemo) comes out of my bank account automatically to prevent them from suing me over it. I’ve already used my one (1) free grace period of “please give me a few more days before you take my money” according to the lady on the phone, so I’m left with $0.11 in my bank account with several bills, including rent, looming on the horizon. The electric company has already made it very clear they will not hesitate to cut off my power if I even act like I’m going to be late. What do you even do when faced with this level of “fuck you entirely”? I keep telling myself that people are inherently good, but between this and the news and the man at the insurance company writing me a polite email that says “if you have another cancer, try dying this time”, I’m starting to have a hard time with it.

May 18, 2022 7:32 PM

Due to some concerning test results my oncologist is now pushing for testing for multiple myeloma. MM killed my birth dad. I think I may have sorta blacked out during half of what she said. I asked her if it was usual to have this sort of insane cancerous comorbidity, she said it’s not impossible. The imagining center got back to me FINALLY. They said even though my insurance is up in the air and they usually require payment at time of service, my doctors have been hounding them enough that they will let me have a payment plan for x-rays and scans costs. I’ve had enough biopsies that the MM tests don’t scare me like they would have two years ago. Immediately after my lung biopsy I threw up a ton of blackish blood so I feel inoculated to the trauma. Anyways at this point it feels silly, like my body is throwing this massive temper tantrum that it doesn’t want to be here anymore and it’s like “understandable, but consider: we can’t let capitalism win”. Also god won’t let me die because then I’ll be his problem.

the threads: https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3987338&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=1 I believe this one isn’t paywalled

https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3916924 but this one might be, this is their diary of day to days of discovering the cancer (they went to the hospital for covid originally). warning: this thread might be very upsetting and hard to read if you have hospital or cancer trauma. or even without

[randomshyperson]

Wanda Maximoff/Reader - The One Where You Punch Tony Stark - Part II

Part 1 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Read on AO3 (Complete Work)

Thanks to @gingerbreadcookieforlife for letting me know i did not upload the entire work here.

Summary:  When the rumors that you punched Tony Stark in the face spread around your school, some interesting events unfolded. Or enemies to Lovers in high School.

Warnings: 18+; Enemies to Lovers;  Angry Sex; Underage Sex; High School AU;  Violence; Fights;  Inappropriate language; Fluff and Smut; minor mentions of Reader x Carol and Reader x Jessica Jones.

Notes: This work was already finished on AO3, but i forgot to continue this on Tumblr. I hope everyone who thought that was a one shot, enjoy the rest of it.

//-//

Sometimes is just a kiss

The news that Steve Rogers and Tony Stark kissed behind the bleachers spread quickly through the school. And it was only 10 o'clock on a Monday morning.

You had no idea who had spread the rumor around the campus, but knowing your luck, you were just waiting for the bomb to drop in your lap.

Besides, you hadn't spoken to Wanda since you gave her an orgasm against the walls of a locker room. You saw her briefly in the hallway between history and biology class, but she looked away quickly, and you rolled your eyes without patience.

It had been good sex, and you repeated that it was just that. Sex. That it shouldn't have happened, mainly because you were incompatible, and there were too many social barriers between you.

You should have known that Wanda would not break the expectations they had of her, to stay as someone as broken as you.

Closing the locker with more force than necessary, you walked out toward the history room.

Taking your place in the last chair by the window, you sit down as you wait for the class to begin. You have about five minutes of peace before an angry Tony Stark enters the room and walks toward you pointing his finger in your face in a threatening manner.

- I told you to mind your own business.

- What have I done to deserve this, Lord. - You grumble without patience, ignoring Stark completely. He lets out an angry exclamation and punches the table, making you jump with surprise.

- You'll pay for this, bitch. I'm going to-

You cut off his speech by pulling his hair and forcing his head against the table in a blow that makes a loud noise. He staggers back, shocked that he has been hit again. The room erupts in a hubbub and someone holds Tony back to stop him from jumping on you.

You stand up, gathering your notebooks, seeing that the history teacher was already signaling for you to talk to the counselor.

- You never learn, Stark. - You sneer, taking one last look at the boy's bloody nose before you leave the room, most of your classmates laughing.

- I'm so angry with you right now. - said your mother as soon as you both left the school. You didn't respond, walking with your hands in your pockets to the car. She started mumbling to herself, and only when you had been in the car a few minutes did she speak to you again.

- And the worst of it is that you hit my boss's son!

You let out a wry laugh as you looked out the car window at the view.

- I doubt very much that Howard Stark knows any of his employees, Mother.

- It doesn't matter. - she retorted, turning the wheel. You watched the landscape change as you turned the corner.

- At least I didn't get expelled. - You commented, your mother let out a wry laugh.

- Suspension is not a good thing! - she replies in an irritated tone. - And I even had to miss my shift to come get you. I honestly didn't raise you for that.

- That's the point, isn't it? - You retorted angrily, finally turning to face your mother.  - Did you ever raise me? Last time I checked, I've been raising myself for a long time.

Your mother assumes a disapproving expression, denying it with her head. You throw yourself back on the seat with your arms crossed.

- You've always been so unfair, you know. - She begins. - Who's picking you up from school now, huh? And who puts a roof over your head? Food on your plate? You raised yourself, that's a joke.

She grumbles again, but you just ignore it, shutting yourself off from your surroundings.

You barely register when the car pulls up in front of your house, startled when your mother slams the car door as you get out. You take off your seat belt, and step out.

- You are grounded, three months. - she says, and you just nod. It's not as if she was present enough to know where you were going anyway. - And you are going to help your aunt in the store while you are suspended.

You let out a protesting grunt.

- Really, there's nothing worse for me to do? - You ask, throwing yourself on the sofa in the living room, your mother giggles.

- Weren't you the one who was thinking that suspension is better than expulsion? Well, you're not going to be sitting around this week. - She said as she left her purse on the kitchen table, and walked towards the small office table in the corner of the room. - Now go to your room, I'm working from home today.

You roll your eyes, getting up. Dragging your feet to your room, you slam the door as you enter, throwing yourself against your bed.

You hope Tony Stark's nose is hurting.

You are very surprised to see Natasha Romanoff enter your aunt's mercenary, shortly after school hours. She smiles at you with amusement, walking over to the counter.

- Wow, interesting look. - She jokes, commenting on the blue uniform combined with a sailor's hat that your aunt makes her three employees wear. You laugh at Nat.

- How can I help you, ma'am? - You asked in an amused tone, she leaned her arms on the counter.

- I'm looking for a fighting dog. Do you sell these here?

You laugh at the insinuation. And then a customer enters the store, Nat moves aside for you to attend to a lady buying tomato sauce and noodles, and then as you check out, she speaks again.

- You caused a fuss at school with your fight. - She remarks, and you just grumble, counting the money. - By the way, how did you find out about Rogers and Stark's secret affair?

You shrug, smiling. - I saw them kissing the night of the game. Stark freaked out, by the way, typical.

Nat laughed, and began to look around the store. - It is nice here. I didn't know you worked.

- It's my aunt's. - You say, finally finishing counting the money in the cash register. - And I worked at the junkyard on Avenue Two until last year.

- Aren't you going to tell me that you were fired for fighting? - Nat teased, making you laugh.

- No, I asked to quit. - So you say. - I wanted a quiet senior year.

Nat nods, and walks around the store, stopping at the magazine section. You see three more customers before she returns.

- I have to get home before my mother freaks out. - She announced as soon as she reached the counter. You nodded. - But I want to know if you want to do something with me?

- I thought you had a boyfriend. - You joked, and Nat rolled her eyes humorously.

- Don't be a smartass.

You laugh.

- I will be helping out in the store during this week. - You say. - Because of the suspension. I leave at seven.

Nat nodded, assuming a contemplative expression for a moment.

- Do you know where Avengers' Bar is? Three blocks past the municipal hospital?

You nod, smiling.

- Sure, Nat. - You say. - I've already driven past it.

- Why haven't you ever gone inside? I'm always there.

- I wasn't in that area to drink. - You remark with a suggestive smile, and Nat just laughs and rolls her eyes.

- Well, I'll be there on Wednesday. Some colleagues from State are playing there. - She says, and writes down a phone number on one of the papers on the counter. - Text me if you're going to show up.

- Are you sure it's not a date? - You joke and Nat just winks at you before you leave. You keep her number in your uniform pocket.

Even from outside, you could hear the music from the bar muffled against the windows.

Avengers's Bar was a popular place in town, but only for a certain kind of people. Mainly frequented by punks, bikers, and artists, it was exactly the kind of place you liked but should avoid. With its history of fights, it wasn't exactly the kind of place you went to anymore.

A dark-haired girl in metal-working attire smiled at you from the doorway, looking at you mischievously as you walked through the door. You just nodded slightly.

Inside, you looked around for Natasha and her friends, but with the amount of people in the bar, it wasn't so easy to find them.

- Y/N! - shouted Thor when he spotted you in the crowd. You smiled, walking over to where he was standing. - We're on the top floor, Nat got a table. Come on, I just came to get some drinks.

You followed him to the bar, and helped him carry the drinks for the others. You didn't recognize any of the drinks they were making there, so you decided to just drink from everyone's glass, which made Thor laugh.

- Look who I found. - announced Thor as soon as you two arrived at the table. The group smiled when they saw you, and you greeted everyone with a kiss on the cheek and sat down next to Nat.

- We heard that you were suspended. - commented Clint, but he seemed almost proud. You shrugged awkwardly.

- She wasn't content to just punch Stark, she also slammed the bastard's head against the table! - Said Natasha excitedly, and the group laughed. You laughed half embarrassed, as you took a sip of the pink drink Nat had ordered.

They started talking about some scandal that happened at the federal school, and you did your best to react to it, not really knowing who the people they were talking about were. And then Valkyrie let out an exclamation, as if she had spotted someone, and stood up. A very pretty girl approached, smiling and hugging Valkyrie.

- I'm glad you could make it, Carol. - Valkyrie said the girl who waved to everyone. When you looked closely, you finally recognized her. Carol Danvers was an ex-student of your high school, having graduated last year. She used to be very popular, and you noticed the military silver necklace around her neck.

Carol sat down next to Valkyrie, and the two of them seemed so close that you thought maybe they were dating.

When the show started, everyone exclaimed with excitement, quickly getting up and walking to the stage area. You smiled as Nat dragged you by the hand, liking the feeling of having friends.

The band was surprisingly good, and you danced with excitement, feeling the alcohol make you lively and loose. You were surprised when Carol began to dance with you, her hands on your waist.

She was very attractive, so you didn't mind her kissing you. And you pushed away the feeling that she wasn't the person you wanted. When she pulled you into the bathroom, her hands roaming over you as she tugged off your clothes, you ignored every part of your body screaming that this was wrong. When she made you cum, you bit your lip to keep yourself from screaming Wanda's name.

Your suspension was finally over, and you gave the key to the store back to your aunt before you went to school.

You tried not to think about it too much, about how many college opportunities you had missed with that stain on your record. But if you were honest, you didn't even know if you wanted to go to college anymore. Every day the possibility of buying a motorcycle and traveling aimlessly getting closer to your real calling.

Many people stared at you when you arrived at school. The vast majority didn't even bother to look away. You rolled your eyes impatiently, reaching into your jacket pockets as you walked through the main doors.

You were slightly startled when Jessica Jones approached you in your locker, but you smiled awkwardly, taking off your headphones.

- Girl, you are a legend! - she said excitedly, pushing you lightly by the shoulders against the lockers. She stood close, and you thought maybe that was flirting. - By the way, I didn't have your number to text you.

She took a pen from her bag, and grabbed your hand, writing down her own number while flashing you a mischievous smile.

- Text me, let's do something this week. - She says as she lets go of your hand. You blink slightly, and nod, a little awkwardly. Jessica doesn't seem to notice, and smiles, leaving afterwards.

You hear a whistle, and Nat looks at you with curiosity.

- You are stealing hearts, huh. - She teases, and you feel your face heat up, still surprised by the whole interaction. - By the way, are you and Carol on a real thing?

- What? - you ask in surprise. - No, I don't think so. It was just sex in a concert restroom, Natasha. I don't think she even knew my name. - You remark as you turn toward the redhead. She laughs, finishing putting her books away.

- Actually she asked me for your number. - She says, and you look at her in surprise. - But then I see you with Jones, and I have to admit, it's a tough choice. - Nat teases, making you laugh. You start walking down the hall together, walking towards the classrooms. You think Nat has said something about the show, but your attention is elsewhere. As you walk past Wanda and Peter Maximoff, everything seems to slow down, you notice the slight flush on Wanda's cheeks when her gaze meets yours, and you both hold your breath as you walk past each other. But the next second everything is as it was before, and you sigh, focusing your attention on Nat.

When you arrive in the literature room, you are happy to know that Nat sits next to you.

You hate the cafeterias. So when Nat invites you to join her at the outside tables you think it's the best lunch you have ever had.

The outside courtyard is relatively less crowded than the other places in the school, and you are in the middle of a discussion about the new TV series that launched over the weekend, when Nat signals to something behind you.

Coming out of the school, and heading towards the table where you were standing, was Sharon Carter, accompanied by her pet friend, Pepper Potts. And you really thought you could have a quiet lunch.

- To what do I owe the honor, Carter? - you asked ironically as they reached your table.

- You stay away from my boyfriend. - She spoke in a serious tone, and before you could say anything, she tipped the glass of soda she held over your head.

You felt your whole body boil with irritation and you stood up abruptly, seeing red. But Natasha tugged on your forearm, whispering something about your suspension. Sharon and Pepper seemed to be slightly startled by your posture, but they let out a wry chuckle and went back inside the school.

You tugged on Nat's arm, then left the courtyard and headed for the changing rooms. You needed a cold shower to calm yourself down, or you would do something that would surely cause your expulsion.

Since the athletic games period had not yet started, the gym locker room was empty. You sighed with relief as you found your spare change of clothes in your locker.

Walking toward the bathroom stalls, you quickly undressed, and stepped into the shower, letting the cold water wash all the soda and anger from your body.

Leaning your head against the wall, you let out a sigh, thinking about all the shit that was going on in your life in less than two weeks. And then your mind went back to Wanda, and you let out a breathless groan, laughing humorlessly. The cold water didn't help to chill the new heat that settled under your stomach. You turned off the shower, then stepped out to put on your clothes.

On your way out of the locker room, you saw something you would rather not have seen. The universe seemed to be testing your anger today.

Wanda was being pressed against the wall of the indoor bleachers, which at that time was empty and perfect for those who wanted to make out in a secluded spot. It was a tall boy, but you couldn't see his face, which was buried in Wanda's neck, kissing her. And then she opened her eyes, and looked straight at you. You saw him pull down his pants and enter her, and she moaned with her mouth ajar, without taking her eyes off you. She had a gleam in her eyes that made your whole body tremble.

You gripped the strap of your purse tightly, controlling the impulse to go over and beat the boy until he passed out, and spun on your feet, walking out the back door.

Fucking day, you thought as you walked back to school.

Eventually, you thanked Nat for keeping you from hitting Sharon. She shrugged, saying that she didn't want you to be expelled now that you were becoming friends, and you tried not to be too happy about it.

On Wednesday, Carol Danvers showed up at the door of the school on a motorcycle. This is sure to be a long-lasting gossip, you thought as you and Nat greeted her on the way out. Several students looked at you, many of them impressed by Carol's motorcycle, others impressed to see her back at school, but the vast majority trying to ask how you knew her.

- What's up, Danvers? - You say to her with a slight nod. Carol looks at you as if she wants to undress you right there, but you have your gaze on her motorcycle, attentive to the details of the vehicle.

- Hey, pretty girl. - She answers while leaning against the vehicle.

- Jesus, you are not even seeing me. - Nat teases and Carol just laughs, giving her a kiss on the cheek. - Tell me, what brings you back to your beloved school?

- I came to say hello. - says Carol. - And to invite you both to a concert on Saturday.

- And you didn't text me because you missed me. - Nat rebuts in a provocative tone, Carol smiles, and then looks at you, before confirming. You don't really know what to say.

- If the music is good, I'm in. - You joke and Nat agrees. Carol takes two tickets out of her pocket and hands them to you.

- I'll pick you up, okay? - She offers it to you. You think about refusing, without really knowing why. But you nod in agreement before you can think about it too much.

- Okay, lovebirds. I'll leave you two alone because I'm starting to get the urge to puke. - Nat jokes one last time, before heading out toward the parking lot. You imagine that she will use the break time to smoke a bit.

You shift your weight between your feet before turning your gaze back to Carol.

- I was surprised to hear that you asked Nat for my number. - You comment, and Carol smiles.

- I like to talk to pretty girls. - She says, and you roll your eyes humorously at the flirtation. She laughs, biting her lips, and you allow her to rest her hands on your waist, perhaps too low.

- Are you looking for something serious, Danvers? - you ask with a slight irony. Carol looks at you in mild surprise.

- You don't think it has anything to do with me, do you?

- Sorry, the motorcycle and the leather jacket gave you away. - You respond humorously. - I get it, because it's my game.

Carol laughs.

- I'm enjoying our time together. - she confesses. - But I'll be back at the station in a few weeks. I can't make any promises.

You nod, without really being bothered by it. Carol is not the one you wanted to be with. And to push those thoughts away, you kiss her. She smiles, deepening the kiss slightly. You think she squeezed your ass, but you're not really paying attention.

And then you break apart, and she smiles at you.

- I'll see you Saturday, right? - she asks, and you nod, letting her kiss you one last time.

When she finally starts the motorcycle and drives away, you notice the mischievous and suggestive looks you receive.

And you try not to let your anger peak, but then you notice Stark's group in the corner of the school, laughing openly. You'll need to walk past them to get inside, and you really hope that none of them will test your patience.

- Hey weirdo, who was your girlfriend? - shouts Tony Stark. You know, you really think maybe he is brain damaged. His friends laugh at the joke, and you think you will ignore it, but then he shouts again. - I'm talking to you, dyke!

He throws something at you, missing you by inches. You watch the red liquid run down in front of your feet.

You think, this is it. This is how I'm going to get expelled. By sticking a straw in Tony Stark's eye. You wondered if prison life was worth it.

But then the laughter died down in the next second, and you watched Tony turn pale.

- Mr. Stark, please come with me. - A male voice sounded behind you. The school principal was a scary man, and he was hardly ever seen outside his classroom. He never witnessed his students' conflicts, and Fury never bothered him with such matters. Tony's paleness was understandable.

- P-Professor Thanos, I don't...

- Now. - says the man finally, and Tony stiffens his jaw as he follows him. He gave you an angry look before leaving.

The buzz started as soon as they entered the school, but you didn't really pay attention to anyone. Ignoring the middle finger Steve Rogers threw at you, you went back inside the school.

Tony Stark was punished with detention. You rolled your eyes when the rumor reached you. They had also said that his father refused to pick him up and that the driver was the one who talked to Fury. You would have sympathy for Stark if he wasn't a complete imbecile.

You had chemistry again, and you really weren't in the mood to see Wanda, but you had no choice.

And then Professor Agatha was feeling particularly inspired today, and decided to switch lab partners. You ended up on the same bench as Darcy Lewis and Pietro Maximoff, you being the only trio due to the odd number of students. You sighed against your bad luck.

The experiment that Mrs. Harkness performed was not difficult, but it could be dangerous if you didn't pay attention. So you just listened to Darcy's instructions, and everything was working out fine. Then Pietro Maximoff decided that his attention was better placed on a girl sitting behind him, and started flirting. Darcy rolled her eyes, smiling at you.

In the blink of an eye, you heard a scream of pain. Pietro had forgotten the limits of the counter itself, and stretching his arms most likely to impress the girl behind you, he slammed his hand against the chemical glass jar behind him. Darcy stepped back to avoid being hit, but you were quick to help Pietro, pulling his arm into the sink on the counter, turning on the faucet as you hurried to get as much of the acidic liquid off his skin as possible.

Pietro sighed with relief, probably feeling the pain disappear as you rubbed the soap into his skin. He was extremely surprised, as was the rest of the room.

- Very efficient reaction, Miss Y/L/N. - commented Ms. Harkness as she approached you, holding a cloth to dry Pietro. - I'll add an extra point to your average for that. Mr. Maximoff, please go to the infirmary.

Pietro wrapped the cloth around his injured hand, and looked at you with a mixture of hesitation and confusion in his eyes, but he nodded in thanks.

Harkness asked someone to call the janitor to clean up the shards, and then continued the class. You found it hard to concentrate when you noticed Wanda's gaze on you.

Jessica Jones kisses you against the wall of the second floor locker room.

You exchanged a few messages, mostly innocent jokes. And then Jessica said she had something amazing to show you, and when you met her after third period, in the not-so-isolated locker room, she pushed you up against the wall and kissed you on the mouth.

Jessica tasted like coke and something sweet, and she likes to bite.You had to remind yourself that you were kissing someone while you were doing it, not feeling connected to her really.

And then two girls came into the bathroom giggling and she let you go.

- Sorry for the scare. - She joked, her lips swollen. You shrugged, smiling slightly.

- What inspired you to do this? - you teased, putting your hands on her waist.

- You of course. Punching assholes and saving people. It's hot. - She says and then she checks her cell phone. - Damn, I have chemistry now. I can't be late.

She steals a kiss from you and quickly leaves. You blink, not really understanding what has happened.

As you go downstairs, you realize that the cheerleading squad is coming out of the locker room, and Sharon and Potts give you a death stare as you walk past them. And then, as you pass through the door to the women's dressing room, you hesitate. All your logic tells you to go on your way, but then your feet are turning and you walk into the dressing room, looking around.

You let out a sigh as you find who you were looking for. Wanda is changing clothes, wearing only her cheer skirt, and a bra. Your intimacy pulsates with the image. Wanda lets out a surprised exclamation at seeing you there, but then she lets out a mischievous smile, and continues undressing.

Slowly, she lets the skirt slide down her thighs. You bite your lower lip hard as it falls to the floor.

And then two other cheerleaders come out of one of the aisles behind you, and the giggles die down when they see you. One of the girls turns to Wanda:

- Is this girl bothering you, Wandy? - she asks in a honeyed voice.

- And what are you, a watchdog? - You retort before Wanda can answer. The girl gives you a death glare. - Mind your own business, nosy.

The other girl approaches you, looking at you with disdain. - We don't like street trash here. Why don't you go back to your junkyard?

You swallowed dryly, trying to control your anger. The smaller girl giggled, and you looked at Wanda, who looked in shock, before you stormed out of the dressing room slamming the door.

You knew you shouldn't do that, but your feet dragged you out into the field of trailers.

You walked a long way until you arrived. And when you entered the courtyards, many of the residents looked at you with a frown. But you ignore them, as you walk between the houses. You knock hard on the door of one of the trailers farthest away. It takes a moment before a tall, muscular boy answers it.

He lets out a wry laugh when he sees you.

- Visiting old friends? - He teases, you don't smile.

- I need to break something, Erik. - You say simply, and he sighs. And then he closes the door, and you walk together in the opposite direction, out of the trailer park.

You have known Erik Killmonger since kindergarten. His life wasn't exactly the easiest. You used to hang out together in high school, but then Erik started getting into a lot of fights, and it was rumored that he joined a gang. He didn't tell you anything, and when you asked, he told you to mind your own business. And then, in the second year, he was expelled for breaking the jaw of Johann Schmidt, one of the seniors at the school. You remember never seeing Erik so angry. But you never knew the reason for the fight. And then he drifted away, and even though you missed him, you didn't push him.

- Here it is. - Erik said as you reached an abandoned area a few feet beyond the trailers. He handed you a wooden stick, and you took a deep breath before you started smashing through the abandoned objects there, most of them junk.

- Fuck that fucking school. - You shouted as you hit a bottle, the glass splattering through the air. Erik just stood at a safe distance, his hands in his pockets. - Fuck Tony Stark. - You shouted, a wooden box shattering with the blow of your bat. And then you noticed a tall dead tree trunk a few yards away, and you stepped forward, aggressively slamming your bat several times against the tree. - Fuck Wanda Maximoff. - And the staff shattered with the force of your blow. You let out a sigh, throwing the object to the ground, as you sat down down on the grass.

Erik walked over to you, and he said nothing about the tears streaming down your face.

- Do you want to talk about it? - he asked as he sat down beside you. You nodded in denial.

- I want you to tell me something about yourself. - You said, wiping your face.

- Um, let me think. - He says, putting his arms behind him and leaning back, he looks relaxed. - My mother is in town.

You turn your head to him in surprise. He smiles.

- Yes, I know, that's nice. - He comments. - But I won't get my hopes up. She could leave at any moment.

- I hope she stays. - You say.

- So do I.

You stand there in silence for a moment, then Erik stands up, then offers his hand to help you stand. You sigh and accept.

- Let's get something to eat, you're paying. - He says, causing you to smile ironically.

You end up at one of the dinner stands across the main road from the trailer park. You buy Erik a hamburger and fries, but you decide to just have a milkshake.

- This is all about a girl, isn't it? - he asks after a while, and you almost deny it. But you just shrug your shoulders in agreement, taking a sip of your milkshake. - Is it someone I know?

- Maybe. - you say, and Erik frowns humorously. He eats some chips, assuming a thoughtful expression.

- That's hard, I've never seen you paying attention to anyone at school. - he says. - What about that redheaded girl in the locker next to yours?

You laugh and nod your head in denial. Erik smiles, thinking again.

- What about that girl in your chemistry class? The one you said was smart?

- Darcy? - You ask and he confirms, you just smile. - No, I wish. Darcy would be less complicated.

Erik laughs, and then pushes the rest of the potatoes to you.

- Why don't you just tell me? - he asks, but his tone is not accusatory, just provocative.

- Because I don't want to admit it. - You confess, accepting the potatoes. It takes a moment, and then you speak. - I think I'm falling in love with Wanda Maximoff.

You don't look at Erik, fearing his reaction. But then he lets out a sigh, and drags his hand across the table, offering it to you. You accept, and he holds your hand warmly.

- You, my friend, are totally screwed. - He teases, making you laugh. - But keep calm. Passions go away as fast as they come.

You nod, squeezing his hand before letting go. You eat in silence, and you can't help but think how much you missed him.

Debates test your patience. And as if that weren't irritating enough, you still share this class with Wanda.

You don't look at her when you enter the room, but you feel her gaze on you. Throwing yourself on the last chair in the room, you stand with your headphones on and sink your head into your arms on the desk, wishing for the school year to end soon.

When Professor Hill enters the room, you are surprised that one of your classmates nudges you to warn you, and you smile in appreciation as you straighten your posture and put your cell phone away.

- I hope you have read the book I asked for, children. - She announces as she puts her bag on the table, and walks to the front of the cabinet, leaning against the wood as she looks around the room. - We will discuss it in class today.

The room lets out a chorus of displeasure, but the teacher lets out a chuckle. Her debates were famous for ending up in heated discussions, plus they made up about fifty percent of the grade. If you didn't say anything, you had to write a report of the discussions.

The teacher took a copy of the book from her purse, and held it with both hands.

- "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man, possessing a good fortune, must be in need of a wife." - She read, walking around the room.  - Who can tell me what the line implies about women?

- It's the old-fashioned way of saying that women prefer rich guys. - Steve Rogers sneered, drawing giggles from his teammates in the room. Mrs. Hill, however, just sighed with disappointment.

- No, Mr. Rogers. - she said, cutting off the laughter immediately. - If you have no intention of participating seriously in the debate, I suggest you remain silent.

Steve let out a lame laugh, shrugged, and whispered something to his tablemate. You rolled your eyes impatiently, resting your face in your hand. And then you watched Wanda Maximoff raise her arm up.

- Yes, Wanda? - nodded Mrs. Hill waiting for the answer.

- I think it's about a reaffirmation of the status of the man. As if the woman is a trophy to prove his status and position. - She says. - It objectifies women completely.

You blinked, slightly impressed. Wanda was always smart, after all. But then the boys in class giggled, and the redhead seemed to shrug her shoulders. Professor Hill, however, smiled at her.

- Interesting position, Miss Maximoff. - she said, and walked back around the room. - Let's talk a little about the main romance of the book. - She says, and looks reproachfully quickly at two boys who are whispering, and they fall silent. - I'd like to know what you think about Elizabeth and Darcy's relationship, and how we can bring the book's issues into our current society. Do you believe that the same prejudices are faced today?

The room explodes into excitement, and you feel like going home. Mrs. Hill looks around, and waves to calm the students.

- Please, class. Raise your hand who believes that Elizabeth and Darcy would easily marry today?

The vast majority of the students raise their hands. And someone makes a comment that they would get laid on the first date, and many laugh. You play with your pencil, twirling it on your finger, and then feel a light elbow on your arm. Your classmate nods her head forward, and you blink in confusion, realizing that Ms. Hill has called your attention.

- I'm sorry, Mrs. Hill. What is it? - you ask, straightening your posture. She smiles tenderly.

- I asked why you didn't raise your hand. - She repeats. - Could you share with the class your position?

You let out a sigh, thinking about it. And then you lean back in your chair, putting your hands in your pockets, and trying not to get intimate with the stares in the room.

- I really don't understand how everyone here can say that we no longer have social rules for relationships. - You say. - If Darcy and Elizabeth were from the present day, the prejudices portrayed in the books would only be different, but they would still be there. We have many ways of forbidding people to relate to each other, even in this school.

- Interesting. Please continue. - the teacher said, leaning back against her desk. You let out a sigh, trying to organize your opinion into words.

- I can give an example of how we divide the social groups around here. - you say. - It's not like the jocks are seen hanging out with the kids in the theater. Elizabeth would definitely be one of the smart girls, and Darcy would be the dumb brat. Sort of like a Tony Stark.

The room erupted in giggles, and you watched Steve Rogers lock his jaw, commenting something to his classmate. Professor Hill gave you a warning look, beckoning the class to be quiet.

- So you believe that Darcy and Elizabeth would not be together in the present days? - she asks you, and you shrug.

- I don't think Darcy would break the expectations people have of him for Elizabeth. - You state. - And besides, she can do better than that.

Some students laughed at your comment, and Mrs. Hill smiled at you. And then she asked if anyone had a different opinion, and you were slightly surprised to see Wanda raise her hand again.

- I think they would end up together. - She says. - They are really in love, and just like in the book, I think Darcy just needs time to understand everything, and to build up some courage.

- And Elizabeth should expect him to have some guts, then? - You cut Wanda off. The room looks at you in surprise, and Wanda turns in her chair, a look of mixed defiance and surprise, but you don't back away. - While he decides whether she is worth it, should she just wait around?

- Elizabeth needs to understand that Darcy also has his own issues. - Wanda retorts. - That it's not easy to let go of all the expectations people place on you.

You laugh lightly with irony.

- Of course Darcy would be quite comfortable keeping Elizabeth waiting. - You say with mild irritation. - Besides, Elizabeth is also going through a lot. She deserves to have someone who chooses her.

- That's not what we're arguing about. - Wanda replies. - No one is questioning Elizabeth's worth. I'm saying that they would be together, but that they need time.

- And I'm saying that Darcy has to stop being such a gutless pussy and make a decision soon. Elizabeth is not going to pause her life just to wait for him.

- She would do that if she really liked Darcy. - Retorts the redhead, you blink in disbelief.

You think the room held its breath with your debate with Wanda, and you would have continued if the teacher hadn't interrupted.

- Okay, I think we're getting a little nervous. - She cut in, and you blinked awkwardly, stopping to look at Wanda. The room murmured quietly again as Wanda turned back to face the front. - Thank you for your opinions, ladies. Now let's move on, who can offer a reflection on marriage in the book?

The class continued for a while, but you completely disconnected. Your heart was racing and you realized that the discussion you had was not about Darcy or Elizabeth. Wanda was asking you to wait for her. And you felt a strong urge to punch something. And then you focused your attention completely on the literature report, ignoring the debate completely.

[arrowflier]

Prompt: Mickey apologizes to one of their neighbours for something that clearly wasn't his fault just to make Ian(who's in his people pleaser mode) happy. Later, Ian realises how Mickey was right all along and feels bad about the whole thing and they talk. Basically them having a mature convo at the end

Ian heard the shouting as soon as he stepped out into the courtyard. Mickey had come down earlier to take a quick dip, and Ian was hoping to join him and relax together for a while.

But based on the way his husband and one of their neighbors were yelling right then, that clearly wasn't in the cards.

Ian sighed, and closed his eyes briefly. Was it really too much to ask that Mickey get along with the people in their building? He didn't even have to make friends, he just had to not be an asshole to everyone he met.

A particularly loud shout--something about children, and language, and have some common decency--forced Ian out of his reflections and toward the apparent catastrophe that was Mickey in public.

“Dammit, Mickey,” he muttered under his breath as he rounded the last corner and brought the pool into view.

Sure enough, Mickey was there.  He stood at the edge of the shallow end of the pool, like he had just hoisted himself out, water droplets still lingering on his sculpted arms and chest.  His arms were raised and held out to the side in challenge as he blustered on about public space, and freedom of speech, and I’ll do you one worse lady, just you watch just inches away from a middle-aged woman that looked like she had stepped out of a lululemon ad.

Ian was pretty sure it was the same woman who had stopped him at the elevators last week to ask him to “keep it down up there”.  They really didn’t need to cause more trouble with her; Mickey had them on thin ice already when his response to Ian relaying that request was to play loud, bass-thumping music while riding Ian into the floor for effect.

She hadn't met his eyes since.

"What's going on here?" Ian interrupted, coming up behind Mickey and settling a hand on the back of his husband's neck.

"This lady was tryin to--" Mickey cut off when Ian squeezed and released that hand in warning. Mickey glowered at him, but shut his mouth.

"Your husband," the woman said with a glare at Mickey, "was setting a bad example for my nephew."

Looking around for the aforementioned child, Ian sighed when he saw a little boy staring at them all from a pool lounger with wide eyes.

"We're sorry, Mrs...," he trailed off, but she didn't bother to fill in the blank for him, instead just raising her eyebrows and tapping her sandaled foot expectantly.

"Uh, anyway, it won't happen again," Ian finished awkwardly. "Right, Mick?"

"Are you kidding me, Gallagher?" Mickey asked, incredulous.

"I expect a direct apology from your husband," the woman demanded at the same time.

Ian raised his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, and gave Mickey a little shake when the other man didn't speak up.

"Come on, Mick, just do it," Ian muttered.

After a tense moment, Mickey did.

"Fucking fine," he hissed at Ian, ignoring their neighbor's sharp intake of breath at the curse. "I'm fucking sorry, alright?," he directed at her, before pulling out of Ian's hold to face him.

"You happy now?" he asked, before turning and stomping off to go inside.

The effect was dampened by the soft slapping sound of his bare feet hitting the pavement, leaving behind wet marks on the concrete. Ian and the woman watched him go with drastically different expressions: one with disgust, and one with concern.

"I do hope you'll keep your man in line better in the future," the woman groused at Ian, but he wasn't really listening.

"Yeah, sure," he answered absently. "Excuse me, I just gotta..."

And then he was scooping up the towel and shoes Mickey had left behind, and hurrying after his husband.

---

"Mickey?" Ian called out hesitantly as he entered their apartment. Other than a couple of damp patches on the floor, there was no sign of Mickey anywhere.

Then Ian heard the shower start, and set Mickey's things down next the door to follow the sound.

Mickey's wet trunks were pooled on the cold tile floor, the shower curtain pulled tight from wall to wall. The splash of water bouncing from flesh to the acrylic tub echoed through the room.

"Mickey?" Ian asked softly, taking a step past the open door. "Mick, you in here?"

He heard a snort over the sound of the water, the curtain moving as Mickey's arm jostled it from inside.

"No, it's your other husband, Sherlock," Mickey answered, an odd tone in his voice. "You know, the one you listen to before you take some random bitch's side."

Ian winced. Okay, Mickey was mad, then.

Moving further into the room, Ian closed the lid of the toilet and turned to sit on it, elbows on knees.

"Sorry," he offered briefly. "But she had a point Mick, there are kids here--"

The water stopped abruptly, and the curtain pulled back to reveal Mickey’s face.  His hair flopped wetly over his forehead, water still sluicing down the middle of his face, and he scowled as he brushed it away with the back of a dripping hand.

“Kid, huh?” he questioned  “So I need to go get my fucking tattoos removed because some random kid might see ‘em?”

Ian blinked.

“Wait,” he said slowly, mind trying to figure out what he was missing.  “What?” then scoffed when Ian just watched him.

Mickey just scoffed.  

“You don’t even know what she was yellin’ about, do you?” he asked rhetorically. “I didn’t say a damn word to her or that sniveling brat she brought with her,” he revealed.  “They took one fucking look at me, saw the words on my knuckles, and off she went on her little fucking tirade.”

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian started, but Mickey wasn’t done.

“Don’t you act like it matters,” he growled.  “You care more about playing nice than payin’ attention, and don’t pretend that after all these years you don’t still assume I’m always the fuckin’ problem.”

Fuck.  Ian had really screwed this one up.

“Mickey,” he repeated, more firmly, standing and stepping closer to the shower.  Ian took the shower curtain in one hand and tugged it further to the side.  Mickey shivered in the influx of cool air, looking more like a disgruntled cat mid-bath than an angry man.

“Mickey,” Ian said again, softer, and stepped over the lip of the tub so that nothing was between them.  He took Mickey into his arms, his husband putting up a token resistance before settling against him with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispered into his wet hair, ignoring the patches of water soaking through his clothes.  “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Mickey hummed into his chest, not looking up.  “You kind of did, though,” he mutters.  “Every time somebody’s got a problem with me, you act like it’s my fault.”

Silence, for just a moment.

“Yeah,” Ian finally agreed, stroking a hand down Mickey’s bare back.  “Yeah, I need to work on that.”

He pulled back, made Mickey meet his eyes.  Mickey was no longer glaring, and his eyes were dry, but there was still something off about the way he met Ian’s gaze.

“You know I don’t really think that, though, right?” Ian asked, disheartened when Mickey didn’t offer a response.

“I don’t, Mickey,” he said earnestly.  “I love you, and you’ve been trying so hard--”

“Shouldn’t fuckin’ have to try,” Mickey murmured, and oh.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Ian rephrased.  “And I’m sorry I’m always making you feel like you do, too.”

Mickey moved back farther, and Ian’s arms dropped loosely back to his sides.  His fingers itched to reach out again, but he got the feeling Mickey needed some space.

“Okay,” Mickey said.  “Get outa here so I can finish.”

Ina obeyed, stepping out of the tub and moving toward the door, but he turned back before he left the room.

“When you’re done, come into the bedroom, alright?” he asked quietly.  “I’ve got an idea to get back at that asshole woman.”

“Apology or not,” Mickey said wryly, “I don’t think I’m on the mood to fuck you right now, Ian.”

Ian just smirked. 

“Not what I had in mind,” he said.  “Now hurry it up, I think you’re gonna like my plan.”

---

About twenty minutes later, after the shower had started and stopped again and Mickey had had a moment to gather himself and get dressed, Mickey walked into the bedroom and stopped still.

Ian was sitting on their bed, fully dressed, but that wasn’t what had Mickey startled.  No, it was the fact that right in front of him was a huge stereo with old school speakers, the ones that used to be downstairs in the communal lounge area, with Ian’s phone sitting right on top.

“What’s all this?” Mickey asked, and Ian grinned.

“So she doesn’t like profanity, huh?” he said.  “Well I found a favorite new song.”

Mickey started to grin himself as he caught on to the plan.  Ian stood and pushed one of the speakers a little closer to the vents in their floor, angling it so the sound would bounce right down into the apartment below.  Then he tapped a few things on his phone, cranked the volume, and let harsh base and more expletives than Mickey had ever heard in a piece of music fill the room.

Mickey laughed.  Ian held out a hand, like he was asking for a dance, and turned the music up even louder.

Shaking his head at his husband’s antics, Mickey took the proffered hand, and let Ian spin him to the sound of their bitchy neighbor losing her mind below them.

[marauderundercover]

This Side of Normal Ch. 8

AO3

Prev

Marinette was seriously considering murder. She was pretty sure Jason would be able to help her hide the body, he was a lot stronger than her. But murder was seriously on the table. Why has she decided to break that one golden rule, you might ask? Lila Rossi. The bane of her existence. The very reason they were spending two fucking weeks in the crime capital of the world instead of their original destinations. But no, Lila just had to convince Mme. Bustier to take them to Gotham. And then, as if making Marinette plan a million things last minute wasn’t bad enough, Lila decided to talk. Nonstop. Throughout the entire first half of their tour of Wayne Enterprises. The only thing keeping her from strangling the girl right now was the promise of coffee in the cafeteria. She didn’t need food, she needed coffee. And then she’d go right back to plotting murder. Would anyone look in the river for her body? 

“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m sure you shouldn’t do it.” Adrien says, pulling her out of her murder plot. She glares at him. 

“I’m planning a murder, and I don’t appreciate you interrupting me.” She deadpans. 

“Murder’s bad, Mari. We don’t murder people.” Adrien sighs, throwing an arm over her shoulders. 

“Maybe you don’t murder people. I’m thinking about branching out.” She hums, getting in the line for coffee. Adrien huffs and grabs her arm, tugging her behind him. She immediately starts whining, reaching out towards the coffee booth. 

“Mari, you need actual food. You can have coffee after you eat something. I know for a fact you didn’t eat breakfast.” He says, staring her down. She huffs, crossing her arms. 

“You’re not my dad.” She mumbles, turning away from him. 

“Why the hell are you all pouty?” Jason asks, walking up to the two. Marinette smiles briefly, then drops her face back into a scowl. 

“Someone is keeping me from my coffee.” She says. 

“Good job kid!” Jason says, high fiving Adrien. Marinette’s jaw drops at the betrayal. 

“Honestly rude. Guess I’m not gonna ask you to help me anymore.” She says, sighing dramatically. 

“Help with what?” He asks, frowning. 

“Murder. She wants to commit a murder.” Adrien says, rolling his eyes. 

“Who’re we killing?” Jason asks. This time it’s Adrien’s turn to drop his jaw, Marinette laughing loudly. 

“Ha! I told you Jay would help me!” She cheers, shooting Adrien a smug smile. 

“Marinette! Lila needs your help carrying her tray.” Mme. Bustier instructs, walking over to the trio. Marinette immediately frowns, looking over at Lila who was carrying a tray. Just fine. 

“Uh, looks like she’s got it.” She says, nodding towards the liar. 

“Well, she got it okay, but she needs someone to carry it to her table for her.” Mme. Bustier says, frowning. 

“And one of her friends can do it. I’m not getting out of line for my own lunch just to carry Lila’s tray Mme. Bustier.” Marinette argues, crossing her arms. 

“Marinette-” She starts, then stops when she realizes Jason isn’t one of the students. “Very well. But we’re going to talk about this later.” She adds before walking away. Marinette rolls her eyes. 

“Is she the one we’re murdering?” Jason asks, leaning down a little so he could whisper. 

“Nope. The one whose tray I was supposed to carry is the one on my list.” Mari says, nodding towards the girl who was now fake crying. 

“Jesus. How does anyone put up with her?” He asks, face curling in disgust. Marinette shrugs. 

“At first I thought she was Meta. Now I think my classmates are just idiots.” She says simply. Jason snorts. 

“I believe that. I’m gonna go grab you a coffee. As much as I’d love to help you commit a murder, pretty sure the boss would be pissed.” He says, ruffling her hair before walking away. Marinette turns to Adrien and gives him a smug smile. 

“Ha, bitch.” She says, snorting as he starts spluttering. 

“You can’t just say that, Bug!” He whines, before turning to order his food. Marinette snorts. 

“Sure I can.” She says in English, before quickly switching to Mandarin and lowering her voice. “I’m a seventeen year old ex-superhero, I’m allowed to say bitch.” Adrien just snorts, thanking the lady and grabbing his food so that Marinette can order. Once she has her food, she follows Adrien to an almost empty table in the corner farthest away from their classmates. She smiles at the person at the other end of the table, Dick Grayson. He was their tour guide and had dealt with their annoying ass class surprisingly well. She was tempted to make him a certificate if he lasted til the end of the day without losing his sanity. Plopping down in her seat, she starts eating her food slowly, watching Jason across the room at the coffee booth. 

“Mari, he said he would get you coffee. He’s gonna get you coffee.” Adrien says, nudging her side to try and get her to actually eat. 

“You don’t think he’d get me decaf, do you?” She asks, remembering the time he’d brought coffee to one of their late night training sessions. It was decaf then, he claimed that she needed to be able to sleep after training. She argued that she needed to stay awake and do homework and commissions and some lameass decaf coffee was not going to help her do that. She just hoped he would take pity on her and get her actual coffee this time. 

“I think I’d get you decaf,” Adrien starts, dodging her attempt to whack him. “But, I think Jay’s a little nicer than me today. Probably since he hasn’t seen us in awhile.” He muses. Marinette stops trying to attack him, nodding in agreement. He’d be more likely to give her decaf tomorrow than today. So it was still safe to trust her coffee order to him. For now. 

“I’m sorry, did you say Jay?” Mr. Grayson asks, catching her attention. She glances at Adrien who just shrugs. She knew the two had talked earlier, but she really didn’t want to accidentally get Jay in trouble. 

“Uh, yes?” She says, wincing at the awkwardness. 

“You know Jason.” He says, and she nods, frowning. 

“Yeah, we got to know him last year when he was on a business trip in Paris.” She explains, dodging around the whole ‘he trained us as heroes and then found out our identities and helped us take down a supervillain’ part of it. “We ended up getting close and we’ve kept in contact over the last year.” Mari adds, confused as to why Mr. Grayson looks so lost. 

“Really?” He finally asks. 

“Yeah. He’s basically like our big brother.” Adrien adds, obviously sensing that Marinette was getting uncomfortable. 

“Hey Dick, long time no see.” Jason snarks, putting Mari’s coffee in front of her and plopping down in the seat next to Adrien. 

“Jason. So you have two new siblings?” He asks, gesturing to Mari and Adrien. Jason nods. 

“Yup. And they’re loads better than you lot. Pixie Pop here even said I could help her with her first murder.” Jason teases. Marinette’s face instantly heats up, as she turns her glare to Jason. 

“Jason!” She hisses. He’s lucky he’s on the other side of Adrien. 

“Wait, you two are brothers?” Adrien asks, and Marinette blinks. Oh, yeah. Wait, what. 

“You didn’t know?” Dick asks. Adrien looks at Mari who shrugs. She definitely hadn’t known. She’d assumed Dick was one of Jason’s bosses. 

“Yeah, unfortunately this dipshit is my older brother. Adopted, of course.” Jason says. 

“We also have two other brothers and a sister. And some unofficial siblings.” Dick adds, making Mari raise an eyebrow. 

“All adopted?” She asks. Adoption was no joke. It was crazy expensive in the US. 

“All but one. B kinda adopts every dark haired, blue eyed kid with trauma that he meets.” Jason says, smirking at Marinette’s face. 

“I’m feeling attacked right now. Are you attacking me? If anyone has enough trauma to be adopted by a serial adopter, it’s Adrien. Not me.” She says with a pout. 

“Hey!” Adrien objects. Marinette looks pointedly at his arm. 

“Your arm was cut off by your supervillain father who was an emotional terrorist for over three years. That’s a shit ton of trauma.” She says as he pouts. 

“Yeah, but if I get adopted in the US, I’d never see you anymore.” He points out. 

“But you’d see me all the time.” Jason teases. Adrien grins. 

“That’s right! Okay, sorry M, I’m gonna get adopted here.” He says with a wide grin. 

“Traitors, the both of you. Mr. Grayson, how’d you like a new little sister? I’m officially disowning both of these losers.” Marinette says, ignoring the indignant squawks from Adrien. Dick snorts, a wide grin stretching across his face. 

“Sure kid. And call me Dick. Do you happen to know any acrobatics?” He asks with a teasing grin. Mari smirks. 

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She says. Dick freezes before a huge smile makes its way onto his face, his whole body shaking in excitement. 

“Wait, really? You’re serious?” He asks. She nods. “That’s awesome! Sorry Jay, I’m stealing this one.” He says. Jason scowls. 

“I don’t think so. I’ve known Pixie Pop longer, therefore, she’s my sister.” He says. Adrien clears his throat. “Our sister.” Jason amends, nodding to Adrien. 

“But she’s an acrobat! You know I’ve been looking for someone to teach trapeze to!” Dick whines. Mari’s eyes light up and she starts bouncing in her seat. 

“Wait, trapeze? Seriously? Where? Oh my god, that would be so much fun!” She squeals, suddenly actually excited about being in Gotham. 

“We have one at our house, you guys have to come over! I could show you the basics.” Dick suggests, still grinning. Marinette turns to Jason, waiting to see what he’d say. If Dick didn’t know Jason, she’d never consider going over and learning trapeze. But since he’s Jason’s brother…..

“Ugh, fine. But if B ends up trying to adopt both of you, you can’t blame me. I wanted to keep you away from him. You’re the one who got suckered in by the damn trapeze.” Jason gripes, leaning back in his seat. Marinette just grins at him before turning back to Dick to figure out the specifics. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be that bad.

Next

Tag list (open): @toodaloo-kangaroo @laurcad123 @kittenmywaythrulife @lost-in-the-world-of-maribat @queenz-z

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Slumbering Hearts (Alcina Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 1

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language/brief nudity Warnings: None Summary: In a wicked twist of fate, you find out your soulmate is none other than your employer, Lady Dimitrescu. To your misery, she (at first) seems equally displeased, her heart already belonging to another. But in time, the two of you find yourselves wondering... could the universe be right, after all? Soulmate AU in which every person has a unique "soul mark", which they share with their soulmate. Notes: Reader is gender neutral, but at some points will be described as leaning towards being feminine (due to personal interpretation of Alcina's character). Additionally, Lady D will eventually be referred to by her first name, so don't worry if you feel weird about her being called by her full title all the time, it's just for this chap, when the reader isn't familiar with her. Lastly, this contains a bit of one sided Alcina/Miranda, which serves as a plot point, but is (clearly) not the primary ship.

1: In The Shadow Of Giants

Three months, two weeks, and one day. That’s how long you’ve been at this accursed castle, serving cruel mistresses, having been plucked from your peaceful life in the village. Anger stains your every thought, slowly festering inside your chest. There is no cure, at least not without a fatal price, but there are mild remedies. ‘Tis not long before the other servants learn to give you the more physically demanding chores. Nothing numbs your mind quite the same way that chopping firewood does, though you often settle for hard scrubbing age-old tile. Every day ends with your muscles crying from the effort of it all. Every day… except today. Another servant, from the night shift, has been wounded severely, and her job was deemed too important to be foregone.

And, as such, she has been replaced. By you. For once, you turn in early, long before your clothes can become stained with sweat. Yet you aren’t happy, not when you know that this change will ruin your sleep for weeks to come. Even worse, it’ll be impossible to avoid your ‘employers’, whereas working the day shift meant almost never seeing them. So far, you have only seen them on four or five occasions. Hell, you’ve only met two of them, being Cassandra and Bela. Based on what others told you, the other two weren’t much (if at all) better. As you try your best to get some rest, only a single ‘positive’ thought runs through your head: Well, worst comes to worst, I’ll get killed, then I won’t have to worry about anything anymore.

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

“Remember: No talking unless you’re asked a question. The Mistress has had a rough morning, and this is her best chance at relaxing,” Juniper explains, for what seems like the eighth time since the two of you met. There’s a nervous energy around her, which does little to ease your own anxieties. If you heard correctly, she’s only been at the castle for a couple weeks, having previously worked for Mother Miranda. You’re not sure what would have caused the transfer, considering most who were ‘fired’ ended up dead. Something told you that it had to do with antsy nature. “Oh, and don’t leave unless dismissed, even once your part is done. We all need to be ready, in case Mistress- I mean, Lady Dimitrescu needs something. Sorry, I’m still getting used to how things work here.”

“As long as you don’t slip up in front of her and get us both killed, I don’t really care,” you replied, giving Juniper a level stare. Clearly unsure how to respond, she pauses for a moment, mouth opening then closing without a sound. Once she’s seemingly composed herself, you give a short nod and push open the door to the bathroom. Two other servants are already inside, and they flinch at your arrival, briefly mistaking you for their boss. “I can hardly believe they made me change shifts for this,” you add, under your breath, rolling your eyes. What was so important about making sure a few candles stayed lit? During bathtime? Maybe it was something you had to be a giant, vampiric noblewoman to understand. Regardless of your annoyance, you quickly get to work, striking the first of a couple matches. It’s a rather dull task. To think you would have preferred heavy labor to this.

Before long, the last flame springs to life, and Juniper dims the lights, allowing the candles to become the focus. At least one is scented, though you cannot place the specific kind. Less than a minute after the last one is lit, the door once again swings open, revealing your most elusive employer. She’s… more than you anticipated. In every conceivable way, truthfully. Taller, more graceful (even as she has to duck through the entrance), and, as much as you hate to think so, far, far more beautiful. If not for the warm lighting of the room, you would have worried about someone seeing your blush. Certainly I am not the first to react this way, you think, as you bow alongside the others.

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Lady Dimitrescu says, with a sharp frown. Then she moves closer to the tub, which you imagine could fit half a dozen ‘normal’ people, and holds out her arms to her side. For a moment you’re confused, but you instinctively mimic the motions of the other maidens. Together the four of you reach for her robe, gently taking hold of it while she steps into the bath, before hanging it onto a nearby hook. A second later your entire world is turned upside down. You’re freezing in place, eyes wide, as the bare back of Lady Dimitrescu reveals itself to you. Yet this is not an instance of poorly veiled lust. No, it is equal parts horror and repulsion, for you find yourself staring at a distinctive soul marking.

One that matches your own.

Beside you, Juniper watches you with concern, silently urging you to stay silent. Neither of the other two servants seem to react, other than by taking a small step backwards. Unable to speak, let alone form coherent thoughts, all you can do is point a trembling finger towards the soul mark. It’s right in between Lady Dimitrescu’s shoulder blades. Once upon a time, you had marveled at the design, smiling every time you saw it in the mirror. Now, it might as well be the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. Based on her expression, Juniper seems to agree, although for different reasons. As your hand drops back to your side, you try to compose yourself enough to focus on the task before you. Instead, someone breaks the quiet, boldly, daring to think that they would be rewarded for it.

“My Lady,” a servant says, stepping forward, shooting you a waywards glance. Instantly she has your employer’s attention, though that comes with the metallic sssssslk of her claws extending. There’s an unspoken threat that demands respect. None comes, however, just the frenzied words of a panicked maiden. “I know who your soulmate is, my Lady. I thought that perhaps you’d-”

“A name. Give me… a name,” Lady Dimitrescu interjects, claws still out and impatiently tapping on the tile floor. Tense, you start to step forward, wanting desperately to silence the treacherous maiden. But her tongue is faster than your fist, and soon enough your name is echoing through the room. “Oh? The one right behind me, hmm? Dreadfully convenient, really. Step forward, dear, and let me see the proof. Assuming it exists.” All eyes other than hers are on you, now. With a deep breath, you begrudgingly step in front of Lady Dimitrescu, trying not to even briefly glance at her chest (or worse, lower). One of her hands shifts, a long claw tilting your chin up. “Well?”

“Forgive the placement,” you mutter, awkwardly grabbing your shirt collar, tugging it down to reveal your soul mark, planted neatly on the center of your chest. If Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze wanders, it does so too quickly to be noticed, though she does make a low humming noise at the sight. Feeling much like a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s, you scowl deeply. Soon enough, but not as soon as you’d like, the claw under your chin retracts, and you once more cover up your soul mark. You can’t bring yourself to look your soulmate in the eyes.

“Hmm. Not what I expected. Not at all,” she muses, more to herself than to you, softly. Behind her, Juniper is sending you a sympathetic expression. All you can do, as Lady Dimitrescu judges you, is glare at the origin of this revelation. What did she think to gain by speaking up? Hadn’t she heard the same rumors that you had? Didn’t she know that your employer already loved another, even if that affection was unrequited? There was, simply put, no chance that you were the preferable option. Not when there was no race against neither time nor death. At best, you could be a distraction. Something to keep her mind off of the person she’d rather be with. “Go clean up, get some sustenance if you must, then go to my quarters. We will discuss this further there- after I am done here.”

With that said, she waves you off, letting you relax for the first time in several minutes. After giving a short bow, you immediately move to leave. On your way, you intentionally bump shoulders with the maiden who spoke up, sending her a glare, then give Juniper a nod of acknowledgement. Nervous wreck or not, she was the only person you ‘knew’ on the night shift. Not that such a thing would even matter soon. To think that we’ve been soulmates this whole time, you think, living in the same castle for months, never seeing each other. I wish things could have stayed that way. At least you’d have some time to process your developing situation. Though you doubted you’d have enough time.

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

In an unusual change of pace, Alcina dismisses the rest of her servants, long before her bath is done. They exchange glances before scattering to the winds. A heavy sigh leaves her lips, and she sinks lower into the tub. Of course I have a soulmate, she thinks, bitterly. I knew this. Knew that it wasn’t her, and yet still, I find myself surprised. Disappointed, even. How had an already rough evening gotten even worse? More than that, what was she supposed to do about it? There was a part of her that wanted to kill her soulmate. She figured that, with them out of the way, the universe might finally understand who she was meant to be with. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for ‘widows’ to be given a new match, and those were generally other ‘widows’. Considering that Alcina knew for a fact that Mother Miranda’s soulmate had long since died, she did not think that her hopes were beyond possibility.

But there was another part of her, quieter, that dared to be more realistic. If the universe said that this human, this tiny thing, was her soulmate… would it not make sense to at least try? What harm could it do, when her current love had been unrequited for so long? Was this not the end to several decades of loneliness? Damn it, she thinks, gripping the edge of the bathtub until her knuckles turned white. There was no denying it, now that a single drop of rational thought had corrupted her mind. Fuck it all, I hardly have a choice. Or anything to lose, for that matter. With her decision made, she rises to her feet, emotionally ready to face the unknown.

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

“Ah, so you do follow directions, after all. I half expected to learn that you had attempted to flee, or perhaps had a gruesome run in with one of my daughters,” Lady Dimitrescu chimes, as she ducks into her room. Inside, standing at attention, you await. All of your earlier nervousness returns, though this time it is tinged with your natural rage. Of all the monsters in the world, this was the one you were expected to love. It mattered not how tall she was, or how sharp her nails could be, or how fierce her loyalty to Mother Miranda. To you, it mattered that you had no choice in being here, that only a handful of servants had come to the castle willingly. It mattered that a single mistake could mean a cruel death. So you did not greet your soulmate with a smile, or excitement, rather with a forced bow and blank expression. Better to be dead than to fake true love. “Come now, do at least pretend that you are excited, for my sake. I have been waiting a century for this, after all.”

“Perhaps the universe found it difficult to find someone who could love you,” you say, the words tumbling out of your mouth, instant regret boiling up inside of you. What you expect is a swift death. What you get? A deep sigh, a scowl, a look of frustration. Still fearing your possible demise, you are quick to keep speaking. “Or maybe the universe heard me talk once, and struggled to find someone to tolerate me. Countless possibilities, a galaxy full of mysteries… and here we are. Forgive me for being crass, my Lady. I would blame it on my schedule change, but something tells me you would see right through that lie, yes?” Not like that was much better, you think, wondering how the hell you were going to survive this.

“You’re quite the character, aren’t you?... Do try not to make me regret this, I’d rather not kill my soulmate. Now, sit down, it’s about time for a proper introduction,” Lady Dimitrescu commands. Then she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, gently patting the spot next to her. Joining her is just about the last thing you want to do right now… but you obey nonetheless. Still, you angle yourself away from her ever so slightly, hoping the subtle body language would help you distance yourself from her. There’s something in her expression that tells you she knows exactly what you’re trying to do. “I am Lady Dimitrescu, though you already know that. You may call me Alcina… for now. Behave, or that is one of many privileges I will not hesitate to take from you. Understood?”

It takes all of your willpower to avoid rolling your eyes, but you manage, instead giving a short nod. This’ll be interesting, for sure.

[maddieinwonder]

A Lesson In Romance #3: The Cast

Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.5k

Plot: Reader keeps getting caught in rom-com situations with Spencer Reid. This time, the team figures it out.

A/N: I'm guilty of writing too much Morgan and Garcia but I can't help it — they're so much fun! I think them plus Emily would have the most dramatic reactions to Spencer in a (potential) relationship, though I'm excited to write about the rest too.

(Also, the reference at the end is from Lord of the Rings, because I love Lord of the Rings.)

Masterlist | All chapters here!

-----------

If you've learned anything from rom-coms, it's that every romantic lead needed a supporting cast. Whether they were siblings, parents, or childhood best friends, the main character needed somebody who would drop everything to talk to them — preferably showing up at their doorstep with face masks, nail polish, and a bottle of wine.

In your life right now, you suppose those people would be your teammates from the BAU.

Of course, this hypothetical scenario didn't require your potential love interest to be from work, but let's say for the purposes of the discussion that they were. Then you hoped, at least, that they would have an IQ of 150 or higher and a propensity for wearing mismatched socks.

But you were getting ahead of yourself. You were simply imagining the hypothetical scenario where your life was a rom-com. Hypothetically, you would need a love interest, and hypothetically, you kind of already had one.

“Hey,” Spencer waved you over from across the coffee shop. It wasn’t difficult to spot him when the place was nearly vacant. Everything was slow and quiet this early in the morning, and you weren’t going to make an exception.

“Morning,” you greeted softly as you sat down, relaxing into the smell of freshly roasted coffee and baked goods.

“I already ordered yours.” He smiled, tucking his book away in his messenger bag. “They had bagels this morning. Yours is cream cheese, but mine is strawberry jelly.” He looked overly pleased with himself, and you couldn’t help but crack a sleepy smile.

You eyed the spread in front of you, before lifting your gaze to meet his. “So your theory that you can predict my taste in desserts seems to be getting better.”

"Yes!" He shout-whispered, silently raising his fists in victory. “I knew I was right.”

You giggled at his overexcitement over something as small as getting your dessert order right. Although, he did once spend ten whole minutes explaining to you why dessert for breakfast was an underrated concept, so you couldn't say this was beyond your expectations for Dr. Spencer Reid.

You propped your head up with your arms, a smile plastered over your face. “Have I ever told you that you’re a weirdo, doctor?” You teased.

“Why, yes. Yes you have.” He replied with a smile, gesturing at you to try the bagel. His own was almost-gone, so they must be good.

And it was. Your eyes fluttered shut as the heavenly combination of carbs and cream woke up your taste buds. It was made even better with a sip of the perfect cup of coffee.

"Perfect," you sighed happily, digging into your breakfast further as Spencer quietly caught you up on the latest news in classical art.

Two weeks ago, you wouldn't have guessed that you would talk to Spencer alone, much less spend your mornings together with him. But as it turned out, a lot could change in a few days.

After the initial awkwardness between you had passed, you found that the two of you shared a lot more interests than interdimensional doctors and space opera. You both loved coffee, obviously, but you also had a mutual love for desserts, classical literature, and history.

It didn't take long for these interests to seep into the weekend, resulting in a suspiciously date-like afternoon with Spencer at his favourite museum. But you tried not to think too much into it. After all, the day had ended with a "see you at work", and not a "would you like to come in?"

Still, your dance between friendship and something more continued to grow wilder as days passed, until it reached a point where it inhabited your every waking thought. The only time it didn't, ironically, was when you were spending time with the person in question and every stray thought seemed to fall away.

Your mornings with him brought a necessary reprieve to the dark realities of this job, and some days you almost had to drag yourself out of your seat, knowing that you were straying from the calm of his company straight into the lion's mouth. But duty always called.

Your sudden hesitance to be apart from the resident genius hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of your team either; ever since the two of you walked into office one morning with matching coffee cups and smiles on your faces.

At first you enjoyed Spencer's company too much to care, but you knew that it was going to bite you back one day. And today seemed to be that day.

You could tell, because the lift doors to the BAU opened to one very determined Penelope Garcia with her arms folded across her chest. "Spit it out, you two," she said sharply without any greeting.

You and Spencer looked at each other, confused, before looking back at Penelope. "Spit out what, Pen?" You asked, a frown starting to form between your eyes.

"You know what I mean!" She squeaked, dropping her stern facade for a brief moment. "Are the two of you dating? The entire team has been dying to know, and I mean, d-y-i-n-g because there's a huge pot of money with my name on it if you are."

"Ah— No— I mean, you think—" Spencer stammered, his face instantly turning beet red in embarrassment, while your face began to grow red for another reason entirely.

"I think what he means is 'no', and what I mean to say is— what do you mean the entire team?" You half-yelled the question, while Penelope raised her hands defensively.

"What I mean, sugar, is that the two of you went from avoiding each other completely, to coming into work together everyday — and I know you spent last weekend together too, because you couldn't stop talking about it the next day at work and everybody noticed." She stated, pushing up her glasses.

"Not to mention, Dr. Reid here started wearing brighter colours subconsciously." She continued with her observations. "I know this, because in the almost four years I've worked with this man, I've never seen him wear anything brighter than violet. Or white. Or beige. But those don't count." She shook her head, getting back to her point.

"You get what I mean— and you," she pointed her pen in your direction, causing you to jump slightly. "You finally stopped doubting yourself as a part of this team. I knew this when you started talking more often during briefings — which I have nothing against, B-T-W, I totally support any effort in self-care and personal growth — but you also stopped shifting in your seat which you used to do when you felt nervous."

Penelope took a deep breath, preparing for the climax. "So all I can assume, is either you've been attending one of the 52 self-help classes that happen every weekend in Virginia, or somebody has been helping you find some serious zen."

"And my money's on the latter because every time you think nobody's watching, you're making eyes at Reid. But you're wrong. Garcia is always watching." She concluded triumphantly, raising one finger to point at herself.

"You might make a good profiler yet, doll." Derek remarked, walking up to the group with a smirk firmly affixed to his face.

"Expert at all things romance, and Cupid of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, Penelope Garcia at your service." She smiled, graciously curtseying to your other teammate.

"I know you're smart like that, babygirl," he grinned, draping his arm around her shoulder, "but you also don't know pretty boy as well as I do, because they aren't in a relationship."

He turned to you questioningly. "Are you?"

"No." You replied, glancing hesitantly at Spencer for his response, but his face simply looked blank with shock.

"See? Now it's time to collect my payout." Derek grinned at the tech analyst, making the motion of raining dollar bills.

Penelope tailed behind him grumpily as he walked into the BAU office, surely to share the "good news" with everybody else.

You hesitated to follow, imagining what teasing and looks would follow regardless of the outcome. Then you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, Spencer gestured back at the empty lift with his head and you smiled, realising what he meant.

"That is the best hypothesis you've had all morning," you said. The two of you shared a laugh as you got back into the lift.

Even behind glass doors, you could hear a muffled "What?!" that you guessed came from Emily. "There's absolutely no way those two aren't together already. Have you seen them?"

There was a brief pause, then a loud groan.

"I know, that's what I told him!" Penelope's high-pitched voice was clear. "You know I'm going to be right about them eventually—"

The lift doors finally closed, blocking out the rest of their conversation. You looked up at Spencer, your gaze meeting his clear hazel eyes. He looked at his watch briefly before saying the next words.

"We've got time. Are you up for second breakfast?" He asked, referencing a movie from a conversation two weeks ago. He remembered. Of course he remembered.

You cleared your throat before replying the next line. "What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper?"

He laughed, and you felt a familiar peace return to you.

Whatever your teammates were yelling about, the two of you could deal with it later. Together.

-----------

Tag list:

@blue-space-porgs @nobutalsoyes @lady-loves-a-lot

[starshine583]

New Girl on the Block (10)

(New update coming in and things are getting heated!!! I wonder how our lovely little group’s gonna handle it??)

Ch.1 / Ch.9 / Ch. 11

Chapter 10: Adrenaline Rush

Possible Schools:

Rosemary High

Skyline Academy

Angelwood Institute

Liberty High

Summerfield Academy

Clearwater Institute

A sigh passed through Adrien’s lips as he crossed out the last name on his list, matching it with the other failed attempts. He just didn’t understand. Why was it so hard to find Marinette’s school? All he needed to do was search for high schools in the area and ask the students at each school whether she attended or not. It seemed simple enough at the time, but now another week and a half has gone by, and he’s no closer to finding her than he was two weeks ago when he asked for her school name as Chat Noir. 

Adrien set his pencil down and rubbed a hand over his face. He could have sworn she said ‘Rosemary’ last time they talked, but that blonde guy insisted that there weren’t any new students there. Maybe he just hadn’t met her yet? No, that didn’t make any sense. School had already started by then. Adrien assumed the guy would notice if he suddenly had a new classmate. 

Ugh. If only he could visit her again.. Between patrol with his lady, akuma attacks, homework, and photoshoots, going out as Chat Noir to see Marinette was nearly impossible. He really needed to have a talk with Nathalie about getting more free time.

“Alya, Marinette is killing me!” 

Adrien glanced up from his paper- That’s right, he’s supposed to be working on his own school right now -just in time to see Lila wiping fake tears from her eyes as she walked into the classroom. Although they still had a good five or ten minutes before class started, she was the only who wasn’t currently seated at her desk, and judging by her greeting, Adrien was going to assume that she entered last on purpose.

“What!” Alya gasped, standing up from her desk to meet Lila halfway. “What did she do now?”

Lila sniffed and accepted the comforting hug that Alya offered. “She’s been sending me awful messages all week! Telling me she hates me and insulting me and that I should’ve just stayed in Italy where I belonged.”

Adrien shifted in his seat to hear the conversation better, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. Another scheme to slander Marinette’s good name.. Why did Lila still feel the need to lie about her? The ravenette was gone, completely transferred to another school, too far to even breath about Lila’s fabrications. There was no reason to turn their classmates further against her. (if that was even possible at this point)

“She told you what?!” Alya blanched, pulling back to grab Lila’s shoulders. “I can’t believe her! wasn’t sabotaging the forms you needed to be class president enough? Why can’t she leave you alone!”

Adrien resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Now that lie had a reason to it. He knew first hand how thick those stacks of forms can be since he’s helped Marinette carry them a few times, and Lila was obviously too lazy or too unqualified (or both) to sift through all of that mess by herself. What Adrien didn’t understand about the lie, though, was why she had to drag Marinette into it. Again. Why not lie about feeling unwell? Or simply ask for time to adjust to the role that had practically been dumped onto her? Any of those excuses would not only have been easier to say, as they didn’t involve anyone but herself, but they probably would have been accepted just as wholly. So why? It was as though Marinette became a crutch for Lila, which he supposed made sense. Building onto a widely accepted lie would be much simpler than creating a million small lies, but it certainly came with a risk. For example, if Adrien were to, say, kick that crutch right out from under her, she would probably flounder around on the floor with no way to get back up again. 

This left Adrien with another important question: How was he going to do it? So far, his friends have been sticking to her like glue and taking in her words like they were given directly from the Bible. On top of that, Alya seems to have become Lila’s official guard dog. How was he supposed to work around that? Adrien couldn’t confront the brunette publicly, because Marinette was proof that that never ended well, and confronting Lila privately didn’t help either, because she would only blow him off again. No, he needed to focus on outing her to his classmates directly, but he also needed to be subtle about it. Which meant..

Which meant he’d have to beat her at her own game.

“That’s crazy!” Adrien piped up, plastering on a surprised and disgusted expression. “Can I see the texts?”

Lila and Alya turned to him, both equally shocked by his comment. He normally kept to himself during conversations about Marinette.

“Oh..” Lila blinked, gathering her thoughts. “I mean, of course! It’s just that.. they’re quite personal, you know.. She said some things that were close to home..”

“We completely understand.” Alya assured. 

“Completely,” Adrien agreed, “which is why I want to see how bad it is. Those texts can be considered harassment if you don’t feel safe.”

Alya frowned at him, but a spark arose in Lila’s eyes, one that was no doubt fueled by the thought of getting Marinette into trouble with the law. Adrien would never understand the hatred that Lila harbored for the ravenette, but he definitely knew how to use it to his advantage.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want her to get in trouble!” The brunette said with feigned concern. “But.. if you think it will help..”

She made a show of tentatively pulling out her phone and handing it to Adrien. He wasted no time snatching it from her hands and pulling up the texting app. If she was giving him the phone, she most likely had a series of fake texts to back up her story. (and they would be fake. Marinette was too nice to outwardly insult or bully others. Besides, she wouldn’t have the time even if she wanted to, what with her new school, homework, and fashion designs that she needed to tend to.)

Sure enough, he found messages upon messages of insults under the contact name “Marinette”. Things like “You’re only a model because of Gabriel’s pity and charity programs”, “You made our school’s reputation so pathetic that I had to leave”, and “They’ll find out soon that you’re too stupid to be a decent class rep.” were only the tip of the iceberg. Adrien noted the fact that there weren’t any comments about Lila’s looks specifically- she probably couldn’t think of any insults like that herself, since she was obviously so fashionable -but other than, the texts appeared to be authentic.

That is, except for the phone number.

Adrien slid further into his desk and pulled out his own phone to unlock it. A swift comparison between the two contacts proved not only that they had different phone numbers for Marinette, but that the phone number used for the harassing texts was actually the phone number that Adrien had for Lila. She must have texted herself, then deleted the doubles to make it look like a regular conversation between two people. Adrien had to hand it to her, it was a clever set-up. 

But not clever enough.

“Wow, this is awful.” Adrien declared, ensuring that both girls along with a few of their other classmates could hear him. “I’m going to text Marinette about this right now. Do you mind if I copy the number from your phone to text her, though? Some of my contacts got deleted a while back.”

Lila’s eyes widened, and panic briefly flickered across her features. 

“O-Oh, um- you really don’t have to do that-” She tried to say as she reached for her phone. 

Adrien pulled it back up with a smile. “Oh, but I want to! We can’t let Marinette get away with things like this.”

“Yeah, he’s right!” Alya eagerly agreed. “Let him talk to her. That should really pack a punch for Marinette.”

Although the comment was a bit odd, Adrien nodded along, because as long as Alya was on his side, this plan should work perfectly. 

“I’m typing in the number to call right now.” He announced, quickly punching in each digit. His only regret in that moment was that he couldn’t see Lila’s expression as he got closer to ‘accidentally’ outing her. However, the sheer panic in her voice was still enough to make his smile widen to a grin.

“No, you can’t!” She nearly shrieked, lunging over Adrien for her phone. If the class’ eyes weren’t on them before, they definitely were now. 

“Don’t worry, Lila.” Adrien said innocently as he pressed ‘call’ on the number. “I won’t tell her that you gave me her number.”

As expected, Lila’s phone immediately began to ring. He watched as the blood drained from her features, and she scrambled to turn off the device before it could finish the first ring. It was a decent move, in his opinion, but that didn’t stop the class from staring at her with a mix of surprise, suspicion, and curiosity.

“What was that?” Alya asked, leaning forward to help Lila get off of Adrien, “Was your phone ringing?”

“No, no! It was- uhm -” Lila let out a nervous, little laugh.  It’d been so long since she had to fight for her lies to stick that she must have forgotten how to lie on the spot. What a shame.

“That was just a small sound my phone makes when it turns off.” She blurted out. “I must have forgotten to charge it last night.”

Adrien pressed “end” on his call- because obviously he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Lila’s phone off -and glanced around the classroom to gauge their reactions. Those closest to the conversation were warily watching the scene unfold with furrowed eyebrows, doubt clear on their expressions. The farther ones, however, nodded along with what Lila was saying. They probably hadn’t heard most of the conversation beforehand and therefore had no reason to question her. 

“Oh,” Alya said, accepting the bullcrap answer as always, “that’s not good. Do you want to use my charger in case you need your phone later?”

Lila offered a sweet smile, stray bits of her confidence floating back to her due to Alya’s reassurance. “Ah, I’m fine. I wouldn’t want to trouble you or anythi-”

A soft rumbling shook the ground, causing the Italian girl to trail off. Adrien turned to the window, his breath catching in his throat as his thumb instinctively brushed over his ring. Was now really the best time?

In the distance, a cloud of dust was rising into the air. He’d seen enough- and done enough -to know that only the mass destruction of buildings could create such a cloud, and the mayor hadn’t informed them of any pre-planned constructions.

“Yes!” Alya cheered, leaping down the classroom steps. Leave it to her to be the only one excited about another akuma attack. “Finally!  It feels like we haven’t had an akuma in weeks!”

“Alya, wait!” Nino called after her. He always hated her little escapades. 

“Don’t worry,” Adrien said as he stood up, “I’ll take care of her.”

Right after I take care of the akuma.

~~~~~~~~

The little hands of Felix’s black wrist watch ticked away well past 12:30, reminding him of his frustrating failure to set a timer for their lunch period. How could he have forgotten? The notion had to be ingrained into his muscle memory by now. Get up, go to school, burn through the first few classes, set a timer to not waste time, and go to lunch. How did it slip his mind?

“I can’t believe I didn’t ask this sooner,” Allegra remarked as they exited the café, “but what happened to your guys’ faces? I’m pretty sure they weren’t that red before.”

Felix glanced towards Claude and Marinette, the excuse to his forgetfulness finally returning. He’d been in the middle of setting the alarm when he saw their tomato-colored faces in front of the Chemistry lab. The sight must have been enough to throw away all thoughts of setting his alarm as he asked what happened. Nevertheless, Felix still had time to copy down some notes before his next class, and that would suit him just fine for today.

“Oh, man, how have I not told you yet?” Claude snorted. “It was hilarious!”

Marinette let out a light, yet playful scoff next to him. “Define ‘hilarious’.”

The group shared a small chuckle, and Claude jumped into the story of how they- well, how he spilled their chemicals in class. It surely couldn’t have been as interesting as the brunette let on, but Claude always loved to be dramatic. He made voices for Marinette’s comments- which she jokingly took offence towards due to the unrealistically high pitch -and flailed his arms about while explaining how he poured the chemicals into a bag and mixed them. Claude even made a point to throw out his arms while mimicking the sound of an explosion when he got to the part of the story where the chemicals overflowed.

One of those arms happened to smack Felix in the shoulder, which easily brought a glare out of the blonde. If Claude was this energetic now, there was no telling how bad he was going to be during Allegra’s sleepover. In fact, the whole group was probably going to go overboard. Something about sleepovers tended to bring out the most outgoing side of a person, which was why Felix loathed them. He had to sit there and listen to everyone snort and laugh and be loud the entire evening without the comfort that he might be able to leave within an hour or two. It was torture, simply put.

And yet, he decided to go. All for the ludicrous thought that he might be able to ask Marinette more questions about her relations to Agreste and her old school once- or if -the night provided them a moment of privacy. The motivation itself was outright foolish if he were honest with himself. Even if he did acquire a “decent moment” to bring up the subject, she would most likely be uncomfortable talking about it, and dragging a person through the past that they’re deliberately trying to run from isn’t pleasant for anyone involved. That’s why he’s refrained from asking about it again so far.

Felix needed to find some other way to sedate his curiosity towards her. He did.. But how else was he going to find out why an aspiring fashion designer would run from the supposed affections of a top designer’s son? Felix guessed that it might be something like sexual harassment or another, equally disgusting treachery, but then what about the chest of gifts? Where her affections for the model had been clear? What type of fallout must one have with another person to risk their entire dream career just to escape them?

Felix shook his head slightly to push the thoughts out of his mind. He wasn’t going to barrage Marinette with question after question just to stop his mind from constantly turning when it probably wouldn’t stop anyway. Marinette was Marinette. A classmate of his that was kind, clumsy yet capable, overly-generous, determined, weirdly strong for someone of her stature, and a mystery in more ways than one when it came to the life she lived. That was going to have to be enough for him.

“You should have seen it, Allegra.” Claude said with a grin, pulling Felix back to the present. He’d somewhat forgotten that the brunette was even talking.

“It was like the whole bag of Phenol Red just went-”

A large crash erupted to the left of them, followed by a strong gust of wind that pushed them all off of their feet. Felix hit the pavement with a grunt, and Marinette landed on top of him a second later, sucking the rest of the air from his lungs. Screams pierced the air, disorienting him further- why were they screaming? What made the crash? How did it create enough wind to knock them over? -but Marinette sat up immediately. She turned to the source of the crash, tense and ready, as though she already knew what they were dealing with, and Felix couldn’t be more confused. Why did she look like she was about to fight something? (And why did he feel like she would win?)

“Do not be afraid!” A voice yelled over the crowds, drawing Felix’s gaze to a woman standing a few yards away from them. She was dressed in dark and light blues, save for her white elbow-length cloak and her white skirt that appeared to be split into several different pieces of cloth. “I’ve come to help! Not just you, but the world!”

Felix’s eyes widened, an entirely new form of terror taking hold of his body. This wasn’t.. This couldn’t be an akuma, right? She looked different than the ones he’d seen on the news, more human. If it weren’t for her white and dark blue mask and the large fan in her hands that seemed to be controlling the wind, he would have thought that she was a normal civilian merely passing by. 

“Our planets have been spoiled by the bigger companies for too long!” The woman continued, even though people ran as she spoke. “It’s time we take matters into our own hands!”

His mind screamed at him to run, to hide, to move, but he couldn’t. His entire being was cemented to the spot in fear of what might happen next. What if this akuma was dangerous? What if her powers possessed people like that Pharaoh themed villain? Or completely killed them like Stoneheart or TimeTagger? Were they going to be her first victims? What if it-

A harsh tug interrupted his reeling thoughts, and suddenly, Felix was back on his feet and running. Running behind Marinette who was pulling them to safety. 

“Hurry up, we don’t have much time!” She quietly called over her shoulder. “Let’s hide behind the wooden fence while she’s distracted.”

Felix had enough sense to look ahead of them, where a small, wooden fence that held the cafe’s menu was placed. It wasn’t hard to notice under normal circumstances, but how did Marinette think of hiding there while the akuma was right behind them? How was she not paralyzed by the very idea of being caught?

“I’m going to destroy some stores around here, but only to get the heroes’ attention!” The akuma explained as the group scrambled passed the fence and pressed their backs against the wood. “Once I have the miraculous, I will restore everything to its rightful place, I promise!”

Felix tried to slow his rapid, shallow breaths as he sank further against the fence. She was going to destroy buildings? How many? Were they going to get hit with the debris? Where were the heroes that he’d heard so much about? Shouldn’t they be doing something about all of this?

“What do we do?” Claude whispered, panic clear in his tone as well. None of them had ever seen an akuma attack before. Well, none of them except Allan, but he’d been watching through a store window a safe distance away.

“Should we call the police?” Allegra nearly squeaked, tentatively reaching for her bag to pull out her phone. “They help with stuff like this too, right?”

“No need.” Marinette said. She was on the left side of Felix now, staying close to the edge of the fence and carefully peeking around it. “The police have akuma alerts on their phones to tell them when attacks happen. They're already on their way, I’m sure.”

Felix stared down at her with furrowed eyebrows, completely baffled by the lack of panic in her demeanor. This was the same girl who stumbled and stuttered to ask him for a pencil during class! Yet here she was, taking charge and giving orders and speaking perfectly. It was like she was a completely different person! How was that even possible? 

“Alright,” The ravenette spoke, turning back to them with a deathly serious gaze, “I’m going to run out and get her attention. While I’m doing that, you guys need to run as far away from here as you can and find a good basement to hide in until this is over.”

“What?” The group practically gasped in unison. She wanted to face the akuma alone?!

“Marinette, you’re not going anywhere!” Allegra insisted. “It’s not safe out there!”

“It’s less safe if we stay here.” She replied, moving to step out into the open.

Felix grabbed her wrist to yank her back. What was happening right now? 

“Are you insane?” He hissed unintentionally. “You can’t go out there! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Yeah, she’s not after us.” Allan agreed. “Only the buildings. Let’s just all run out of here together.”

Marinette glanced back at the group. “But there are still people in those buildings. I need to lure her to an empty street or at least stall until the heroes get here. If I don’t, people are definitely going to get hurt or worse.”

Felix’s grip on Marinette’s wrist tightened. He hadn’t thought about the crowds of people who were running inside for cover, but even so, what would she be able to do alone? The akuma was a powerful being, and they were merely civilians in the crossfire. What’s stopping it from crushing Marinette beneath its boot at the slightest whim? Who’s to say the akuma would even listen to Marinette if she did get its attention?

“We’re not letting you sacrifice yourself for an extra second of time.” He told her. “Like you said, the police are on their way, which means the heroes will be here soon too. Let them handle it.”

A strange mix of urgency and frustration flickered across her features, and she tugged against his grip. “Felix, please, we don’t have time to argue-”

“I think I’ll start with this darling café.” The akuma crooned. “That should get some attention.”

The café walls crumbling apart was Felix’s only warning before the gust of wind made it to their little hide-out. It splintered the wood within seconds, and the group went flying, once again, into the pavement. 

Felix groaned as he pushed himself to his knees. How many times were they going to get thrown around? At least Marinette didn’t land on him this time.

Marinette.

The realization that Marinette was no longer with him washed over Felix like a bucket of ice cold water, and his gaze snapped upwards. He started to yell for her, but it was too late. Marinette was already on her feet, somehow recovering faster than all of them, and running towards the akuma head on. He could only watch in abject horror as she called out to it.

“Hey, airhead!” She yelled. “Do you really think this is the smartest plan?”

The akuma rounded on Marinette in an instant, and Felix sucked in a breath. No, no, no, no, what was she doing?

“My name is ‘Whirlwind’, thank you very much,” The woman snapped, “and I think it’s a brilliant plan. Do you think you can do something better?”

“Of course.” Marinette replied, crossing her arms. “If you’re already destroying buildings, why not go and destroy the big companies that you’re after in the first place? It’d be much more productive, don’t you think?”

Felix furrowed his eyebrows. Didn’t she say that she wanted to avoid public places?

Whirlwind hummed. “Well, yes, but with all of the major hotels and tourist spots, it’s hard to tell which buildings to destroy, and I don’t have time to look.”

“I’ll show you where they are.” Marinette offered. “Think about it, destroying a big, company building is sure to attract more attention than taking down a little café, right?”

Whirlwind narrowed her eyes as she thought it over, and a part of Felix desperately hoped that she would decline Marinette’s suggestion. A bigger part of him prayed that the police or the heroes or somebody showed up to stop this before Marinette went too far.

“Alright.” Whirlwind smiled. “I’ll take you up on that. It’s nice to see someone else interested in saving the environment.”

With a flick of her fan, Whirlwind gathered a gust of wind around Marinette, causing the ravenette to rise into the air. She then gave herself a gust of wind, which caused her white skirt to start spinning around her. If Felix wasn’t going pale with dread over what might happen to his classmate, he would have found the unique fashion choice to be humorous, as it almost reminded him of a box fan. 

Allegra let out a horrified shriek, one that rattled Felix to his bones. This was really happening. Marinette was really being carried off by some maniac in a costume. What were they going to do? What could they do? Gosh, where were the heroes?

Felix grit his teeth and forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t just stand there and watch her be kidnapped or he’d never be able to look her in the eyes afterwards.

That’s right, he told himself. The heroes were going to win, and she was going to be just fine. 

Those thoughts didn’t stop him from sprinting after the akuma, though, even as the trio called after him to stop, even as the akuma rose higher into the air, out of his reach. Marinette couldn’t do this by herself, and although Felix’s presence probably wouldn’t make much of a difference either, he’d be darned if he didn’t try to help. 

“Don’t worry,” He huffed, comforting himself more than her as he darted through alleyways to keep up with them, “I’m right behind you.”

Tag list:  @artbyknigit @athena452 @nickristus-dreamer @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @arsaem @abrx2002 @neakco @pawsitivelymiraculous @too0bsessedformyowngood @nathleigh @lusicing @officiallydarkgeek @all-mights-asscheeks @tbehartoo @woe-is-me0 @raeuberprinzessin @lazuli-11 @miss-chaos27 @trippingovermyfeet @sadpotatoondrugs @ladybug-182 @jaggedheart11 @marinahrasauce @i-need-blog-ideas @thewheezingbubbledragon @crazylittlemunchkin @unabashedbookworm @moonystars14 @sunflowers-and-mooncakes @2confused-2doanything  @magnificentcrapposts  @moonnette @nickristus-dreamer @vixen-uchiha @casual-darkness @luxmorningstarr @jjmjjktth​ @kaithehero @itsme1598 @theymakeupfairies @xjaccyx

[mandoalorian]

Pain Is For The Living [Javier Peña x F!Reader] - Chapter 2 (SMUT)

Summary: Sex work in the heat of 1980’s Colombia was never going to be a walk in the park. Especially not when you had a crush on your number one client, agent Javier Peña. You’d been warned about him and his reputation, but after one very specific incident that would change your life forever, you find yourself attached to him like never before and you’d do anything to make him yours. Even if it means endangering your own life.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT (protected p in v), allusions to sex, reader works in a brothel, PTSD, anxiety, panic attack, mention of drugs, guns, character death, typical Narcos themes.

Word count: 4000>

Pain Is For The Living Masterlist

*reblogs appreciated! Ko-Fi in bio if you want to support me!

The office was dead, like it had been for the last three weeks. No new leads. Nothing. The days dragged and honestly, it felt like the case was growing colder and colder. Escobar had gone completely off the grid, hiding out in La Catedral, his very own self-built prison in the depths of Medellín. But the DEA didn’t know that yet. So, they made an attempt to shift focus, at least just for now. After all, any narco they captured would be a win. They’d been tracing Juan Diego Diaz, otherwise known as La Quica, believing that the sicario would eventually lead them to Escobar himself. But La Quica was just as cunning as any other narco and following him was not an easy challenge. If it wasn’t for Steve Murphy, the DEA would’ve most likely shifted focus again - but Murphy and La Qucia went way back. In 1981, just a few years ago, La Quica shot dead Kevin Brady, Steve’s old partner back from Miami, and so to say that Steve had a personal feud against La Quica was an understatement.

Javier Peña didn’t realise he was about to gain a whole vendetta against him too.

Within a second, every phone in the damn embassy began to ring. Javier and his partner, Steve Murphy exchanged a glance, and their eyes trailed up to Horacio Carrillo who answered the call. “Colonel Carrillo,” he introduced himself. Javier and Steve watched as their colleague took in the information on the other end of the line. Carillo erratically gestured for a notepad and pen, and Steve quickly threw him one his way. “Wait, wait… are you sure? Are you sure you saw him? How many eyes? With another man? Who? Who?” Carillo pressed pencil to paper and began to scribble the details down. “How many dead?... Shit, okay. We’re on our way now.”

Carrillo slammed the phone down on the hook and took a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face in dismay. “We got eyes on La Quica,” he announced, and Steve immediately grabbed the handgun from his desk drawer and shoved it into his jeans. The whole office cheered, apart from Javier and Steve. This was good news considering the DEA had no lead whatsoever for the past three weeks, but if Carrillo’s demeanor over the phone was anything to go by, Javier and Steve knew they shouldn’t be celebrating just yet. “No. No,” Carrillo chanted, raising his voice in order to silence the rest of the department. “Three hookers. Dead. Shot.”

Javier froze up completely as he processed the words.

“By La Quica?” Steve beckoned, his voice dripping with venom.

“We don’t know. But we have eyes on him. He was seen.”

“Where?” Javier asked finally, his face expression stone cold.

Carrillo eyed Javier up and down, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. He knew it was the brothel that Javier frequented...and Javier Peña was quite unpredictable. So, after taking a brief moment to prepare for Javier’s reaction, Carrillo finally gave the name of the location. “Desiderio.”

Desiderio. It was the brothel where you worked. His eyes flicked over to the wallclock before his gaze met back with Carrillo’s dark eyes. He had literally been there, with you, two hours ago. If he had just gone two hours later… he could’ve put a stop to the attack. Hell, he could’ve been the one to find an arrest La Quica. But Javier’s hero complex was short lived when all he could think about was you.

“Do we have names?” Javier asked. “Who was killed?”

What if it had been you? What would Javier do then? You were younger than the other girls, polite and bright eyed. You were brand new to Colombia, and Javier swore you were too good for the dangerous life you had managed to get yourself caught up in. Being a sex worker in 1980’s Bogotá? It was only a matter of time something happened to you. 

“No names,” Carrillo confirmed. “Peña, with all due respect, I ask that you go in and investigate the scene. You know the girls better than anyone else in the department. Maybe you could identify some of the bodies.”

It was like time was frozen, and Javier felt sick to his core. Javier was used to death and bloodshed; this was a war on drugs - however, it hit different when it was close to home. When it was a place he had been, or it was people who he knew.

Javier Peña was a complicated man. He didn’t talk about himself or his feelings. Truth be told, he didn’t even let himself feel. But right now, as anger swirled in his stomach, he decided he wasn’t going to waste anytime at all. He paced back over his desk and grabbed his handgun before bolting to the car that was already waiting outside for him. All eyes followed Javier’s movements but no one dared to make a comment. Apart from Bill Stechner, of course.

“Not everyday you see the department of drug enforcement’s noted womanizer get worked up over a whorehouse shooting,” Bill commented, a smug grin playing on his lips. “Didn’t think agent Peña had it in him.”

“Shut the fuck up Bill.” Steve rolled his eyes, not even bothering to humour the CIA agent’s out-of-pocket remark. Everyone in the district knew about Javier Peña’s reputation with the ladies. But of course, you were new.

“The Search Bloc and I will go after La Quica. Steve, you stay on the down low with agent Peña and investigate the crime scene. We’ll have guards protecting you from outside the brothel.”

“I want to go after La Quica.” Steve argued but Carrillo pointed a finger.

“No. You stay with Javi. Partners,” Carrillo reminded the blonde haired man. “Besides, you’re the DEA’s best photographer.” Carrillo smirked, thrusting a Polaroid camera into Steve’s chest. Steve let out a low grumble in response, before shaking his head and following Javier out of the office. Partners. And right now, Steve saw the primal glint in Javier’s eye. Agent Peña was seeing red.

As both Javier and Steve were being transported to Desiderio, Javier made an attempt to dial a number on the carphone multiple times. Your number. Of course it was a dead line. And that only worked up Javier more. The never ending ringing sound signified that you weren’t there, and Javier’s heart was pounding against his chest. It was the same kind of adrenaline as when he found Helena tortured by Gacha’s men in Medellín. Steve knew better than to ask his friend who he was so desperately trying to call, but it was the last of his instincts to assume it was one of the sex workers from the brothel. Because renowned womanizer Javier Peña didn’t form attachments, especially not to women, right?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

At some point or another, you had passed out. Maybe you’d cried yourself to the point of exhaustion. Maybe the reality of what you had seen had hit you like a ton of bricks and you had fainted. How could you possibly know? But when Javier and Steve stormed the lobby of your workplace, you were laying on top of Rosa’s body, as still as could be. And that’s when Javier’s heart sank.

You weren’t moving, and his mind shot to the worst possible outcome. He raced over to you and fell on his knees, dragging your body off Rosa and cradling you in his arms. You were absolutely saturated in your best friends blood, and by holding you, now Javier was too. He briefly glanced down at Rosa and placed a hand on her forehead, trying to feel for any sign of warmth -  any sign of life. Javi sighed and ran his hand through his dark locks of hair before bringing it back down to you. He cooed your name a few times, desperate to earn some sort of reaction. Thankfully, on the third calling, you stirred a little, indicating that you were in fact alive.

Your perfect eyes fluttered open and in that moment, Javi swore his heart stopped. Thank God you were breathing. “You’re safe now,” Javier whispered. “I’ve got you.”

“Javi?” you asked in disbelief. Surely not. The way he was holding you was the most affectionate he’d ever been with you, and it felt like a dream. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe you were dead and this was your journey to the afterlife. God was finally giving you a chance with the one you loved so much. You said his name again, raising a shaky hand to cup his cheek. You brushed your thumb over his jaw and along his mustache, and when you smelt his familiar musky cologne, you knew you were somehow going to be okay.

Javier picked you up and carried you back to the car. “We have a survivor!”

Steve replied but to you it was just a haze. You could hardly keep your eyes open and when you did, everything was a blur. Your clothes were stuck to your skin, due to the mixture of blood, sweat and tears. You knew the second you were outside because the orange setting son burned against your skin. You stirred and mumbled, but Javier smoothed out your hair and hushed you. He opened the back seat of the DEA car and lay you down.

“Hey, hey listen, I’m DEA,” Javier whispered. “I don’t talk about it, but I’m here to help you. I need to head back inside now and help my partner out, but I won’t be long. I promise.” As Javier turned to leave, you grabbed his hand and he looked back at you.

“Please don’t go.” you sniffed, tears free falling down your cheeks.

And normally, Javier would’ve shrugged it off. He had a job to do, and he couldn’t just stick around you because you felt unsafe. They had counsellor’s back at the embassy for that. All he had to do was use the carphone and call them out. It wouldn’t take him two minutes. The only problem was, Javier didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want anyone else to hold you and comfort you. He wanted it to be him.

So, he swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and slid into the back seat next to you. He maneuvered your body so your head was resting against his jean clad lap, and he continued to smooth out your hair. Despite your red puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks, you were still so beautiful.

“Hermosa, what happened back there?” he asked quietly after a moment. Between you and Javier, there was never an uncomfortable silence. It was his job to find out, but asking you straight up when you were so clearly traumatized, felt insensitive. Nevertheless, what else was there to say? He had to do it sooner rather than later.

“I’m sorry.” Javier mused, closing his dark brown eyes as he mourned.

“They killed Rosa,” you whispered shakily, doing your absolute best to remain composed and not fall back into an abundance of tears. Javier looked out the car window and held back a sigh. Well, he knew they killed Rosa already. “And Juliet and Martzia.”

Javier didn’t know who Juliet and Martzia were, but his heart sank at the revelation. Three deaths that could’ve been stopped.

“La Quica,” you croaked, and Javier’s head snapped to face you. “Was his name. But there were two, I think.”

La Quica… that was the name Carrillo had come up with. It was who the DEA had spent so much time looking for. But two? That was the first he’d heard of it. Carrillo and the cop department only had eyes on La Quica.

“Do you know the name of the other man? Or what he looked like?”

You did. At one point, his name rang like bells in your ears. He was friends with Rosa, or so you had thought. You knew his name… you knew his face until suddenly you didn’t. You couldn’t make sense of it or understand it, but it was like everything that happened back there had just become a fuzzy blur. It still hurt so much but… you couldn’t match actions to faces, or names to bodies. All you could see was Rosa and her sacrifice. All you could see was the way her body fell to the ground, crumpled up in a pool of her own blood. And then the screams and cries.

“Are you okay?” Javier asked due to the delay in communication. Your mouth felt dry and your fingers felt numb. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, I can take you home, but the embassy is gonna want to interview you at some point in the near future. La Quica is dangerous, and I don’t know who this other guy is but I wouldn’t feel good about bringing you back to your apartment and leaving you there. I can send over additional security measures but, listen. I know you. And,” Javier took a deep breath not sure if he was about to regret the proposal. “If you’d prefer, you can come back to my place. Stay there for a few days. High security and you’ll be with me. Someone you know. I know that, if I was you, I wouldn’t wanna be alone right now.”

And for the very first time, your pretty plush lips curled into a smile. “You’d really do that for me?” You whimpered, nuzzling your face into his shirt.

“Of course.” Javier hummed, pressing a soft kiss into your forehead.

Was it unprofessional, inviting you over to live with him for the foreseeable future, the moment you had become an essential asset to the case? Yes. Fuck yes. But Javier Peña was not someone who played by the rules. He’d done this plenty of times before, when he shouldn’t have… but it was truly the right thing to do. Besides, you weren’t like any other informants. He knew you. He cared about you, more so than he’d like to admit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You were very sleepy, and you couldn’t bring yourself to talk all that much. Javier understood better than anyone. He helped you out the car, carried you through the embassy apartment complex, unlocked his door (albeit with great difficulty), threw his keys haphazardly on the kitchen counter and gently plopped you down on the brown leather couch. Pulled out a crocheted blanket, he wrapped it over you, ensuring your warmth. He padded into the kitchen and filled you a glass of tepid water before looking in the refrigerator. Empty. Javier didn’t cook. In fact, he rarely even ate. When he did eat, it was take-out or fast food. Something quick and easy that he didn’t have to bother with. But now he had company. He sighed, and closed the fridge, glancing back at your sleeping body. He figured he’d have to go grocery shopping.

He picked up the phone and dialled Steve’s number, but his wife, Connie was the one who picked up. “Hey Con, Steve there?”

“Yeah. But he’s pissed with you Javi.” Connie sighed on the other end of the line. Javier scowled. He understood. It seemed like he pissed off people quite easily.

“Could you put him on?”

Connie didn’t reply but judging from the scuffling, Javier assumed she was handing the phone to her husband.

“Javi,” (“Steve,”)

“What’s up?” (“I need to ask you a favour,”)

“After today’s stunt? Not a chance.” (“Y/N was a mess, Steve. One of her best friends died in the shoot-out. I wasn’t just going to leave her,”)

“Javier Peña. Ever the hero. What do you need?” (Groceries. She’s gonna be staying with me for a few days. I can use the time I spend with her to gain her trust. Try and work out what exactly went on,”)

“Javi, she’s vulnerable. She’ll need therapy. You really want to use her as an informant?” (We’ll get her therapy from the embassy. Steve, I don’t think we have any other choice.”)

“I just think it’s a bad idea, but, it’s your call Peña.” (“I’m going to head to the market before it closes. Can you or Connie come over to watch her? She’s asleep so she won’t be much trouble.”)

“We have Olivia.” (“So bring her. Or don’t. I don’t care. Steve, please.”)

Javier waited patiently through a silence followed by a long sigh. “Okay Jav, but you owe us. We’ll be over in five minutes.”

“Thanks Steve, I’ll see you soon.”

Javier put the phone down on the hook quietly and padded back over to the sofa where you slept, crouching down and taking your hand. You didn’t deserve this. You were so soft and full of life, and everytime Javier saw you at the brothel you were always beaming. You were too good for this life. He knew you’d get hurt, one of these days, but that didn’t mean it was right. And suddenly, Javier was filled with vengeance. He couldn’t bear to think how the shoot-out would come to affect you, but he knew, in that moment, he would seek justice. Too many deaths, too close to home. Javier whispered your name, his breath fanning over your ear. You were somewhere in between consciousness. You could feel his presence but everything felt so dream-like. “If you can hear me, I’m going to head to the store. Buy us some food, okay? I won’t be long, and I have friends who will be watching over you. You’ll be safe, I promise.” Javier said before pressing another kiss to your forehead. He just couldn’t resist it. You stirred upon feeling the bristle of his mustache graze your skin and he drew his face away, not wanting to wake you completely.

“Hi Liv,” Javi cooed, leaning down to Steve and Connie’s little girl and pulling a face.

“So that’s her?” Connie asked, putting Olivia down.

“Yeah,” Javier sighed, and began to introduce you.

“Why do I get the feeling that you know her?” Steve quirked an eyebrow and Javier felt his cheeks flush with heat. “Are you one of her regulars?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I suppose I am,” Javier retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Con, if I’m gonna cook her dinner, what would you recommend?”

Connie stifled a laugh before turning to Steve. “Steve, you hungry? Javier’s offering to cook.”

“Hey that’s not what I meant--”

“He does owe us…” Steve smirked. “Paella sounds good.”

Fucking paella. 

“I could just bring her Taco Bell,” Javier considered out loud.

“I like paella.” Steve reiterated.

“Me too,” Connie agreed. “Paella is delicious.”

“Everyone likes paella.” Steve commented.

“Oh my god would you shut the fuck up about paella?” Javier groaned, causing Connie and Steve to laugh in unison. 

“Make her paella and bring us the leftovers,” Steve grinned, patting his friend on the shoulder. “And be quick about it.”

“Whatever, Murph.” Javier sighed, rolling his eyes before grabbing his wallet and car keys.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Seeing Nina working as the supermarket cashier was the last thing Javier expected.

“Javi?” she smiled that familiar gorgeous smile, her eyes sparkling as she scanned through the items of food. “It’s so good to see you. Been a while.” she commented, her gaze not leaving the agent’s once. 

And for the first time in a long while, Javier smiled. The stress of the stake-out and investigating the brothel, and taking you home had been a lot on him, but seeing his ex-girlfriend helped bring him back down to earth. If Nina could even be called ‘ex-girlfriend’. It wasn’t ever official, but he and Nina had been fucking on and off for around 6 months last summer and Javier was actually committed to Nina during that time. She came into his life unexpectedly, to say the least.

“How long have you worked here?” Javier charmed as he bagged the groceries.

“Two months, it’s been good to get out of the house,” Nina grinned. “You're still working for the DEA I assume?”

“Yeah.” Javier hummed, quickly reminding himself of you and the way you were sleeping on his sofa. He looked back up from the bag of rice and at Nina. Come to think of it, she resembled you quite a bit. Same hair colour, eye colour, skin tone… only she wasn’t as distinct. She didn’t have that flare about her, like you did. Maybe Javier had a type after all. 

“I get off work now,” Nina announced, flicking her wrist upright and checking the time on her watch. “Are you busy or? I was thinking… it would be nice to catch up, maybe, if you wanted.” Nina ducked her head down awkwardly.

Javier didn’t forget about you once. He didn’t forget about the fact he had a traumatized sex worker sleeping on his couch, or how he’d invited his partner and his partner’s family over to watch over you while he got ‘groceries’. But catching up with Nina would be nice. The right thing to do would be to reject Nina, and perhaps make plans to see her when Javier wasn’t so swamped with work commitments (if he could even call you that). But this was Javier Peña. He supposed Steve and Connie could wait just a little while longer, besides, they’d never find out. Javier was a good liar. He could make up some excuse about having to travel to a different grocery store or something. So, he agreed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Nina’s apartment had barely changed since she and Javier had ended things. Still quaint, decorated with plants in every corner and full bookshelves. It was a clash of tongues and teeth as Nina navigated inside of her home, not pulling away from Javier once. She moaned against his lips and he grabbed onto her back, pinning her against the wall and knocking a few things off the coffee table.

“Missed this,” Javier confessed, nudging his nose against Nina. In the moment, he’d forgotten why he’d ended things in the first place. Nina wrapped her hands in Javi’s dark hair and tugged on the locks at the nape of his neck. Javier groaned wantonly and reattached his lips to hers as she let her hands maneuver down his body, unbuttoning his shirt and working at the zipper of his jeans. “Fuck Ni.”

She pulled off him and began to discard her clothes. “Bedroom Javi, I have condoms.” she hummed, taking Javier’s hand and guiding him through her apartment as if he didn’t already know the way. He’d never forgotten, really. 

This was wrong. On so many levels, this was wrong. He should be back home, with you. If anyone was to find out about this… well, Steve would be furious, for a start. But Javier genuinely couldn’t stop thinking about you. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, because if he wanted to be with you so bad he could easily just go back to his place and sit with you on the couch. The idea of that wasn’t the worst in the world. But also, he was about to get laid by Nina who looked so much like you… he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He was whipped. Thinking about your lips on his… your hands caressing his muscles. She might have resembled you, but she tasted different, her voice was different, and her attitude. She just wasn’t you. 

Once Javi was all wrapped up, he pushed into Nina, and settled deep, his movements rough and fast. He grabbed onto her tits and gave them a squeeze, but they just didn’t feel like yours. They’d do though, for now. His grunts and her moans filled the room as she chanted his name, and he could feel himself nearing orgasm. He dipped his head in the crook of her neck, biting down on her skin that just wasn’t as soft as yours, and as his dick throbbed inside of Nina, and when he reached his climax, he made the biggest mistake of all.

He gasped your name like it was the sweetest prayer to leave his lips. He was fucking Nina but shit, he said your name.

Javier Peña said your name.

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[dcforts]

[day 13: poinsettia]

It started as soon as Cas joined them at the diner and slipped into the booth next to Dean liked he usually did.

“Thanks for coming, Cas. We really need your help with this one,” Sam said.

“I’m here. Tell me everything.”

Sam was shuffling through his papers, about to bring him up to speed on the case, when he heard Dean snap, “Can’t you sit on the other side?”, with such vitriol that Sam looked up at him, shocked. His brother’s face was twisted with hostility, “It’s a little tight in here.”

Cas rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner but got up anyway to move next to Sam.

“So,” Sam started, frowning at his brother, back to sipping his coffee like nothing happened. He turned his focus on Cas, “just in this past week, twelve couples from this town filed for divorce.”

Dean scoffed, “Yeah, I’m still not sure this is a case. It’s Christmas, everyone fights during the holidays.”

“Yeah, but the point is – once they started, they simply couldn’t stop. The neighbours say -”

“So we’re playing marriage counselors now, what a way to hit the botto-“

“Could you be quiet?” interrupted Cas sharp, throwing Dean a glare. “I’m trying to listen to Sam.”

“What’s there to listen? I told you, there’s nothing for us here.”

“How can you be so sure -”

They were raising their voices and people from nearby tables started to crane their neck towards them.

“Guys,” Sam hissed, “I don’t know what’s happening here but can we -,” he tried to say, but it was like he wasn’t there anymore. Dean and Cas were throwing daggers at each other and as Sam’s gaze moved between the two of them, he started to suspect that something not normal was going on there. So maybe the marriage requirement for the curse wasn’t as literal as they thought.

He started sweating, “Uh, can we go back to the case now?”

“I don’t know,” said Cas, his voice dripping sarcasm, “maybe Dean has something more interesting to do.”

“Look, you’ve been here five minutes and-”

Sam sighed heavily. “Alright. Guys- guys, w-why don’t you take this outside? I’ll pay the check and be right out.”

Scoffing and grumbling, then slipped out of their seats and stormed out of the diner.

Sam sighed and raked his hands through his hair.

He tried to tell himself that it could be a coincidence, but his confidence whitered considerably as he watched through the windows his brother stomping through the parking lot and Cas following him with his arms crossed on his chest.

He took out his phone and called Rowena.

“What is it now, Samuel?” she answered.

“Hey Rowena. I- I need your help.”

*

Not even halfway through the story she interrupted him with a chuckle, “Oh, don’t worry Samuel. I know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“You do?”

“But of course. And I know who’s doing it. It’s a witch, goes by the name of Emlen. They like to cause mayhem during the holiday season. Harmless curses, wear off right after Christmas. It happens every few years.”

“How are they doing this?”

She thinks about it for a moment, “At the victims’ houses. Did you happen to notice a poinsettia?”

“Th-the plant?”

“Yes, a poinsettia Sam, the Star of Bethlehem, the Fire Flowers of the Holy Night.”

“Yeah, got it. I don’t think so, I mean, everyone’s got one these days. So, maybe?”

“Well, the last time that’s what was setting off the curse. It’s very clever actually,” she went on, “They have them delivered to their door, and the plants let out these fumes -”

As she talked, and the wheels turned furiously in Sam’s head, his eyes fell on the centerpiece in the middle of the table. In a little jar, among glitter red berries and snow covered pine-cones, set a fresh plant with red and green leaves.

Sam shook his head, defeated. There was no doubt now.

Dean and Cas were in trouble.

He sighed, and snatched the plant to stuff it in his bag. He threw a couple of bills on the table and hurried to the exit still with his phone attached to his ear.

“So I need to look for a florist?”

Rowena sighed, exasperated. “No, Samuel. They are way smarter than that. I bet they enchanted a florist to do the work for them. You’ll need to go and gather all the plants and in the meantime – I imagine I could prepare an antidote of sorts to stop the effects right away. You’ll have to give it to the victims.”

“What about the witch?” he asked as he pushed open the glass doors and stepped out in the cold parking lot.

“I’ll take care of Em. We’re old friends, I’m sure they’ll be reasonable if I asked it as a favor.”

Sam let out a sigh of relief but his worry spiked again as the Impala came into his view. Even from there he could see Dean and Cas talking fast at the same time, clearly arguing.

Rowena said, “Did you say twelve couples, right? It’s twenty four vials.”

“Uh – actually. Can we make it twenty six?”

“Sure, Sam,” she said, sarcastic, “and I bet you want the express shipping as well? You know I only have two hands and can’t possibly…”

“Just – Please,” cut her off Sam, trying to express the frustration he was feeling. And he was feeling a lot of frustration as he was approaching the car and could hear indistinct shouting from the inside, “I’ve got a bit of a situation here. Um, Dean and Cas are kind of at each other’s throat.”

Rowena chuckled, but didn’t sound surprised at all as she said, “Of course they are. Fit the profile, don’t they? Alright Samuel, I’ll be there soon. Just try and hold tight, my poor boy.”

“Yeah, thanks Rowena.”

*

The ride to the motel was frosty at best. Sam stayed absolutely still in the backseat and did not comment on the Dean’s jerky driving or the fact that Cas stared grumply out of the window the whole time.

He had tried a weak, “Are you guys still fighting?” when he’d slipped in and they both had given him a stern “No,” that obviously meant the opposite.

Back at the motel the situation did nothing but worsen. They sat on opposite sides of the room and resolutely did not look at each other.

Well, at least until Sam broke the silence to say, “Rowena is on her way. This will be over in no time,” and his brother commented under his breath, “Yeah, Rowena is always there when you need her. Must be nice.”

And Cas whipped his head around, “If you’re referring to me, I’ll have you know that I came as soon as you called.”

Dean snorted, “You mean, as soon as you decided to pick up your phone.”

Sam let out a whimper.

“As I already told you -” thundered Cas but Dean cut him off, raising his voice, “I don’t wanna hear it, Cas. You say the same thing everytime and they you disappear again for two weeks!”

“Uh, guys? Why don’t we -” Sam tried to interrupt them by blocking their view of each other but they just stood up and walked around him.

“You know what’s funny?” Cas went on, sarcastic, talking over him, “That you’re always saying that I should be around more, but when I am around, you sure go out of your way to make me feel unwelcome.”

“Fine!” exploded Dean, “If that’s how you feel than I’ll just stop asking you…”

“… as if you ever asked. You just assume…”

“… then I won’t have to…”

Sam resisted the urge to press a pillow on his face and just closed himself in the bathroom.

*

When he finally heard knocking, Sam ran to the door and pulled Rowena in uncerimoniously.

“Oof, Sam, this is no way to greet a lady,” she complained but then her attention was caught by Dean and Cas behind his back, shouting in the middle of the room a few feet from each other. Her jaw dropped.

“... wish you’d just stop covering your feeling with humor...” Cas was saying.

“... well, I wish you’d stop snooping in my head every chance you get...”

“... If you think one needs to have celestial powers to see what’s clearly on your face Dean Winchester...”

Rowena met Sam’s desperate gaze and winced.

She patted his arm, reassuring, “I’m here now.”

*

“I’m not drinking that.”

“This is ridiculous. Dean and I are not married.”

“I know – just – please. You’re driving me nuts,” said Sam, pratically shoving the vials in their faces. Rowena had proposed to magically bind them and Sam was starting to consider it.

Thankfully - without even stopping glaring at each other - they took them from his hands and downed them in one go.

There was a moment of stillness and then Sam saw them sprinting towards one another. He gasped and tried to step in, thinking that they were about to throw punches but instead they ended up – smashing their mouths together.

Which was definitely more jarring for Sam. He stood frozen in shock and then made his way to Rowena, who was calmly putting on her coat, her back to the scene.

“Er, Rowena?” he called, alarmed. “Uh, they’re – is this normal?”

She threw a look over her shoulder at Cas wrapping Dean in his arms and Dean yanking Cas’ hair.

“Oh, it’s just a little after effect,” she said lightly. She met Sam’s worried eyes and explained, “The antitode has some ingredients in common with love potions. A little nudge, just enough to reverse hostility. It brings out desire. It’s nothing, Sam,” she shrugged, “and it’ll wear off in a couple of minutes, so I say we get out of here now and go deal with Emlen and the other couples. You know,” she smirked, “in case they decide what’s good for them and decide to stay.” She shouldered her bag, “Chop chop now, Samuel,” she said cheerfully, shoving him slightly. “We got work to do.”

*

Two minutes later, Dean and Cas pulled away from each other in the empty motel room.

They looked wide eyed, their faces red, their lips swollen. Dean’s voice was on the verge of hysteria and disbelief when he said, "We kissed.”

He was still holding the lapels of Cas’ trenchcoat and Cas still had his arms tight around his waist.

Cas blinked at him, “Yes,” he said, “I think we were cursed.”

Dean nodded briefly and tried to think fast. “Sam must be working the case,”. He thought about calling him, making sure he was alright and didn’t need assistance but his eyes couldn’t stop flicking between Cas’ eyes and lips, “Seems like whatever he’s doing is working. Uh - Sorry about -”

“I’m sorry too,” Cas said, still a little out of breath, “Can we keep kissing now?”

Dean exhaled, “Yeah, good idea,” he said, throwing his arms around his neck.

joining @bend-me-shape-me in doing this!

[imaginesforjohnnydepp]

Enemies To Lovers (Captain Jack Sparrow x fem reader)

for anon @kittenlittle24   @evelynrosestuff  

trigger warnings: misogyny, alludes to abusive behavior. 

You ripped off the heaviest part of your dress in a last ditch effort to keep from drowning, and it seemed to work; immediately you felt lighter and was able to swim to safety. For the most part you got by floating on the waves as they pushed you toward shore where you flopped down on the hot sand, your clothes and hair plastered to your skin. As your heart rate began to calm down, you thought about how you had gotten into this situation; Mother and Father had wanted you to marry a wealthy Lord who is almost thirty years your senior, and being the perfect daughter you are, you agreed to do so, but in the middle of wedding planning, you started to have doubts of the union. His true colors started to show him as vile and cruel and too obsessed with money. When you brought up the grievances to your mother, she simply told you to look past it, but you just couldn’t so you ran away a few days before the wedding which is supposed to be tonight.

At some point, while the sun was drying your wet body, you must’ve fallen asleep because you woke up to someone nudging you in the side with their boot. It was a man, probably a lot older than you are, his hair matted. You noticed that the sun was setting, turning the sky pink and orange, and briefly wondered if anyone noticed you missing and if they did, were they sending people after you? When you showed signs of life, the man stopped touching you with his foot. “Almost thought you were dad,” he said in a sort of drawl.

You sat up, your head pounding; shielding your eyes from the setting sun, you got a better look at his face. It was a bit dirty and overall, he looked like he could do with a good washing, not that you have any room to talk, you weren’t looking that great either. After your day long journey, your appearance most likened to a drowned rodent and not that of a young lady from and aristocratic background. “Who are you?” you asked, wary of the man looming over you; did Lord Richard send people to find you and they finally caught up to you? It seemed like something he would do because when Richard wants something, he’ll go through any means necessary to obtain it.

“The name’s Captain Jack Sparrow, love, and yourself?” A pirate then, you assumed. Not the kind of company Richard keeps, so you are safe, for now at least. “Lady Y/N L/N,” you introduced yourself, and you pushed yourself to your feet. “Quite the performance you put on earlier. You are only the second woman I have ever seen swim.” You squinted at his comment and calmly answered: “Well Captain Jack Sparrow, I can assure you that women are capable of a lot of things other than bearing children and taking care of homes.”

After a bit of bickering, you managed to tell him the reason how you came to be on the island: you running away from home mere hours before your wedding, the disappointment and embarrassment your parents must be feeling, all of it. He agreed to offer you asylum on his ship only if you were part of his crew; you would be sharing living quarters with a woman named Elizabeth. Thanks to your father, you had some experiences on ships, so you agreed to the compromise.

A few months later

Suffice it to say, you and Jack did not get along in the first few weeks. You thought him to be rude, arrogant, and misogynistic at times and yet... you were strangely attracted to him. You were in the living quarters you shared with Elizabeth, who brought it up. “Is there anything going on with you Jack that I should know about?” The hand that was holding the graphite twitched, causing you to draw a line across the parchment you were drawing on at the mention of the Captain.

“W-what would make you say that?” you stuttered out. You never told anyone about your developing feelings for the pirate. “You talk in your sleep you know,” she answered, and you could feel your face heat up in embarrassment. “I didn’t say anything in particular did I?” Hopefully nothing incriminating.

“Only his name over and over... for the last five nights,” the other woman smirked, and loudly bit into an apple. Over the last few months, you formed a nice bond with the only woman on the crew as you came from similar backgrounds. “Jack hasn’t said anything about me either has he?” Elizabeth sat up on her cot, propped up on her elbows and smiled big. “Only that you are the second most stubborn, pushy, and irritating woman he has ever met before going on and on about how he should’ve pushed you overboard the second you stepped foot on the Black Pearl... before saying he wishes that you weren’t so attractive because it is your only saving grace from being shark bait.”

You could feel your heart swell; the feelings were mutual, all of them. Getting out of your cot, you jammed your boots onto your foot and ran for the door. “Wait, where are you going?” “To tell him we can’t keep going on this way.” You never felt this way about anyone before Jack and you were scared, heart racing so fast you were sure it was going to leap out of your chest. What if he rejected you?

It would be absolutely humiliating, but you had to see for yourself. Luckily he was still awake in his quarters, creating plans, drawing on parchment, while consulting his compass; you didn’t bother to knock. “We need to talk,” you announced your appearance. The captain managed to jump nearly a foot in the air before realizing it was you. “Will you stop sneaking up on me like that?” he huffed.

“Absolutely not! Seeing you squirm is my only source of entertainment,” you countered back. “What do we have to talk about at this hour?” he drawled on and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Elizabeth told me everything.” Jack couldn’t help but to look at you now.

You told him everything Elizabeth told you only moments ago, verbatim, when it didn’t look like he was going to speak about his burgeoning feelings. Jack moved closer to you with each sentence until your back was against a wall and you were staring into his eyes. “And I still mean every word about the first part... but we can’t. If you ever feel the need to go back----” you cut him off. There is absolutely no way you could go back home, not with Lord Richard and your family probably still looking for you. Of course, now that you were gone, there would be no reason for your parents to keep up with your dowry, and without your dowry, Richard would be destitute.

Not that your parents would think you to be better off: an upper class, high society young lady with no real knowledge of the world’s cruelties beyond her family’s estate and without any money to get by and no skillset. What would become of you? How will you survive? Or would you succumb to the world’s harsh realities? And then you realized, you didn’t want to go back, not that you could anyway.

Lord Richard will probably find some other young girl and her family to take advantage of, and your parents would have no use for you after they marry off your sister and brother when they become of age. “I don’t want to go back, and if I did, I wouldn’t have anything to go back to, you know that. I belong here, with you, Jack,” you finished. When you said “here”, Jack thought you were talking about your place on the Black Pearl, among his crew, which you were, but you also meant that you belong with Jack specifically. You tentatively grabbed his hand and was pleasantly surprise when he didn’t pull away. “So... us?..” you prompted him, and he curled his fingers around your hand. “Together,” he vowed.