#yeah he does not stride to make Simon love him

[mio-nika]

disgusting

Part 1

[scribbledghost]

Simon having sex with reader on the Thanksgiving dinner table? Maybe he comes home from work really late to a table full of food and reader looking pretty as ever, and he decides to show his gratitude.🥴😏

Welcome Home

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader (no y/n)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2,009

Warnings: oral (F receiving), table sex, dirty talk, praise, use of "good girl", tongue clicks from Simon

Note: Everyone say "Thank you @sillylittlereader " for fueling my feral Scribs-brained behavior (Also everyone say "thank you anon" bc that addition made me literally lol). Gonna combine these two cause I caaaaaan. Happy Wanksgiving all! Hopefully yall enjoy my first attempt at full smut after many, many moons.

As soon as Simon opens the front door and steps inside, he knows he's in for a good evening.

The smell of food hits him immediately, the house warmer than usual from where you'd been cooking. He discards his boots and follows the scent into the kitchen, where he finds you milling about and putting another dish onto the counter. It joins several others, and he's quick to notice at least a couple of his favorites.

"Now what's all this?" He says with a grin. You look back at him with a matching look.

"Dinner," you say simply. "I know doing day work and training on-base isn't your favorite, so I figured I'd make a nice, big meal for you. Everything's on the counter, table's cleaned off, so all you have to do is make your plate and eat."

A warm feeling constricts Simon's chest, and he finds himself unable to resist striding towards you and pulling you in for a kiss.

And another.

And another.

As he parts from you, hands on your hips as you look at him with a lidded gaze, he realizes there's one thing he wants before he enjoys the work you've put into welcoming him home.

"I know it's technically bad form, love," he rumbles, guiding you by the hips back towards the table, "but maybe you could let me have dessert first, yeah?"

"Oh, I suppose I can allow it. Just this once," you reply with a sly grin that he matches.

With that, he hefts you up onto the table and takes a seat between your legs. 

He wastes little time lifting your shirt just enough to press a few hot, open-mouthed kisses to your stomach. From there, he helps you quickly divest yourself of your pants and underwear, grabbing both and helping you lift yourself from the table just long enough for him to pull both off in one fluid motion. 

When the garments land on the floor, Simon hooks his arms beneath your legs, pulls you closer to him, and buries his face in you.

If there is one thing Simon does well when he's not in the field, it's eating. He devours you like a man starved, like he'll never get another chance to taste you. He dips his tongue into you before sliding it up to your clit, kissing and sucking and lapping at you in a practiced manner he knows works. As much as he knows he should give you a few of his fingers to help stretch you open for what is to come, he can't help but forgo the courtesy, too invested in tasting your slick to waste any.

"Taste so fucking good, baby," he moans, "can't get enough of this cunt. Never get enough of you."

He's telling the truth. He could spend hours with his head buried between your thighs. In fact, he has before. He wonders if you'll be so kind as to let him do it again tomorrow morning; have him wake you with his tongue and continue like that until you start pushing him away.

But that's a thought for later. For now, he's got much more important matters to attend to.

He feels your hand grab his hair, a low groan tearing from his lungs as you pull him deeper into you. The hands on your skin tighten their grip, his brows knit together in concentration.

"That's it love," he says, voice muffled by your cunt, "take what you want from me."

Your hips buck against him and he follows, cock hard and twitching in his pants as you moan for him. He knows you're close by the way your thighs shake in his grasp, and he's determined to all but drag you over the edge.

Your breathing gets shallower, interspersed with staccato moans and whines. You breathe his name into the air, and Simon growls against your heat.

"That's it love," he encourages again, "be good and cum for me, yeah?"

With that, he returns to his task at hand, laser-focused on getting what he wants.

And what he wants is for you to smother him. What he wants is for you to envelop him, make it so nothing else so much as touches any of his senses.

He wants - no, needs - to make you feel good. To help you fall from the precipice and lose yourself to what he's giving you.

And fall you do.

With a sharp cry of his name, he feels your sex clench and twitch against his mouth as you come undone beneath him. He helps you through it, moaning soft, affirmative "mhm"s as you ride your orgasm to its end.

When you slump against him, muscles finally relaxing, he gives you one last lick with the flat of his tongue before moving to kiss your thighs.

"Good girl," he says softly, "so, so good for me."

He begins a slow ascent, nudging his nose against the hem of your shirt and pushing it upwards so he can mouth at the skin just beneath it.

After pressing a few more kisses to your abdomen and stomach, he stands, removing his shirt and using it to somewhat dry his face before discarding it. 

"Look so fuckin' pretty when you cum," he says as he leans in to kiss you properly. "Never gonna get tired of watchin' you."

Simon's hips rut against you as his tongue dips into your mouth, a light hum leaving him as he hears you whine softly.

"I know, baby," he murmurs apologetically against your lips, "I know you're still sensitive. Jus' can't help it, yeah? Wanna make sure you're nice and wet before I take you."

It's an excuse, and both of you know it. Simon knows you're plenty ready for him, especially after one orgasm, but he's allowing himself to be selfish. To give himself a taste of you before he devours you again in another way. In the depths of his brain, he wonders if some of your slick will coat his belt. Wonders if it will dry there, where he will carry it with him the next time he wears it to base. An invisible mark of ownership.

He could keep going, keep grinding against you until he comes undone without ever even removing his own pants.

But that simply will not do. Not for Simon. And after you whine again against his mouth, the overstimulation on your clit no doubt bordering on painful, he gives you mercy.

At least, that's what he tells himself as he unbuckles his belt and undoes his pants, pushing them just far down enough with his briefs to release his cock from its confines.

"See what you do to me, love?" he says lowly as he slides gently against your heat, coating himself in a mix of your spend and his precum. 

Then, deciding he's had enough teasing for one afternoon, Simon begins the slow push into you.

He's not a small man, and he knows it. Saying so doesn't come from a place of inflated ego, but rather from real, practical experience, both with you and past lovers. He guides himself into you as gently as he's able, not wanting the pressure he knows you must feel to turn into pain.

But then, as his hips are about halfway to you, he notices something.

You've closed your eyes.

And, again, that simply will not do.

"Hey. Hey," he says gruffly before he clicks his tongue twice at you, "eyes open, love. Want you to look at me while I stuff you full."

You give him a bleary look, eyelids just barely obeying his command as he continues to push deeper into you. 

The pair of you erupt in joint moans when the front of his thighs meet your body. Simon leans forward to rest his forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

"Fuck, love, you feel so fucking good," he breathes into the space between you. 

"So do you," you answer in an equally breathless tone. 

Simon surges forward to kiss you, keeping his lips on yours as he begins to roll his hips. Your arms wrap around his neck, bringing him impossibly closer to you. 

As much as he wants to draw this out, as much as he wants to start slowly and build up until you're both tense and begging for release, he simply can't find it in himself to wait any longer. His hips seem to move of their own accord, snapping into you and punching moans from your lungs. 

When he pulls back for a moment to stand and watch your body, he notices that your eyes are once again closed as you're lost to the pleasure he's giving you.

"Show me those pretty eyes, love," he says softly. When you only whine in response, he reluctantly stills his thrusts.

"Hey, eyes on me," he says more harshly, once again clicking his tongue at you. "You open those eyes and look at me."

You slowly obey, and he feels you clench around him when he clicks his tongue. When he's satisfied that you're watching, he begins his thrusts again.

"There she is," he says breathlessly with a grin. "There's my girl."

He holds your gaze as he continues, fucking into you at an increasing pace. He is enraptured by you. By your voice, by your body, by your gaze. He chases his high, but quickly realizes there's something important that he's forgotten.

"Reach down and touch yourself for me, love," he commands. "Want you to give me one more before I fill you."

To your credit, you do as he asks, reaching a hand down to rub at your clit as he continues to thrust into you. The action catapults Simon impossibly closer to his peak, though by some grace he manages to hold himself together as you chase another orgasm.

It doesn't take as long as Simon assumes it will for you to come again. Or perhaps it does. Time has long since become an abstract concept to Simon, just as it always does when he's inside of you like this. Nevertheless, he feels your walls flutter around him as you sigh his name.

"Good girl," he croons to you as you come, "good girl."

Once you come down, he throws his self-restraint to the wind and surges towards his own orgasm in earnest. 

"Gonna cum, love," he says, leaning in to touch his forehead to yours again. "Gonna fill you up, make you mine."

You don't respond in words, but he feels a hand grab the back of his head as you pull his lips to yours. 

A groan rips through his body as Simon comes, stilling inside of you as his cock twitches. He moans out some approximation of your name against your lips as he loses himself.

An indeterminate amount of time later, when the two of you part and begin to catch your breath, you lock eyes.

And you both laugh.

A light, beautiful sound.

"Well, can't say I was expecting that," you say.

"Had to thank you somehow, love," he quips. 

He helps you to sit up, tucking himself back into his pants as he leaves his shirt on the floor and his belt unbuckled. He aids you in putting your pants and underwear back on, softly promising to help you shower after you both eat.

"After all," he says as he kisses you, "it'd be a tragedy to let all this food get any colder than it is already."

You laugh softly at him.

"And whose fault would that be, Mr. Riley?"

"Yours," he says with a teasing nip to your shoulder, "not my fault you looked good enough to eat."

The soft, good-natured groan you give him as you lightly shove him from you warms his heart. On the field, he prides himself on being cold, calculated, and for leaving little room for anything else. But here, in his home, with you by his side, he feels like the battlefield is a thousand years away.

[greatstormcat]

mm… oh great cat of storms..

i..

price would totally plead

“come home and shout at me. come home and fight with me. come home and break my heart, if you must”

“just come home.”

The response to this is almost overwhelming! I do have some more to give you….

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 if you need to catch up.

Price sits at the kitchen table, your engagement ring resting in one of his heavy palms, the simple band and single stone looking small and fragile. He ruminates that he hadn’t accounted for how fragile a relationship could be after all. His phone lights up, vibrating on the tabletop once again and demanding attention, he’s lost count of how many times it’s done that now. Unless the call is from you, he doesn’t want to know.

He stopped trying to call you an hour ago as you won’t answer, and he can’t leave anymore messages. Messages demanding to know where you are, cajoling you to call him back, apologising for being a dick, apologies for calling again, there’s so many now. You even turned the tracking off on your phone app, and the AirTag for your keys is by the backdoor, so he has no idea where you’ve gone. Suddenly he realises that he has let himself drift away from you, stopped paying attention to what matters to you, just as everyone warned him.

His phone stops buzzing and the number of missed calls goes up by one. It rings again almost immediately and anger sparks, making him snatch up the phone and answer it through gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” he grunts tersely, hating the extra gravel in his voice and clearing his throat.

“Everything okay?” Simon’s voice filters through the phone. John clears his throat again, scrubbing his face and getting up, limb stiff from lack of blood flow over the past few hours.

“Solid,” he lies, not even convincing himself.

“Did you two talk….” Simon begins slowly.

“They’re gone,” Price interrupts, trying to get to the point. The silence on the other end does nothing to mask the exhale Simon blows through his nose. “Yeah, I’ve fucked this up. The ring’s here in an envelope,” he continues, voice thickening despite his efforts to control his emotions.

“Do you know where they’d go?” Simon asks, tone neutral but Price knows the other man too well. Knows what he really thinks, and Price would be judgemental too if this were anyone else right now. He paces through the ground floor of the house, past photos framed and displayed with pride. These are the memories he has forgotten, discarded and erased with his callousness. “You’ve gotta know where they’d run at a time like this.”

One photo sticks out, it’s one of the oldest here, you’re both much younger in it. He remembers when it was taken, a date at the coast when it was so windy you’d gotten cold and it gave him the perfect excuse to wrap his arms around you and keep you held to his chest for hours.

“I have an idea where they might be,” John replies and grabs his keys, striding towards the door with as much purpose as when he heads to exfil. If he can find you in time, perhaps he can turn this around. Or, if it’s too late, at least he can say his goodbye and tell you he never once stopped loving you.

[johnpriceslamb]

Hiii, i love your writing so much!! I just saw your requests were open and wanted to ask for a Ghost x fem!reader. Maybe she is sick and little and Simon has to take care of her. Of course only if you want to, no pressure. All your work is so adorable i just wanted to babble about it really (ˊᗜˋ) ♡

𝓢𝓘𝓒𝓚 𝓓𝓐𝓨𝓢 ,

˚₊‧꒰ you’re sick. And off in fairy-land. Simon takes care of you. ꒱ ‧₊˚

BEFORE YOU PROCEED ! ‧₊˚ ┊ littlespace ! reader . fem ! reader. afab ! reader. caregiver ! Simon Riley . sickiesickie reader :c . da snifliez . reader is mentioned 2 be physically smaller den simon . not proof-read . OOC !!! simon . 1.3k words

˚₊‧꒰ 🍼 ꒱ ‧₊˚ A sniffle and a sneeze.

That is what Simon had woken up to.

There you lay, sniffly and hiccupy at the far side of the bed. You sneeze again into a tissue. A teddy bear placed on your dainty lap as you whimper meekly.

You want to be held, but you don’t want to either. Hot and icky from the fever you have just caught.

You want papa.

You turn your head around- and only then does he capture you into his strong, warm, papa-bear arms. You’re not sure if you’re grateful about the heat he radiates and produce, but you’re clearly happy to be in his arms.

He squishes you as if you were just a little teddy bear. Your cherub cheek lies on his chest as you sniffle again. “Papa..”

“I know, I know luv.” He grunts softly, murmuring soft praises of affections in your ear- so much alike of sweet serenades being hummed. He presses a firm kiss on your forehead, “You stay ‘ere, yeah? I’ll make you some-

Clearly, you did NOT want him to go. As he stood up whilst mumbling, your hand clings onto his sleeves with a soft sniffle. This elicits a soft hum. Big beady eyes stare up at him, lashes dew-dropped with tears from the discomfort you were feeling as of now.

His heart pangs. He hates seeing you like this.

“Wan’ papa.” You simply state, shaking your head stubbornly. Clingy girl.

“Luv, I have to..” He trails on when he sees that sad look on your face. Much alike of a baby puppy seeing her owner at the door, closing it in front of her face. He clears his throat, calloused fingers coming to rub off the dew-drops that stain your chubby cheeks. For your sake and his, he has to be firm.

You begin to tear up again. Argh. He can’t do it.

Then- without a word, he grabs your fluffy burberry blanket and throws it over his shoulder. And he picks you up with the utmost care in the world- as if you yourself was just a porcelain puppy. Your little legs wrap around his waist, face in his chest, with arms around his broad shoulders.

“Papa.” You babble sweetly, nuzzling your cheek on his chest.

“Mhm. That’s me, bug.” A faint smile on his cracked lips is evident.

He plops you on the sofa, before wrapping you up in the soft blanket like a bunny nestled into its burrow.

“Y’want chicken soup with yoghurt or bananas, luv?” He calls from the kitchen.

You sneeze, peaking your head from the blanket to watch papa, “Mmm.. Yoghurt.” You hear a can being easily opened, and a slow pour to the ceramic bowls. The ones with the floral print. Your favourite bowl.

“Strawberry or.. Vanilla?” He asks with a gentle grunt.

You blink the sleepiness out of your eye. “Wan’.. Strawberry.”

You hear a low hum, indicating that he heard your little voice from afar.

You feel dizzy from the fever that had come to bite you. You feel miserable without papa. You let out a weak whimper from the sofa, “Paaapaaaa..”

“I hear ya, luv. I’m comin’ soon.” With a small plastic spoon and a bowl of chicken soup warmed up from the microwave, he comes to you with a stride brooding yet loving. He beckons for you to sit up, and you do so with a bit of trouble. You weakly crawl to him.

“‘Aaah,’ baby.” He cheekily coos. A spoonful of yummy chicken soup near your mouth. It oozes with a scent so homey and comfy, you eagerly open your mouth and allow him to put the spoon in.

But.. You droop.

You can’t taste it. At all.

You try to stiffen the tears that almost drip from your waterlines. It coats your wispy lashes as you blink multiple times to get rid of the dewdrops.

He looks at you with a sad frown, “What’s wrong, bug?”

With your frustration and sadness from just taking one spoonful- he notices, “Ah.”

“Can’t taste?” He places the spoon in the bowl to rub your head affectionately.

“Nuh-uh,” You shake your head sadly.

“‘m sorry luv,” He grabs the spoon and gently places it in your mouth again- and again, again. Until the bowl was empty, “At least you know it’s warm, yeah?”

You brighten up just a bit, “..Uhuh.”

“Warm just like your blanket,” A soft squish to your cheek. This elicits a hoarse giggle from your throat- and a soft sneeze.

“Still want the yoghurt?”

You look down at your fuzzy socks, tiny tots wiggling from inside out of pure boredom. “Uhm.. mhm.”

“Good girl.” He brings the yoghurt to your mouth. You can’t taste it, but at least it makes your throat feel just a bit better.

“Tummy full now..” You babble sweetly.

“Mhm? That right, bug?” Standing up to go put the dishes in the sink to wash up quickly, he does. He throws the empty yoghurt tub in the bin with a quick step on the pedestal of the trash-can.

“Luv?” He calls out for you from the kitchen-area.

“?” You peak your head from the blanket again, staring at him with those sleepy baby eyes of yours.

“Y’know I love you..”

Suspicious arises in your tummy. “..Uhuh.”

You squint your beady eyes, a tiny cough escaping your throat.

“And I want what’s best f’ you..”

“…Oki.”

“And.. you want what’s best f’ yourself, don’t you?”

Smart little girl you were. “Nuh-uh.” You don’t want to drink pills.

“Bug..” He frowns, “Just one.”

“It’ll make you feel much better baby, I promise you.” He grunts, filling up a cup of water. He feels bad for doing this- but for your sake.

You can’t help the whine escaping your lips. It’s hard enough to swallow things whilst sick!!!

“No no noooo,” You shake your head as he strides closer with the medicine. You try to back away, even holding the blanket closer to you, but you could not get out of this. Not one bit.

“..Yes, yes, yes,” He plops the medicine in your mouth and- dunks the water as soon as he could.

You sniffle and force yourself to drink it up. You shake your head vigorously, low pigtails bobbling about.

“Bad papa, bad bad..” You rub the sleep in your eye yet again.

He squints his eyes at you, “Oi.”

You meekly look at him, “Sorry..”

He softens up a bit, before pulling your burrito-wrapped self near his frame.

“You’ll be okay soon, luv.” And he presses a soft kiss on your forehead. A squeeze from his arms made you feel much better, as you rest your little head on him yet again.

“My good girl, so strong.” He grumbles out. The praise makes your cheeks bloom like a flower. Your papa-bear. With his warmth, you can’t help but shyly cuddle into his toned-self. You feel just a bit better since you were in his arms, and you were fed a yummy meal. But alas, the everlasting feeling of sickness always comes at you from behind, and catches you off-guard. It makes you broody and crabby.

“Daddy?”

“Mmhm?” He hums gently, watching you play with his much larger fingers.

“My tummy feels dizzy,” You hiccup.

“Dizzy?” He questions, amused.

“Uhuh..” A tiny ‘achu’ escapes your lips. A chuckle rumbles out of his chest at your little sneeze, which causes a glare sent his way.

“Not funny, papa.”

“Mm.. Just a bit, bug.”

[shotmrmiller]

pet angst anon !!! you're johnny's fox, and he gives you a sweet kiss on your nose and a new collar right before he leaves to capture markov. nothing he hasn't done before, he'll be back before you know it and then he's going to take leave so he can take you home to scotland for however long price is able to let him.

but he doesn't come back. john does, though. and you don't know much, and he probably shouldn't have told you in the first place, but you know john was the one who stopped johnny from killing markov in the first place. and now he's here, telling you he's dead because of him. (him being markov? price? both? you don't care).

you're blinded by your rage and grief. the boys are there, they thought it best to be in your company when you were given the news, and it's a good thing because you come so fucking close to clawing john's eyes out, a shatter wail tearing through your throat that it makes you hoarse.

and the boys, trained and all corded muscle, both gaz and simon, have to use so much of their strength to keep you back. they knew you weren't going to take the news in any semblance of okay, and that makes more than enough sense. but they didn't expect this explosive rage, this venom you spit at their captain, breaking down to a worrying degree.

you fall to your knees, cradled by simon, screaming and crying like you're the one dying, nails biting so hard into his arms over his jacket that he feels the sting of the open wound. he's never heard such a sound from you before. and simon has to admit... he wants to scream at price too, for being so careless and foolish and letting johnny walk into danger when john knew how powerful markov was.

but simon lets you curse him out in his stead, gaz sitting on the floor with you, his cap by his side, only an finger's breadth from your reach if you need him.

you exhaust yourself with your tears. your throat is burnt raw, bile clinging to your throat. you're finally breathing in some semblance of normality, but simon can feel how all the strength has left you, nothing more than a shell of the fox they knew.

john takes it in stride. it's the least he can do, really.

"'m so sorry, love," he says, his own voice clogged with tears and remorse, and you have to bite your tongue until you taste blood so you don't lash out at him from the pet name, from further bringing him down because you know he's hurting too. "it should've been me," he adds on.

you're not sure if he meant for you to hear that. but you did.

"yeah," you finally bite out, refusing to look at him, still cradled in simon's arms and staring blankly at kyle's shoes, "it should've."

ahhhh let me tell you something.

i love. love. love. using the mw3 ending to ruin the au's i write about. im gonna change some stuff because there's not enough pain here.

ooooh, you don't look at john when tell him to get the fuck out.

you don't give a damn if he's hurting too, that's his cross to bear. he can keep his fucking tears, his apologies, his remorse.

should've would've could've isn't real. it doesn't exist.

should've been john. but it wasn't.

would've traded places with johnny if he could. but he can't.

could've done something different in the mission to prevent this, but he didn't.

john got hasty, desperate— and it cost him dearly. or at least, you wish it did. because it certainly cost you everything.

and when you ask him if makarov is at the very least dead for what he's done, john says no— he slipped through their fucking fingers.

...

your vision goes red, and you swear that if it wasn't for simon and kyle holding you down, you'd fucking kill him.

and it infuriates you further when you realize that john doesn't even flinch when you snap your jaw at him. he just stands there like the pathetic waste of space he is— almost like he wants you to rip his throat out with your teeth.

your anger dies away at that thought.

no. death's far too good of a cop-out for him. he deserves to live with his consequences.

that'll be his punishment.

"get the fuck out, price, and never come show your face here again."

when he doesn't move, you scream at him again, out out out out out OUT until your throat is scraped raw, and you can taste copper in the back of your tongue.

you spit at price— a thick glob of pink by his boots and tell him that he'll never meet the babe growing in your womb.

when you hear the front door softly click shut, you lean your head on simon's shoulder and hoarsely ask him if johnny suffered in the end.

'no. it happened in an instant, pet.'

the tears that damped simon's jacket are bittersweet.

at least there's that.

once simon puts you to bed, he starts packing away your favorite toys and pretty, little collars.

he still has a promise to keep.

and now, a baby to help raise.

[e-m-christina]

A Familiar Face - Negan One-Shot

Requested: Yes

@bladerose21 Thanks for requesting! Sorry it was slightly delayed. Hopefully my writing is OK here, I took a writing break for a few months, so sorry if it is a bit rusty!

Pairing: Negan/OC

Genre: fluff, romance.

Type: Short One-Shot

MASTERLIST

I sat in a holding cell nestled into one of the floors of the Sanctuary. It was a box of a room with no redeeming features aside from the cool air within its keep. All I had to do to occupy myself were my own bouncing knees and fidgeting hands. The cell door swung open, and a man scuttled inside, pressing down the folds of his khaki cargo trousers.

“Well good morning sunshine!” The man said, stepping closer, his mustache covered smile faltering as I eyed him suspiciously . “Where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. I am Simon. Our leader's right hand man, you could say.”

“I think manners have been long forgotten, Simon. I’ve been locked in here for hours.” I said, crossing my arms.

“Safety precaution of course. Nothing personal. We saved you from the Dead Ones because we saw how good a fighter you were, but we couldn’t let you roam around free here, could we? Our leader was busy, but now he has time to see you.” Simon said, handing me a water bottle.

“Thanks.” I muttered, before chugging the bottle. Simon laughed before making his way toward the door.

“Come, can’t keep the boss man waiting.”

----

I had been following Simon for about fifteen minutes, up staircases and through grey, winding hallways. The closer we got, the more my nerves kicked in and Simon's chatter was not helping.

“You like ice cream?” He asked. I nodded. “We got ice cream, among other things. It’s a great place. You’ll fit right in if you keep up those fighting skills.”

“Yeah.” I muttered. Does this man ever shut the fuck up?

“Say, if you don’t mind me asking, what did you do before...this?” Simon asked, steering me through another winding hallway. Why did he want to fucking know? It was none of his damn business what I did. Sighing, I decided to bite my tongue and answer politely. I want a place here, don’t I?

“I was a high school chemistry teacher.” I said. It seemed so long ago - normality and civilization. The way I used to think that working an extra two hours over time was hard would make me laugh now. I would trade anything in the world to go back to that cushy life.

“Nice. Well, we’re here. Straight through that door.” We came to a stop in front of a large wooden door. I look at Simon suspiciously.

“You not coming in?” I asked, but he shook his head.

“Nah, boss man likes to conduct his interviews in private.” Nodding, I swallowed thickly, pushing the door open. I was instantly greeted by a welcoming mid-sized room. There were shelfs stuffed with books that lined the shelves, a small but comfortable kitchen and two black leather sofas that faced each other. That's when my eyes landed on him. He was wearing a leather jacket and by his side sat a baseball bat. His face was buried in an old sports magazine.

“Well hello there, you must be the new - holy son of a fuck.” He stopped short after looking up from his magazine. It took me a moment to register who the man was, but when it clicked, I almost choked on the air.

“Negan?” I whispered. It couldn’t be him. Everyone I used to know was dead. Weren’t they?

“Well I’ll be damned.” Negan said, striding over to inspect me. He was a lot taller than I remembered...or had I shrunk?

“I thought you were dead…I saw your house burn...I...” I stammered. I couldn't believe the man I loved was standing right in front of me, alive and breathing.

“Darlin,’ come here.” Negan said, pulling me tight against his chest. The smell of leather and after-shave filled my senses as he wrapped his arms around my waist in a tight embrace. After a few moments of sniffling into his chest, I pulled back and he lead me to the sofa’s in silence.

“I thought I lost ya’ too. After the house burned down, I tried searchin’ for ya’ but I couldn’t find ya’. I thought ya’ were dead too.” Negan said, wiping a tear from my eye.

“At least we found each other again. I smiled. “And by the looks of it, you’ve done quite well here.” I said, waving a hand around the room. Negan grinned.

“We have ice-cream too. Mint choc chip, your favorite.” He said tucking a strand of stray hair behind my ear as I rolled my eyes.

“What is it about you guys and ice-cream? That Simon dude wouldn’t shut up about it. And for the record, my favorite is vanilla, your favorite is mint.” I said which made Negan let out a laugh. God, I have missed that laugh.

“You haven’t changed, have ya’?” He said.

“Not one bit.” Before I could say anything else, he leaned down and pressed his warm lips against mine. I let out a small gasp of surprise he pulled me closer to his body. His hands trailed from my waist to my hair as his lips worked expertly against mine. After a few moments we broke apart. My cheeks burned slightly as he winked at me.

"So, does that mean I get a place here?" I asked breathlessly.

"Hmm, I'll have to think about that." He said, smirking devilishly.

"Asshole."

[write-like-wright]

Can I please request something romantic and spicy with Simon Blackquill and a plus-size fem reader? Anything is fine, maybe some body worship, just no pegging please. Thanks and I love your writing!

Pairing: Simon Blackquill x plus-size!female reader

Warnings: smut, very filthy, semi-public sex, dirty talk, Simon is a horny Bri'ish idiot and I made him sound like one, kinda feral maybe, oral sex (reader receiving), body worship, lots of f-bombs

Wordcount: 706

"Have you completely lost your mind, you idiot?" You hiss at the large man as he nudges you inside the restaurant's cramped bathroom before stepping in after you. "Someone will see!" Simon turns the knob until it clicks and bridges the distance between you in a few quick strides. His lips are on yours instantly, the kiss rough and possessive. He lifts you on the counter next to the sink effortlessly, pulling back to admire the sight. There's lipstick smudged around his mouth when you look up at him and his gaze is positively feral, making your blood run hot.

"This dress," he growls, taking a fistful of the flimsy fabric, "Looks fucking incredible on you. You're bloody gorgeous tonight - you're always bloody gorgeous, but I love seeing you like this, all dolled up and confident. I promised myself I'd be a good boy and wait until we got home to tear it off you - and mind you, I still fully intend on doing that - but my fucking God, when I saw the way your arse looked when you stood up to dance, I knew I had to show my appreciation immediately." You're gasping for air as he trails bites and kisses on the side of your neck after pushing your hair out of place, grateful for the fact you remembered to throw the concealer in your purse earlier.

"You're so fucking hot," he growls whilst yanking down the neckline of your dress, exposing your breasts and hardening nipples to his heated gaze. Simon falls to his knees in front of you, lips wrapping around the soft flesh as his hands trail up your thighs. "Ooh, are those the pretty lacy ones I love?" He purrs as his hand traces the fabric covering your mound, tongue still flicking your nipples. You nod, chocking back needy sounds as his fingers tease your slit. "Lovely," Simon coos, pushing your dress up to reveal your crotch. His fingers slide beneath the fabric, pushing it to the side with one hand whilst his thumb gently circles the growing wetness. "I'm gonna eat you out now, okay? Try to stay quiet, there are people outside," he teases and you snort, wrapping your thighs around his head, muffling a growl that sounded a lot like, "Fuck yeah, crush me with those thick fuckin' thighs." You must be hearing things now.

He wastes no time dragging his tongue across your damp folds, circling your clit just the way you like. You bite down on your knuckles to keep quiet, gently canting your hips against his eager face. Simon doesn't bother trying to hold you down, letting you fuck his face with enthusiasm, encouraging you with little growls and lewd words that slip out between hot flicks of his tongue. "Does it get you hot?" Simon teases, voice dripping with smugness, "Fucking my face over here while our friends and coworkers are outside, wondering where we are? Do you like knowing how needy I am for you? You're so pretty, God, how could I not be? Fuck, I love your gorgeous thighs around my face." He trails on for a while, each sentence that spills from his lips filthier than the previous one. You can't even hear him anymore - you feel like you're underwater, his voice barely reaching you as pleasure washes you over. He growls with his lips around your clit and it pushes you over the edge, finishing on his eager tongue with a sound that was perhaps a smidge too loud given the circumstances.

Simon pulls back, his chin covered in your slick, a trace of red lipstick still smudged around his lips. "That was lovely, darling. Thank you." He whispers, reaching for a towel to wipe his face clean. You pull him in for a desperate kiss, arousal still clouding your mind. There's a knock on the door just as you're about to pull his cock out of his pants. "Occupied!" You call out, gasping as he drags his length through your folds. "She said occupied!" Simon growls when the knocking persists, a squeaky "sorry" coming from the other side before whatever poor soul was trying to interrupt hurries away. "Now, where were we?" He grins, gently probing your entrance.

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: West Coast Avengers #13: The UNIFIED FIELD Theory

October, 1986

GRAVITON RULES!

Like hell he does!

Hm, now that Graviton has come back again again, now would be the best time for Hawkeye to remember those anti-gravity arrows he once invented. Fight fire with fire, Clint.

Anyway. I don’t love Simon Williams’ constipation face front and slightly off-center on this cover.

But it reminds me that the team deserves this loss for enabling Simon’s bad costume decisions.

Last time on West Coast Avengers: the team has been dealing with one-off threats and goofus villains for a while while not dealing with the arc plot of Master Pandemonium. A trio of villains got together and attacked L.A., loosely themed after three of the four fundamental forces. The West Coast Avengers managed to beat them, with teamwork and the good ol’ TRADE PLACES, but then Graviton showed up like a jerk to make this a two-parter.

Also, he’s trying to make Tigra his catgirl girlfriend or something? He’s a creep.

Graviton: “Yes, Quantum -- Halflife -- here’s a scene to live forever in your alien memories -- the destruction of the Avengers! And remember this as well -- you owe it all to the genius of Graviton!”

Hawkeye: “I’d stick it in my memory, too, Mr. Heavy -- but it’s already fulla the other times you claimed you’d beat us -- so you can stick it where the sun don’t shine!”

Good comeback, Hawkeye.

No, seriously. Good one.

Villains always be ‘i’m unbeatable, i’m so hot, i can get a perfect score in Donkey Kong’ and ignore that they’ve been beaten so many times before.

It’s like Kang in the recent three-parter in East Coast Avengers. Where Cape Kang’s entire plan hinged on the idea that the Avengers couldn’t possibly beat a Kang (despite so many times that they did) but they could weaken him for another Kang to take out.

I guess they wouldn’t be villains if they got themselves a humility.

Anyway, Graviton takes Hawkeye’s mockery in stride and just starts gloating how cool he is.

Graviton: “We stand on a rock ten miles above the Earth -- because of me! A breathable atmosphere is held in place around the rock -- because of me! You and Mockingbird cannot pass through the gravi-net without being crushed to the rock -- because of me! Iron Man and Wonder Man, despite all their power, cannot push themselves away from the rock -- because of me!”

Hawkeye: “When do you get around to creating Heaven and Earth?”

Graviton: “This is Heaven and Earth -- for me! Graviton was meant to be a god and rule supreme -- and here I am!”

Oh man, Hawkeye mockingly called Graviton for thinking he was god and Graviton just went ‘no, I really do.’

He’s doing a hubris.

Can’t wait to see things fall apart.

Anyway, Halflife agrees yeah sure Graviton beat the Avengers when Zzzax, Halflife, and Quantum weren’t able but, hey, she and Quantum have feelings too! Ego feelings, specifically.

Graviton soothes them that he needs them for his cool fundamental forces theming.

AND THEN RECAPS HIS ENTIRE LIFE

To be fair. These guys are apparently aliens. They really have no context for any of this.

We already covered his backstory in his introduction in Avengers #158 (wow its been a while) but here we go again.

Frank Hall was a scientist working on teleportation (not gravity) who decided to double the power and see if that did anything.

And what it did was blow up in his face.

But also scramble his molecules with those of an experimental anti-gravity element. Because, sure.

Frank Hall tried to hide his new gravity powers at first, for fear that people would think him a freak.

But the opportunity to be a petty dick proved too great and he started throwing things at people who criticized him.

And as is well known, throwing things is a slippery slope to levitating a scientific facility up into the sky on a chunk of rock and wanting to take over the world. Also, he was being a real creep about one of his female co-workers.

Wow, flying rock. Being a creep? The more things change, right?

Anyway, Graviton claims that his only remaining link to humanity was that he really wanted to bone his female co-worker. When the Avengers attacked, he easily defeated them (with gravity) but when “the woman proved too petty to deal with exaltation” ie chose to jump off his floating rock rather than be his captive love interest, that was his real defeat.

And he blames all his subsequent defeats on co-worker Judy.

Graviton: “You see, all I’ve ever wanted as Graviton was total control -- total satisfaction -- but it may truly be said that I’ve never recovered from that betrayal!”

Hilariously, Halflife is listening to Graviton’s version of Graviton’s backstory and realizing that teaming up with this dude is a mistake.

Anyway, after the West Coast Avengers kicked Graviton’s ass to close off their limited series, Graviton started wondering if maybe he was going about this all wrong.

So instead of making trouble as soon as he easily escaped the law, he went back to the metaphorical drawing board and jumped on the idea of the unified field theory, the idea that “four forces account for everything in nature!”

Graviton: “First and foremost, of course, is gravity -- the attraction between two bodies! Then there’s electromagnetism -- the attraction between the particles in an atom -- the strong force -- the attraction between particles in an atom’s nucleus -- and finally, the weak force -- the attraction between matter and anti-matter -- the attraction that leads to death! So, since my power grants me control over anything with mass -- including light waves -- I altered all light leaving Earth to carry my plea for those who might fill the other three slots --”

This is wild.

Anyway, Graviton claims that Quantum lived in an alien sun and then moved into the Earth the Sun because of his message. I still don’t get how he represents the strong force.

And Halflife apparently killed every other being on her home planet. Which doesn’t exemplify the weak force as described here because she ages people, not explodes them.

No alien responded to his call for an electromagnetism guy, so Graviton chose Zzzax instead but he didn’t expect much of him and yeah, no, he sucked as much as expected there.

And Graviton’s Grand Evil Plan and why he gathered Three Loosely Considered Fundamental Forces and sent them after the Avengers... to keep them busy so he could kidnap Tigra.

Like a creep.

Graviton: “The nature of all forces which compromise the unified field is attraction -- the yearning of two polar opposites to unite -- like you and me!”

Like a super creep.

Graviton says that since he’s been spying on Tigra for so long, he knows that she’s too horny to resist and then starts making out with her.

And she doesn’t resist.

Cool, great, I hate this subplot, this is awful.

It gets awfuller or Graviton interprets it as awfuller because Quantum says something in his language and Graviton interprets it as Quantum asking for a turn.

Graviton: “No, Quantum! We are agreed to assist each other on projects of evil -- and nothing more!”

Halflife: “We all have projects of evil, gravity man!”

You card-carrying villains. Ridiculous. Sound like Saturday morning cartoon villains. ‘We all have projects of evil!”

Then again, Halflife did kill her entire planet for shits and giggles apparently so whatever.

After Graviton leaves, Mockingbird pulls out a secret radio transmitter that the guards didn’t find and tries to send a distress message to the East Coast Avengers.

But everything is proceeding as he has foreseen, etc etc, and he catches the radio wave and shoots them into space. Because he can do that. Its science.

Meanwhile, back in the subplot that only Hank Pym remembers, Hank Pym is following up on the Master Pandemonium subplot.

And like he suggested, he’s picking up where Firebird left off looking for information at occult bookstores.

He visits Mr. Carstairs’ Grimoire Book Shoppe and asks Mr. Carstairs if he knows anything about the Darkhold or Master Pandemonium.

Mr. Carstairs denies that the Darkhold even exists or that he’s heard of Master Pandemonium. Hank figures that he’s lying but it’s not his job to follow up on that. It’s enough of a lead that he can point the Avengers at.

What Hank misses is a demon emerging from the floor after he leaves the Grimoire Book Shoppe.

The demon under the floor: “He says he searches for Master Pandemonium... but demons deal in lies, thrall! He could as easily be from the master, searching for me!”

And she decides to follow Hank out of paranoid suspicion.

Right, there is that thing where Master Pandemonium hates demons and is looking for demons. Stands to reason that there are demons that want to avoid being found.

Anyway, back at Graviton’s newest flying rock, he decides to do a trust exercise with Tigra and takes off her leash and collar. The one he put on her because he’s a creep.

Tigra immediately tries to jump out the window and bonks into a gravity field.

Graviton isn’t surprised that she tried that. He tries to convince her that she wants to be his catgirlfriend and all the benefits it offers.

Graviton: “You can rule my empire as an empress -- a priestess to the glory of power made flesh! And as for your plan to kill Master Pandemonium --”

Tigra: “How -- how do you know about that?”

Graviton: “I have watched you these past months by bending light waves to my eyes! I saw your talks with the Balkatar! I certainly have no use for a man as headstrong as Pandemonium -- I’ll kill him for you!”

To reiterate: he’s kind of a creep.

Tigra gets angry with him talking about her like he owns her and declares “I’m a person! I’m a person with claws!” and lunges to attack Graviton.

And he just faceplants her with gravity.

He leaves her in a gravity dome and tells her that she’ll join him eventually because TOTAL PLEASURE.

This isn’t remotely the point but I bet you anything Graviton is a shitty lover.

Left in the dome with nothing but her thoughts, Tigra thinks.

She thinks what a creep Graviton is. But big and strong. But he humiliates her. Which maybe she’s into. She liked kissing him and likes the sound of total pleasure.

Tigra: “I could soften him up over time! I could end up a goddess! OH NO!! What was I DOING?!!”

Freaked out suddenly about how far gone she is into the whole cat soul thing, Tigra activates the cat amulet on her top. Which turns her into her human self. Or just makes her look like her human self?

It’s been described both ways. But Tigra describes it like its a transformation, not a magic image inducer thing.

Greer Nelson, Not-Tigra: “I’m not an animal -- and I won’t become one!”

A guard wanders by and sees a random woman trapped in a gravity dome, that she’s not Tigra who Graviton has dibs on, and that there’s nobody around... and, uh, I’m pretty sure he has some thoughts about that.

Random guard: “Hey, baby, you got a name to go with those gorgeous legs?”

I expected the work culture of Graviton’s flying rock supervillain lair to be absolutely rancid.

Greer asks how the guard just walked through the gravity bubble like it ain’t no thang and he explains that he has a little device that neutralizes the gravity effect.

Greer: “THEN I’M TAKING YOURS!”

And she jumps the guy.

Apparently her fighting skills suck when she’s not cat powered. (And she does note later that her body feels stiff and strange compared to being in the Tigra body). Like she gives as good as she gets but the guy is tossing her around and punching her in the face and shouting stuff about how how he’s stronger because he’s a man.

Greer does eventually knock the ass out by capitalizing on the gravity dome.

He’s immune to it but it slams her down like a ton of bricks. She just arranges it so that when the gravity dome slams her arms down, they land on his throat.

Take some more judo lessons from Cap(tain America) when you get the chance, Greer.

She steals the little device and the duder’s uniform and heads off to enact A PLAN.

Some guards try to stop her as she’s wandering around because they don’t recognize her and points here to their minioning, its good guarding to actually question something out of place even if she’s wearing the right uniform.

A guard: “Hey! I don’t know you!”

Greer: “Yeah, well, I don’t know you either! But the boss knows me, and if you want to call him, I’m sure he’ll explain my duties to you in great detail!”

A guard: “Hey, no problem! If the boss vouces for you, we got no problem here!”

Another guard: “You’re not Tigra, and that’s all we have to watch out for!”

Well. You get what you pay for with minions and faceless guards. Good aggressive bluff, Greer.

As Greer searches the shadowy parts of the base, she thinks how much she loves sunlight and how she’d rather be Tigra basking in the sunlight and getting head pats from Graviton before rejecting the notion.

Wow, Tigra has her claws in deep.

Anyway, Greer finds Halflife meditating and claims to the alien supervillain that Quantum is totally planning on destroying her. And then finds Quantum and claims the same of Halflife.

Both Halflife and Quantum stomp off to confront the other.

And apparently there’s some goofy ideological differences here, or at least according to Halflife.

As ever, Quantum speaks to the beat of his own drum.

Halflife: “You! Alien scum! I should have known a power devoted to expanding life would turn against my dark destruction!”

Uh, sure?

You’re really identifying with that ‘weak force’ thing, huh?

This feels like a very silver age sort of thing. I may be way off base but it just feels like older, simpler, sillier character writing.

Halflife declares this whole team-up a mistake and goes to attack Quantum, who becomes a crowd, and then they fight.

Any Quantum she touches “ages halfway to his final hour” but there’s so many Quantums that she can’t avoid taking hits. And Quantum is strong enough to give Wonder Man a good fight.

Graviton notices the big, noisy brawl but doesn’t want to wade into it himself. So he calls over guards to throw at the mess.

Most of the guards guarding the Avengers come running at Graviton’s word, so Greer goes into action.

Still disguised as a guard, she claims to the two remaining guards that they need to go help the boss. They argue that someone needs to guard the Avengers but Greer just needed to keep them talking long enough.

She snatches their anti-gravity boxes and shoves the guards into the gravity cage, slamming them into the ground.

Greer tosses the anti-gravity boxes to Hawkeye and Mockingbird so they can escape the gravity cage.

Hawkeye: “Tigra! I knew you were fakin’ with Graviton! I knew you were an Avenger through and through!”

Mockingbird: “You sure are a heck of an actress, cat-lady!”

They’re right. She is a heck of an actress and an Avengers through and through. But they’re assuming that she faked her make-out with Graviton so that’s going to have to be a conversation later, I guess.

The anti-gravity boxes are then used to dispel the gravity effect on Iron Man and Wonder Man so they can get up off the ground.

Wow, these anti-gravity boxes work really well.

If the Avengers don’t take them back to the Compound to reverse engineer and keep them around for In Case of Graviton, then they’re idiots.

Speaking of the man, the Avengers go looking for him to throw hands but they find that he’s had to wade into the Halflife/Quantum fracas after all.

And the three-way fundamental force fight is causing a build-up of their respective energies.

Wonder Man suggests that the Avengers need to stop the fight before it’s too late but by the time he does, it’s too late.

Quantum is blown off the floating rock with a SPLAMM! and Halflife falls down smouldering. Leaving Graviton the winner of the three-way but only in a pyrrhic way. 

The fundamental forces fight has caused his powers to go out of control, shooting the floating rock toward SPACE.

Iron Man tries to push the rock back toward Earth by doing a handstand

but its very goofy looking and I don’t know what he was thinking he would accomplish and I guess he doesn’t either, since he abandons the attempt after one whole panel of trying.

He quickly switches gears from ‘push rock back down’ to ‘ABANDON ROCK!’

Wonder Man concurs and tries to grab Graviton to save him.

Graviton: “I refuse to be subservient to anyone now! Not even a Wonder Man may carry a god!”

Wonder Man almost argues the point but decides ‘fuck it’ and leaves Graviton to get shot into space.

I know heroes try to save everyone but sometimes you just gotta let a man hubris into oblivion.

Instead, Wonder Man and Iron Man grab Hawkeye, Mockingbird, Greer, and ALL THE MINIONS! ... Uh, well, the ones that are conveniently nearby. The ones that Greer knocked out... uh... well...

Most of everyone was rescued, yay!

Graviton gets launched into space. But, y’know, fuck ‘im.

And then the West Coast Avengers take the two piles of minions to the Rancho Palos Verdes Police Station.

I’m not even sure what they’re going to be charged with.

Anyway, Hawkeye decides to say something only a little patronizing to Greer for her MVP role in this adventure.

Hawkeye: “You did great, Tigra -- again! It used to surprise me sometimes, but not any more!”

Greer: “I’m not Tigra! Don’t call me that! I’m Greer -- a woman with a cat’s soul overlaid on her! I almost forgot that -- but I never will again!”

Mockingbird asks if that means Greer will never become Tigra again. Greer says she has to change back to Tigra in order to still Avengers (which she does want to do). She’ll just have to stay on guard against the “seduction of that form!”

Which she privately doubts she can.

Can’t wait to see how this goes.

I know that eventually it will lead to Hank putting her in a cat carrier but there’s a lot of middle bits I don’t know.

Anyway, back at the West Coast Avengers Compound, Hank gathers baseball gear for the big East vs West Coast Avengers baseball game (AvA? Civil War -2?) unaware that the demoness from the Grimoire Book Shoppe is spying on him.

I also can’t wait to see how that goes.

But seriously, there’s a baseball game to get to.

... Although the East Coast Avengers need to wrap up some Namor nonsense first. After that, baseball.

Follow @essential-avengers​ because I will cover THE DRAMATIC BASEBALL GAME and some less important dramatic other stuff that happens after the game.

[bansheeoftheforest]

Witch AU but rather than the Christian take on witches Henry is more of the Pagan variety. The Lodgers or someone else like.. I dunno, Simon Stride or some other big fancy rich person accuses him of devil worship and he just.. has to bite his tongue so hard because saying 'well the devil is a Christian belief and I'm Pagan' really wouldn't help his case.

Henry celebrating the Sabbats privately at first, but then after the Society finds out he's a witch he starts celebrating with them. Yule gifts, Beltane dances, Lughnasadh festivals and baking bread, Samhain rituals, all of it. Just give me the Lodgers sharing their culture and beliefs and Henry being a part of that.

Henry casting protection spells and making luck pouches for the Lodgers, the Society has various protecting runes carved into the marble, the Lodgers invite Henry to drink and hang out and he ends up doing Tarot readings for them, the whole deal. Witch Jekyll my beloved.

Ok so I DID post this au much earlier than yesterday however I immediately deleted it and had this in the back of my mind for a while because I... Really do not know anything about pagan and wiccan witches??? (IS THAT THE RIGHT TERM??? ARE THEY THE SAME THING??? IM SO SORRY I DONT KNOW ANY OF THIS THATS WHY I WENT WITH THE STEREOTYPICAL WITCH IM SORRY IF THATS OFFENSIVE AAAAAAAAAAAAA-)

ANYWAYS HELL YEAH

I would absolutely love the thought of rivals trying to call Henry a devil worshiper and Henry can put out concrete evidence that he is not, infact, a devil worshiper but he only has that evidence because he never worshiped the devil in the first place and also has prepared for people assuming he does for whatever reason. Also Henry??? Getting to connect to a culture that he has to hide because people misunderstand and think his culture is something bad??? Henry doing everything in secret until a Lodger snoops through his things and realize that he is a witch and suddenly the Lodgers are interrogating him, but more like "OH WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US" - "THATS SO COOL WAIT YOU'RE A REAL WITCH?? CAN YOU CAST SPELLS??" etc, etc, and Henry gets to share his beliefs and his culture with the other Lodgers and they get close and mAYBE EVEN SO CLOSE THAT TO THE POINT WHERE FRANKIE SHOWS UP AND THE LODGERS DONT BETRAY HENRY BC THEY ARE CLOSE--

Once more, I love that thought a whole lot. I love it so much and I am so glad you brought this up <3

[lacetulle]

How do you reconcile the fact that some designers are/were terrible people? Like Coco Channel changed the fashion world... but she was also a Nazi. I know separating art from the artist is a thing, but how far does that extend in fashion?

First off, I know you asked this weeks ago. And it’s an important question, so I wanted to make sure I was slightly eloquent in my answer. But when I was ready to submit this, I decided to flip my answer. So be forewarned, this is going to be long  Initially, I thought “yeah, of course there’s separation between the art and the artist.” But now I think that can only be the case if you’re paying attention.

Going from idolizing Coco Chanel to finding out she was a Nazi, was a dramatic shift for me. But I didn’t have any problems looking at her designs and acknowledging how she changed the fashion world. I always enjoy seeing her pieces in museum exhibits…they’re beautiful and it’s always nice to see something in person. Finding out about Chanel’s past was probably my easiest compartmentalization of artists and their work. But the Chanel brand has always swept the bad press under the rug, allowing the average consumer to go along knowing nothing bad about Coco Chanel.

Much like Coco Chanel, I adored John Galliano. But I couldn’t separate his designs from his remarks for a long time. John Galliano’s anti-Semitic rant in 2011 was harder for me to compartmentalize.  By that time, I had been getting into Dior for a year, maybe two if I stretch it. So to find a designer I loved only to be slapped in the face with his “true thoughts” shortly thereafter was tough. And for a long time I refused to really study his collections. I didn’t hold anything against Dior, since they fired him immediately, but I remember feeling bad because for as talented as Raf Simons is, his tenue at Dior didn’t hold my interest the way Galliano’s had. It’s been nine years. He got sober. He’s spoken out about the scandal and expressed his remorse. He’s acknowledged how ignorant he was and that he’s grown to become a better person. Because of all his strides, it was only a couple of years ago when I finally felt comfortable diving back into Galliano’s tenure at Dior. I can now say that his time at Dior is one my absolute favorites and I hope he’s in a good place in his life. He’s not on that pedestal I had him on ten years ago, but there’s no denying he’s insanely talented. The fact that Dior fired him immediately was their way of ensuring no one had to separate the art from the artist. 

Then we can look at Dolce & Gabbana. I’ve always liked seeing their campy Italian shows along with Moschino and other Milan fashion week designers. I know D&G have had some beautiful collections (like their 2019 Alta Moda and Fall 2013 Byzantine shows just to name a couple). I’ve even seen other critics who are don’t like to give them any press, admit when D&G puts out a good collection – which is the prime example of separating art from the artist. It’s what I’ve strived to do with D&G because it’s another brand I grew up knowing at a young age. But Stefano Gabbana is consistently racist and just all-around problematic. And he’s never once apologized for it. At this point, I just assume he thrives on it because it brings the brand into the spotlight for a while. The fact that he continually makes racist/misogynistic/ignorant remarks with no remorse tells me all I need to know about him. He’s a terrible person. D&G is one of the more extremes for me…I tried to really separate the two and just appreciate a collection for what it was. But Gabbana’s reputation has seeped into the brand for me.

I know I’ve semi-recently posted D&G collections, and they’ve been in the queue for months. I received a couple messages asking me to stop posting them. So I went through my queue and pulled all the remaining ones down. I knew the big stories about Gabbana, but it wasn’t until I had the requests to stop D&G posts where I did more research and found a laundry list of receipts that Gabbana is just an ugly person.

There was an article about D&G and how the brand always bounces back and they attributed it to the fact that the average buyer just isn’t paying attention to who’s running the brand. Fashion almost has a safety net for problematic designers because they’re not the face of the brand. The clothes are. So if they stay out of the media, people will be none the wiser.

It’s easy for me to compartmentalize two of the three designers nowadays. What’s done is done at Chanel. I appreciate everything she did for fashion. Time will tell if John Galliano winds up with a nice legacy, but it seems like his life is on the right path now and I hope it continues. I love his work and knowing he has made strides to educate himself on his mistakes has helped me to fully embrace his body of work. But at this point, D&G shouldn’t be compartmentalized. Stefano Gabbana is who he is and will never apologize. So any time someone looks at a D&G collection, they should always remember just who designed it. And don’t give him a cent.

Long story short, I can only speak about my personal ability to separate the art from the artist, so it’s obviously not a one-size-fits-all answer. There are also a lot of people out there who are willing to turn a blind eye to someone simply because they like what they give to the world (a la Michael Jackson or Chris Brown). So I think the extension of separating art from the artist is much like it is in music or movies. It’s probably easy to turn a blind eye to an artist if they had an impact on you. Music and fashion are two ways we express ourselves on a daily basis and it can be really hard to work through the idea that an artist who inspired you can be a horrible person.

Diet Prada on instagram is a great page and they’re basically an industry watchdog. They’ve called out D&G countless times and yet the brand still comes out the other side. So it’s a good indication that even if someone in a position of power calls out Gabbana, the average customer for D&G doesn’t pay attention. Or even worse, they don’t care.

Everyone is going to have a different threshold for when they decide to dump a brand all together because of its designer. If someone is consistently messy, it’s probably a good time to stop caring about their art. Also a big lesson that I’ve had to continue to learn throughout my life…don’t idolize people. We don’t know who anyone truly is, and it’ll save a lot of heartache if something bad comes out.

If you made it to the end and can’t believe I wrote all that with no definitive answer, I think that’s pretty indicative that the lines are murky in fashion. I think it truly depends on the individual looking at a collection and whether they can support/appreciate it while knowing the designer has a dark past.

[gloriainalbis]

Strangers

Part 1 - Losers (S1E1)

Nathan Young x Reader  Words: 4.4k Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sex, drugs  Songs:  Strangers - The Kinks  Bad Reputation - Joan Jett 

“So you've been where I've just come From the land that brings losers on”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Ao3

--

    As bad days go, you’re having a pretty horrible one when you arrive at the Wertham Community Center. It’s the first of many to come, part of the court-mandated service that goes along with your ASBO. Your dad keeps telling you that you’re lucky the judge had been so lenient and should be grateful that he’s allowing you to stay with him and your stepmum again– even though you have no one to stay with and nowhere else to go. And he’s your dad. “In the future,” you tell him while getting out of the car, “I think I’ll walk.” 

     Striding through the frosted glass of the front doors, you continue on to the locker rooms to change into the orange jumpsuits you find waiting for you. You choose a locker on the far wall and dump your stuff there. You decide to leave your t-shirt on underneath, zipping the suit up most, but not all, of the way. Finished, you lean back to take a look at your designated companions for the 200 hours to be dispersed across the next few months. One girl has chosen her locker to be in front of the mirror. Her hair is short, curly, and pinned back on the side to form some cute bangs-like fringe. You notice an ankle monitor adorning her lower leg as she strips down to a pink lace pushup bra and panties and steps into her jumpsuit, rolling up the sleeves and bottom cuffs and adding a gold belt around her waist to complete the ensemble. The color of her earrings and bangle bracelets– both large, round, pink, and plastic– match her underwear. She steps back to take a look at herself and smiles. Another girl brushes her hair back into a high and tight ponytail. She looks curvier than the first girl, but just as confident, pairing smoky black eye makeup with shiny, pale pink lip gloss and gold hoop earrings. The guy who’d taken a locker near yours fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and sticks it between his lips. He looks equal parts cute and odd, tall and lanky with a mop unruly, curly hair framing his face. He wears a red and black checkered shirt and an air of swaggering cockiness radiates from him with a pungency usually reserved for uncommonly offensive odors. He smirks at you slyly. The guy with the locker across from the two girls looks vaguely familiar to you. He has two gold chains, one with a cross, and a grey tank top. His jumpsuit is only zipped up halfway, with the arms tied around his waist. He looks remarkably fit, and, not having much of an affinity for sports, you wonder where you recognize him from. The last person you see in the locker room is shadowy and reserved. His hair is short and neatly combed and his jumpsuit is buttoned up all the way to the very last button. He holds a small, black camera phone in his hand and shifts his gaze between people nervously. As you start to file out, one last person stomps in front of you, looking you up and down as he nearly bowls you over. You grimace as he winks. The first thing you notice about him is the immaculate green flat-brimmed baseball cap. You suspect that this hat and others like it are a large part of his personality. Once you’re all together, a man introducing himself as your probation worker, Tony, leads you outside and has you line up against some railing as he gives what you believe is supposed to be a rousing speech. From left to right is Curtis, Gary, Nathan, you, Kelly, Alisha, and Simon. You would learn their names later, but for the purposes of clarity, we’ll start using them now. Tony paces before you, attempting to assume the macho, fear-inducing demeanor of a boot camp officer. “This is it,” he barks. “This is your chance to do something positive. Give something back. You can help people, you can really make a difference to people’s lives. That’s what community service is all about. There are people out there who think you’re scum. You have an opportunity to show them they’re wrong.” He has the tone of someone who has given this speech before and is just barely holding onto their faith in its underlying message. The girl to your left, Kelly, looks mildly offended at the word “scum,” as if Tony had been speaking directly to her. “Yeah, but what if they’re right?” Nathan interrupts on your right. He looks around at the rest of you, “No offense, but I’m thinking some people are just born criminals.” You smile to yourself and try to hold back a chuckle as a look of anger flashes over suspected-douchebag-Gary’s eyes and he bursts out with “Are you looking to get stabbed?” “You see my point there?” Nathan asks, turning back to Tony. A phone rings and Alisha answers with a casual “Hey,” while twirling a curl between her manicured fingers. Tony tries to continue, but he’s becoming increasingly exasperated. “Doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past-” “Doin’ my community service,” Alisha speaks to her phone. “Hey!” He tries and fails to catch her attention. “Boring as fuck,” she continues. It was getting harder not to laugh and you glance at Nathan out of the corner of your eye, amused at the part he had to play in the deterioration of Tony’s speech. “Excuse me!” He tries again. “Hello, I’m still talking here.” “What, I thought you’d finished?” She didn’t care, evidently. “You see my lips still moving, that means I’m still talking.” He tries to assert something akin to authority but clearly doesn’t realize how poorly that approach tends to work on rag-tag groups of rebellious young offenders. “Yeah, but you could have been yawning, or chewing,” Nathan points out facetiously in a drawling tone. Tony ignores him, but you are full-on laughing at this point. “End the call! Hang up!” He shouts at Alisha to no avail. “My probation worker,” she explains to the person on the other line. “You all right there, weird kid?” Nathan leans past you to point at Simon, who stood alone at the far end of your lineup. Tony fumed. “Don’t be disgusting. I’ll call you later.” She finally hangs up, looking over at Nathan, who was approaching Gary and making kissing noises at him. “I’ll rip out your throat and shit down your neck,” Gary snaps back. He looks amusingly short in comparison, you now realize. Curtis grimaces and leans away from the touchy ball of anger standing next to him. “I shouldn’t be here, man.” Kelly gapes at his arrogance as Gary starts to scuffle with Nathan, grabbing at his jumpsuit. “We need to work as a team here. Hey, that’s enough!” Tony takes a few steps forward. “Can I move to a different group? This isn’t going to work for me,” Curtis continues, even though Tony is clearly otherwise engaged. You lean back, nearly bumping into Kelly as she steps to Cutis’ indirect insults. “Um… What makes you think that you’re better than us?” “What is that accent?” Nathan comments, drawn out of his conflict by the way her “us” sounded a lot more like “oss” “Is that for real?” Curtis scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What, are you tryna’ say something or yeah?” She speaks, the latter half her sentence mostly lost due to her lack of enunciation. “Its- you- that’s just a noise! Are we supposed to be able to understand her?” Nathan exclaims. You shake your head and raise your eyebrows at their audacity and Kelly’s incoherence. She sticks her hand out and flips him off, “Do you understand that?” Things escalate again when Nathan puts an arm around a violently unwilling Gary who responds by grabbing him and preparing to punch. “Hey, pack it in!” Tony lunges forward to separate them “It’s love, man!” Nathan yells. You double over, stepping back to get out of the way. Kelly meets your gaze and smirks at the growing scene before you. Alisha laughs, a high-pitched giggle. Tony stood between them now, pulling Gary further and further away from Nathan, who assumed a boxer’s stance and put up his fists comically. “Do it man! Do it! You’re a prick, man, look at you!” Gary calls, trying to push past Tony. “What the fuck are they doin’?” You say to everyone behind you as Kelly looks between you and Alisha. Simon looks like he’d rather be elsewhere, as does Curtis, but for different reasons. Nathan had taken to punch the air, which only served to further aggravate Gary. “You’re a fuckin’ pussy, bruv! He’s takin’ the piss, come here!” Cue the intro music. --     Tony eventually diffuses the conflict between Nathan and Gary and finally leads everyone to some benches by the lake, which you are told to paint white. Paint drips everywhere, from your shoes to the concrete sidewalk, but you hardly care. How different is this from the reason you were here in the first place? You were reprimanded for painting on someone else’s property and were told to instead paint on someone else’s property to pay for it, how is that supposed to work? The only difference is that the first time had been art, and this was largely pointless. They wanted to cover up the graffiti on these benches, but the new paint job would only make future acts of vandalism easier to see. You did it anyway, though, happy to peel off with Nathan and Kelly as Curtis and Alisha and Simon and Gary pair off to the benches on either side of you. You watch as Gary leans down to pick up more paint on his brush, his hat brushing dangerously close to the fresh paint before it finally touches, leaving a stark white smear on the brim. You poke Nathan’s shoulder and point as Gary notices, ripping off his hat in horror and stomping off in a huff, kicking a bucket of paint into the lake and leaving behind a violent burst of white. “Oh, man! There’s paint on my cap, this is bullshit!” “Ooh!” Alisha whistles as he walks past. Everyone turns and stares as he struggles with a shopping cart that’s in his way, kicking it at first before trying and failing to shove it into the lake as well when it simply falls in front of him, still blocking the path. “I know you,” you hear Alisha say to Curtis, perking up due to your own curiosity. “No, you don’t,” he brushes her off. “Yes, I do,” She continues, unphased. “You’re that runner guy. You screwed up big time.” That’s it. You’d seen him years ago at your secondary school’s track meets and races, and later in the news for his accomplishments and subsequent arrest. “You noticed, yeah? Thanks for reminding me.” He grew increasingly annoyed, and it was abundantly clear. Overhearing, Nathan glances up at Kelly and tries to strike up a conversation, “So I’m guessing shoplifting?” She ignores him. “No?” He was about to speak again when she cuts him off, “Don’t act like you know me, ‘cuz you don’t.” “I’m just makin’ conversation!” He motions to you and Kelly, “This is a chance to network with other young offenders. We should be swapping tips. Brainstorming!” He looks at you to continue, but you stay silent, also curious about Kelly’s infraction. You shrug and he looks back at her. “Come on, what did you do?” “This girl called me a slag so I just got into a fight,” she admits, slapping her paintbrush to the bench in annoyance. “Was this on the Jeremy Kyle show?” He jokes. “No, it was at Argos.” “Argos?” you ask, finding the store an odd place to get into fights. “You know what you should’ve done? You should have got one of them little pens and jabbed it in her eye.” He was referring to the pens for filling out the catalog cards at Argos and you smirk at the image, but Kelly just stares at him incredulously. It’s an odd thing to say to someone you barely knew. He turns to look at you, “And you? I need to know what we’re workin’ with here.” “Ah…” You glance between Nathan and Kelly before continuing, “Graffiti, mostly, and throwing a party that bugged my neighbors, breaking the peace.” You had broken the law, technically, but it was nothing compared to punching someone and getting into a fight in the middle of Argos. He raises his eyebrows curiously, “Is there a story behind it or was it just mindless vandalism?” “It was on the wall of my apartment, my landlord saw it when he went to break up a party that my friends were throwing and he said he’d report me.” “Oh, what a wanker!” Nathan exclaims. “The worst part is I lost the apartment and now I’ve gotta live with my dad and stepmum again and it’s a living nightmare.” You don’t want to exaggerate or sound like too much of a cliche, but your stepmother is one of the meanest people you have ever encountered. You could understand it to some extent, as she has two young children and you aren’t the greatest of influences. You call these siblings stepfuck and stepcunt respectively, case in point. “Well, I can sympathize with that. But at least yours is a stepmum, they’re, like, inherently kinda hot, amirite?” You glare at him and begin to understand some of Kelly’s annoyance. He redirects, turning his attention to Simon, who is now painting his bench all alone after Gary’s outburst. “What about you, weird kid? Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you look like a panty-sniffer.” He holds his hands up beside his face, mocking a disgusting sniff of some invisible panties. “I’m not a panty-sniffer,” he responds. “I’m not a pervert.” He tries to return to painting the bench, but Nathan begins walking towards him, pretending to jack off with his paintbrush still in his hand, grunting disgustingly. You sigh and roll your eyes, glancing at Kelly. He could be funny, sure, but you were quickly learning about his tendency to take things too far. Kelly shrugs at you. “I tried to burn someone’s house down,” Simon blurts out to get Nathan to stop. Everyone who’d heard snapped to attention, as arson seems considerably more serious than vandalism or a few punches. “Fire?” Nathan laughs and walks back. Kelly looks up at him, “What did you do?” You were still curious about the fire and arson, but you let the conversation move on regardless. “Me? I was done for eatin’ some pick ‘n’ mix.” “Yeah, right,” you scoff. “Bollocks,” Kelly agrees. “What is goin’ on with this weather,” Nathan muses, distracted, as thunder rolls down from overhead and you quickly noticed the growing dark storm clouds in the sky just across the lake. Huh, odd. That hadn’t been there just a few minutes ago. “How did that happen?” you hear behind you, looking around to see Tony returning, an angry look instantly plastered to his face. He points to the overturned paint can, part of Gary’s carnage, and holds his arms up in exasperation. “I mean, you’ve been here five minutes. It’s painting benches. How’d you screw that up? You tell me, because I’ve got no idea.” From out of nowhere, a giant white ball of something smashes down on the car behind Tony, completely caving in the roof and sending the car alarm blaring. Shocked, you jump back and duck amid the various screams and cries of “What the hell was that?” and “Oh, Jesus!” Nathan’s smug grin immediately falls and transforms into fear and wonderment. Alisha shrieks, crying out in a warbling tone, “What’s goin’ on?” Tony turns around slowly in disbelief and gasps, “That’s my car!” “Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath. But Nathan isn’t taking it as seriously. “Classic,” he chuckles, thinking it to be some sort of prank. But then another thing falls from the sky into the lake behind you, whizzing past your heads and spraying you, Nathan, and Kelly in an onslaught of lake-water. “Okay, so I’m a little bit freaked out!” he admits. “No fucking shit!” you agree. “What is that?” Alisha asks, turning your attention to the storm Nathan had pointed out just moments ago. It had grown, somehow, turning dark and dangerous as it travels at an unnervingly fast pace towards your group. Simon holds his phone up to film the storm and its effects just as another ball crashes into the dumpster beside him, knocking over the heavy, metal container and spewing ice at him as he ducks and runs from it. More and more ice falls from the sky, huge blocks larger than your head, and you don’t want to think of what could happen if one of them hit you. “Right, let’s get everyone inside,” Tony instructs as more and more of them fall all around you. “Move! Move! Run!” You sprint back to the community center at top speed, holding your head as ice shards rain down on you, pelting and stinging your face and arms. Your heart practically beats out of your chest. One ball of ice pummels into the sidewalk in front of you, breaking a concrete tile. Another falls into a phonebooth, and the glass shatters to the ground around your feet. The storm seems to get thicker as you near the center, and your hair is plastered to your face from the mixture of sweat and water that you were drenched in. You could barely hear Tony yell “Keep going!” over the crashes and booms that fill your ears as you run for your life. Curtis reaches the door first, pulling on the handles and banging on the glass before stepping back and yelling over the din to Tony, “It’s locked! Open it!” Tony groans, “Come on…” and fumbles with the keys. You throw yourself against the wall, as far away as possible from the mega hail storm, and scream, “Just fuckin’ unlock it!” “What is happening?” Kelly shrieks as another massive ball of ice falls onto the pavement beside her. “Open the door, come on!” Nathan yells as Tony grows increasingly frustrated. “I’m finding the right key!” he bellows back “Open the door!” Curtis yells again, and Alisha agreed. “Open the fucking door!” Tony whips around in a burst of anger, “Don’t speak to me like that!” You were about to berate him for his poor priorities when a bright white burst of cold lightning cracks in front of you and sends you flying backward in a chorus of screams. Time slows as you fly through the air and the electricity transforms from a chilling shock to a burning flare, searing and snaking through you as you soar and tumble backward onto the hard pavement. You hit the ground with a sickening thud, from which groans and cries of pain follow. A few remaining snowballs hit the ground around you, but the storm appears to have passed. “I feel really weird,” you hear Kelly say. Your vision is still black, which has you worried until you realize it’s only because your eyes are still closed. You open them and sit up, rubbing the back of your head, which is still screaming in pain. “That’ll be the lightning,” Curtis says to try and explain what just happened. “We should be dead,” Simon points out. “Well, that’s comforting,” you snap back. “A little reassurance might be nice, you know,” Nathan agrees, instead directing his comment to Tony, who is sprawled before the door of the center and has just started to sit up. “‘You’re fine!’ ‘Looking good!’” he elaborates. “Wanker…” Tony groans, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Did he just call me a wanker?” Nathan asks, indignantly glancing at you and everyone else. He snaps his fingers at Tony, “Hey? Hello?” You see a quick look of anger flash across Tony’s face before he grumbles, “Is everyone alright?” “We could have died, you dick,” Alisha adds. “Are you alright?” Kelly asks tentatively as Tony shakes his head and coughs out a growl. “You’re actin’ like a freak.” He ignores her, “Maybe we should call it a day.” --     Tony finally manages to unlock the door, and you return to the locker rooms to gather your things. You feel like you should be annoyed, leaving early only means you’ll have to spend another day here, but you are too exhausted to feel anything. That was probably the closest you’d ever been to death. You can still feel your heart beating, a deep, steady drumbeat, and your lungs ache from the running and adrenaline. Beside you, Nathan closes his locker and leans against it before turning to you, “Do you think we’ll stick together now, bonded by our shared experiences?” “Dunno. I’d rather spend as little time here as possible,” you explain, closing your locker and stepping away to put on your hoodie. “Oh, you’re one of those types, are you?” Nathan smiles. “What type?” You glare at him. “The I’m-too-cool-for-this type.” “No, that’s Curtis,” you quip, knowing that he’d already left the room. “I just happen to not like community service.” Or any of these morons, all the other girls are total slags. “Hey!” Kelly snaps, swinging around to glare at you suddenly. “Oookay?” You turn away awkwardly and leave, you can’t imagine anything you’d said having offended her. Maybe she just really loves community service or something, but that is decidedly not the impression you’ve gotten from her so far. You walk out to the waiting area by the vending machines, where you find Curtis and Simon standing around in heavy silence. Nathan follows after you moments later. “Do we just go, then?” Curtis asks, clearly annoyed. “Where’s the probation worker?” “I think there’s something wrong with him,” Simon speaks up. “It’s like he was having a spasm.” “He was probably just faking it, trying to get some compensation. Cheap bastard,” Nathan scoffs. “I don’t think he was faking it,” Simon insists, looking back down at his phone. “And you know all about being… mental.” Nathan takes a few steps forward as he talks, leering at Simon and lowering his voice. Then he pretends to convulse and yells “Wanker!” You punch him in the shoulder. “Ow, what the hell was that for?” He sticks his head out at you almost comically. You stick your head out back at him. “Stop being such a prick, he might have a point.” Alisha walks in, already looking bored. “Are we waiting for something?” “Probation worker,” Curtis explains. She scrunches up her face in disgust. “I’m not hanging around for that dickhead.” She turns on her heel and leaves, which everyone else seems to take as their cue to leave as well. You can’t be bothered to be the only one waiting around, so you follow suit. Once outside, everyone pretty much goes their separate ways. Nathan, however, trots after you. “What’re you doin’?” You ask. “Thought you looked a little lonely, and, well, I’d like to recommend my own company as recompense.” He motions to himself like he’s all that, which honestly has you snorting to hold back your laughter. “You can’t be serious.” You raise your eyebrows. “Fine, I happen to live along this way, alright? I’m Nathan, by the way.” “Y/n.” You smile at him. “And I’ll have you know that to date, I haven’t had a single complaint.” He says it like you should be impressed or something. “Can’t have complaints if you haven’t been with anybody,” you joke, smirking. His jaw drops in mock surprise, “Oy! I have, too!” He keeps trying to impress upon you the depth of his sexual prowess, offering many stories as proof, all of which have you in stitches. He peels off when you were about halfway home. You say your goodbyes and wave as he walks away, grateful for the company. A few houses down from your own, though, you stop walking, contemplating what to do next. Home doesn’t seem like a particularly fun place to be right now, but it’s not like you have anywhere else to go. It’s still the early afternoon, so it would probably be only your stepmum at home, with your dad at work and your step siblings at school. It’s practically a worst-case scenario, as you doubt she would believe that they let you go early. You wish this day had gone differently. As you’re musing and trying to work up the courage to walk the thirty or so meters left to your front door, the skies begin to darken. You look up to see if a cloud had rolled in overhead, not exactly trusting the weather as of late, but as soon as you do so, it disappears and the sky goes back to normal. You think nothing of it, which is probably a poor choice on your part, but you are too burned out to care. You finally reach the front door, closing it gingerly behind you, but to no avail. “Y/n? Is that you?” You hear from the other room. “Yup.” You stand in the doorway to the kitchen, knowing you need to address this, but desperately wanting to leave. “They let us go early today.” She eyes you quizzically, “Really?” Now here’s the thing, the truth isn’t even remotely believable– There was a freak hail storm and everyone in our group got hit by lightning or something but now we’re all okay and our probation officer did too, he let us go early and then disappeared– so you have to lie. “Yeah, ‘cuz it’s the first day. They mostly showed us the ropes, got us started on something, and then let us go.” You wait, holding your breath. “Oh.” She looks disappointed. “I thought you’d be out today.” “Yeah, well I did, too,” you mumble as you walk away, not really caring whether or not she heard. “What’d you say?!” she calls after you. “Nothing!” you yell back as you walk as quickly as possible to your room. Once inside, you sigh and collapse onto your bed. You feel like a teenager again and it’s horrible, being forced to be somewhere where you’re treated like immature crap every day, living at home again, constantly having a row with your stepmum. You hope, but doubt, that the next day will be better.

[echo-bleu]

Hi, hello, hey! I'd like to request #48, I'm in the mood for angst 💙 Never worry about length, I love & adore everything you write 💙💙💙

Em. I know that by “never worry about length” you meant “it can be super short”. I swear I meant to write something short. I...didn’t.

#48 “You make me want things I can’t have.”

It’s currently 22k and still growing. There will be 5 or 6 chapters, and the prompt doesn’t even come into it until late chapter 4...

It is ANGSTY. It’s a canon divergence where Magnus erases his memories of Alec in 3x19 Read at your own risk and maybe prepare tissues. But I promise a happy ending.

This was betaed by the amazing JeanBoulet. Huge thanks also to the folks at the Fandom Playhouse discord server for all the encouragement and squealing! Especially you Em: I love you and this is a slightly early Christmas present!

[Specific warnings: suicidal thoughts (mentioned), terminal illness/poisoning, internalized ableism]

Summary:

Over the ten months that follow Alec's deal with Asmodeus, Alec struggles to adapt to a world without Magnus in it, Magnus falls in love all over again and everyone just tries to make it through another day.

or

Alec is dying from venom poisoning and Magnus doesn't even remember him.

Read on AO3.

take me back to the start (1)

He’s in Pandemonium, staring across the room at an apparition with a bow in his hand.

He’s in his loft and standing over a pentagram, an electric jolt going through his body as he links hands with someone.

He’s kneeling in his living room, pulling energy from the hand in his, stumbling back against a lean and muscular body, exhausted.

He’s holding up his glass and toasting with a tall man, whispering words, flirting.

He’s watching the man train, shirtless, swallowing back his desire and trying to find the words to say how much he wants him.

He’s standing in a corridor, hurt and heartbroken, the man turning his back on him.

He’s storming into a wedding, and the man is striding toward him—

Wait.

Back up.

*

Back to the start.

*

There’s something bittersweet about being back at Pandemonium after all this time. They’re not here to chase a demon this time, or to offer a priceless jewel in exchange for a summoning. They were trying to get Clary’s memories back then, too, Alec remembers. He was against that plan from the beginning, but it led him to Magnus.

He thought himself in love with Jace, back then.

It’s a strange and painful turn of events that leads them back here. He’s not in love with Jace anymore. Clary isn’t the only one missing her memories. Izzy isn’t wearing that necklace today, though it’s been around her neck every day since—

Alec stops his recollection right there, before it turns into something else. He struggles inside, leaning heavily on his crutches. The music assaults his ears as soon as he’s past the door and he winces. He stays back as Jace and Izzy lose themselves into the crowd. He shouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t know why he decided to come, beside to punish himself.

He adjusts his grip on the crutches and looks around the large, dimly lit room, his height allowing him to scan the crowd easily. He can still see Jace and Izzy making progress toward the mezzanine on the other side of the room. The raised space is less crowded, reserved by the bouncers as a VIP section. Alec can distinguish the couches where a mix of Downworlders are lounging, Seelies blending in with vampires and werewolves.

And a single warlock.

Magnus looks different. He’s let his hair grow a little, and it’s not styled up but to the side, streaked with green and purple — or maybe that’s just the light playing tricks on Alec’s eyes. His outfit is flamboyant, gold brocade on a deep red velvet, the high collar opened on his chest to reveal multiple necklaces. Alec swallows hard.

Alec wonders, even now, if Magnus toned himself down for him when they were together, or if he simply didn’t feel the need to be noticed by other people as much when he was with Alec.

Jace and Izzy reach the stairs and briefly argue with the bouncer at the bottom. After a minute, Magnus makes a gesture and they’re allowed in. Alec can’t hear them, not over the deafening music. He forces himself to take his eyes off Magnus and slowly, painstakingly makes his way around the room, circumventing the crowd to avoid getting toppled over. His balance isn’t good enough anymore to risk the dance floor, and he’s in enough pain as it is without taking a fall.

Izzy and Jace are arguing with Magnus, clearly agitated, when Alec makes it to the mezzanine. The bouncer lets him through without protesting. Alec doesn’t look up until he’s made it up the stairs, and when he does, he can hear bits of shouted conversation amid the music.

“—for a bunch of Shadowhunters to come to my club—”

“Magnus, I know you’re angry, but this is about—”

“I don’t know why I’d even listen to Lightwoods of all people—”

“Magnus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That’s Jace. Alec wants to intervene, but he can’t bring himself to yell from across the room. He’s not sure he can speak at all.

“I know Alec broke your heart, but—” Izzy starts.

Alec braces himself. Magnus’ eyes land on him, but there’s no recognition in them, only a frown. The truth feels like a knife twisting in Alec’s gut. He was still holding on to hope but his mother was right, there’s no denying it now. Then Magnus looks at Jace and Izzy, his gaze turning angry, and back at Alec. There’s a vague curiosity on his face, a slight tilt of his head Alec knows well — but not anymore, because it’s not meant to be this way—

“Who’s Alec?” Magnus asks.

The knife twists again. Alec stumbles, hissing in pain. It feels like an actual, physical wound. His throat knots up, and he turns away from Magnus. He needs to get out of here.

He ignores the stabbing pain in his hip as he stumbles down the stairs, a mess of crutches and barely controlled steps, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t end up face down at the bottom. He runs out the backdoor as fast as he can, into a back alley smelling of piss and forgotten garbage. The contents of his stomach make it to the floor, behind a trash can.

He leans against the wall, barely avoiding stepping into a puddle of his own vomit, and stays there until breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing needles anymore. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Jace and Izzy find him. He can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way his eyes slid over Alec like he wasn’t even there. Who’s Alec?

“Alec,” Jace calls him. He must have felt Alec’s distress through the parabatai bond. Though Alec isn’t sure what Jace feels from him anymore, these days. Between the agony of leaving Magnus and his injury, Alec has tried his best to close his side of the bond.

And the last few days, he’s pretty sure Jace has tried to do the same for him. He looks rough, like he hasn’t slept in days — none of them has. Not since Clary left.

“Did he agree?” he asks.

Izzy scrunches up her face in pain. “Yeah, but—”

“He doesn’t remember us,” Alec states.

“Alec—”

“He erased his memories of me, and by extension, you. I hoped he’d remember Clary, since he knew her from before.”

“He does, that’s why he agreed to help,” Jace says. There’s hope and sorrow mixing on his face, warring with each other like he doesn’t know how to feel either. “But how could he—”

“I broke his heart,” Alec murmurs. “He has the power to erase me, so he did. At least he’s not hurting.”

“You knew?” Izzy asks, shocked.

“Yes. Mom went to see him, before the battle. She figured out what I’d done and she tried to tell him. He treated her like she was still a Circle member and he shut the door in her face. She told me once I woke up.”

“Oh, Alec,” Izzy squeezes his arm. Alec leans into her touch, even though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants...he wants the sweet relief of oblivion, too. But he’s not going to get that. Not yet.

And he wouldn’t want to forget Magnus for the world.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jace asks.

Alec looks away, fighting back tears. It’s answer enough. He didn’t want to believe it, not really. He knew. He knew when Magnus didn’t come after the battle of Alicante. Catarina confirmed it, with a gentleness that surprised even Alec.

But everyone is gentle with him these days, like they’re walking on eggs. He’s become fragile. No, broken.

Broken beyond repair.

*

Magnus sighs. Having Shadowhunters in his loft makes his skin crawl. At least when he told them to bring a fifth they chose someone decent, Clary’s vampire friend Simon. It might make it harder to do the ritual, but Magnus won’t have to clean up after a fourth thoughtless Shadowhunter.

The two he’s already interacted with — Jace and Isabelle — are brash and annoying, clearly used to the spotlight. Simon seems to be dating Isabelle, though Magnus can hardly see what he sees in her beside her looks. She was downright rude the other day.

The third Shadowhunter is more interesting. He’s tall and handsome, honestly one of the most beautiful men Magnus has ever seen, though he looks sad and drawn. There’s something familiar about him that Magnus can’t place. Unlike his sister, he doesn’t particularly look like either of his parents, so it’s not that. Maybe something from one of the other Lightwoods or Truebloods Magnus has known over the years.

He’s avoiding Magnus’ gaze with a consistency that would be admirable if it wasn’t uncomfortable. Is he really so sure of his superiority that he won’t even look a Downworlder in the eyes?

No, it’s not that. Magnus is almost sure there’s something else, something he should know. Something...something to do with the box in his nightstand, the one with a carved bow and arrows on the lid.

He knows what the box is. He knows it contains memories he chose to remove from his mind, memories that must have been painful – Magnus knows himself. If the memories had been dangerous, he’d have put them somewhere safer. This is something else. This is personal. And something in his subconscious is telling him that these Shadowhunters have something to do with it.

It’s only one more reason not to trust them, as far as Magnus is concerned. If they hurt him badly enough that he had to remove his memories...that means heartbreak. Did they do something to his lover, somehow? Did they kill the one Magnus loved?

The tall Shadowhunter – Alec – talks quietly with his siblings in a corner of the room. He’s walking with difficulty, leaning on metal crutches that make a soft tap on the floor each time he takes a step. Magnus tracks him through the room that way, watching him through the corner of his eyes. Each move looks painful, and there’s something emanating from him, like an unknown sickness. Some sort of battle injury, Magnus guesses. From fighting demons in New York, or from the now infamous Battle of Alicante four months ago? He knows there were many casualties, and there must have been wounded Shadowhunters too.

“Magnus,” Isabelle calls him quietly. Magnus snaps back to the task at hand. They’re not here for a social call.

“What?” he snaps at her.

“I know you don’t remember us, but you know you’re missing memories, right?”

“Yes,” Magnus sighs. “I’m not interested in knowing more about them, especially not from you. I removed them for a reason.”

“Alright, alright,” Isabelle relents. “So, do you think you can help Clary?”

“If the Angels took away her runes and her memories, it’s not going to be the same as simply unlocking a mental block or retrieving memories,” Magnus says. “This won’t be easy, and I’m not sure it can be done.”

He sees the others, except Alec, gather around him to listen. “Once, you helped her get back her memories,” Jace said. “It didn’t work—” he glances at Alec across the room, “—but it could have.”

Magnus’ memory of that day is present, but incomplete, full of holes he knows are due to a memory spell. He doesn’t remember why it didn’t work. He hopes it won’t matter today.

“Those memories were ones I took myself,” he says. “I fed them to a memory demon. Biscuit’s current situation is a tad more complicated.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Isabelle asks.

“You said she has pure angel blood, didn’t you? And so do you,” Magnus points at Jace. “The same blood, in fact.”

“That’s right.”

“We’re going to use that. We’re going to ask for her memories back directly from the source. We’re going to summon an angel.”

“Is it safe?” Alec asks, approaching them, and Magnus realizes that this is the first time he’s spoken aloud in his presence.

“No,” Magnus answers.

“Alec, if there’s even a chance—” Jace pleads. “We have to.”

Alec closes his eyes, looking pained. “Jace—”

“No, Alec. It’s not fair. She didn’t chose this.”

Alec opens his eyes again, his whole body stiffening. Isabelle’s eyes widen as she looks between him and Jace, and even Jace seems to freeze in shock at his own words. The whole room appears to hold its breath, waiting to see Alec snap.

“You’re right,” Alec says after a moment, his shoulders slumping. He looks like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. Magnus feels a strange instinct to help him, to offer a body to lean on – but he doesn’t move. “She didn’t. We’ll do it.”

He’s clearly the leader of their group, because after that, there’s no protest, no question, not even from Simon. In fact, Simon looks at Alec with a mixture of admiration and sadness in his eyes, and his gaze is hard when he turns back toward Magnus.

Magnus doesn’t know what he’s done to provoke this kind of hostility. From cocky Shadowhunters like Jace and Isabelle, he expects it, though he’s starting to suspect that their carelessness is only a facade. From Simon, with whom he’s only had friendly, even fatherly interactions? Not so much.

Alec seems to be the only one not angry with him in some way. Instead, he steals looks at Magnus when he thinks Magnus is not looking, and his gaze in those moments is too intense, filled with emotions Magnus can’t even begin to comprehend.

Isabelle makes Alec sit down on the couch while Magnus prepares the ingredients needed for the ritual. Alec refuses at first, looking around him like he doesn’t want to touch anything in the loft, but he relents after half an hour, clearly in a lot of pain. He stays with his back ramrod straight, refusing to relax. He touches the leather of the couch almost reverently, and Isabelle just tilts her head sadly.

Magnus is being far too curious about them. He has no reason to be. They’re just Shadowhunters paying for his services, that’s all. He needs to focus on helping Clary.

The ritual involves painting the ceiling as well as the floor, so he concentrates all his magic on the intricate drawings. “Is this some kind of angelic pentagram?” Simon asks curiously.

“Not exactly,” Magnus answers. “There are similar elements, but this is an angelic Seal.” He doesn’t add that it’s the archangel seal he inherited from his father. An entrance to Heaven, right here at his doorstep, even for a Fallen angel. “It still needs five people to activate it.”

“Summoning an angel,” Simon says. “It’s gotta be dangerous, right? I mean, not for them, but for us?” he gestures to Magnus and himself, excluding the Shadowhunters.

“It could be painful, if the angel doesn’t like our demon blood. Are you ready to do that for Clary?”

“I’d go to Hell for her,” Simon says, tilting his head. “And further.”

Magnus nods. “Angels are unpredictable, but this one will be bound by the Seal. He shouldn’t be able to do true harm.”

“So we just ask him to give back Clary’s memories?” Isabelle asks.

“I’m just handling the Seal,” Magnus says. “It will take all my energy. Jace will ask the question. I suggest you think about what you want to ask.”

Jace nods from where he’s standing in parade rest by Alec. “I already know,” he says.

“Then gather up,” Magnus says. “I’m ready.”

They all stand around the circle he painted on the ground, each going inside one of the smaller circles linked by a network of white lines. Alec leaves his crutches on the floor outside of the Seal area and limps over to his spot with a grunt, standing with his full weight on his good leg.

“Link hands,” Magnus orders.

Isabelle and Jace exchange a look Magnus can’t interpret. They’re on each side of Alec, with Simon beside Isabelle and Magnus completing the circle between him and Jace. He reaches out and clasps his hands with the two men.

The pull on Magnus’ power, as soon as the circle is closed, is immense. If he hadn’t recently received an enormous boost, thanks to his father’s death and Edom’s destruction, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He focuses his energy on keeping the Seal stable, between the floor and the ceiling, a column of light with them on the outside.

The form of the angel starts to shimmer inside the light, wings folded back against his back. He doesn’t become fully solid, instead remaining ethereal, almost see-through.

“Who dares to summon an angel?”

His mouth doesn’t move, but the voice rings in all their heads.

Magnus grits his teeth against the pain blooming in his chest, tightening his hold on Simon and Jace’s hands. It was always going to be painful. The angels hate nothing more than demon blood, even – especially – when the blood is from a fallen angel. It hurts like hell, but Magnus has been to hell, and he’s come back. He can do this. Simon is wincing, but not as badly, his own demon blood more diluted.

What Magnus doesn’t expect is for Alec to cry out and crumple, barely holding onto his siblings’ hands. He’s angel-blooded. He shouldn’t be in pain. Or is it just his injury acting up under the pressure of the Seal?

He looks barely conscious, his mouth half-opened in a cry of pain. Magnus swallows against his own throbbing chest and signals to Jace to get a move on.

“Raziel’s soldier, and Ithuriel’s child,” he answers. “I am of angel blood.”

The angel turns toward him. “Jonathan Herondale. Yes, we know of you. What do you want from the Angels?”

“My lover, Clarissa Fairchild. She’s one of your children, too. You took her powers and her memories.”

“She played with powers beyond her understanding,” the angel says. “She was punished.”

“I’m asking the angels for forgiveness,” Jace says. “Forgive her, and she and I will be your soldiers on Earth, for as long as you desire.”

Magnus grimaces and hopes Jace knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t had much dealings with the angels before, but this is a not promise that can be taken lightly.

The pain is getting harder to bear, and Magnus wishes Jace would hurry up. Simon is looking a little frayed around the edges, his face screwed up in pain.

Alec looks like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“It is not in my power to decide,” the angel says. “But the Angels are fair. We do not deal punishment unjustly. Her sentence is not forever.”

“She’ll be forgiven?” Jace asks, his surprise showing through his facade. “She’ll get her memories and her runes back?”

“Eventually.”

“But when?”

The angel opens his mouth, but before he can answer, Alec lets out a cry of pain and his hands slip out of his siblings as he falls to the floor. The circle breaks, and the pillar of light disappears, taking the angel with it. “No!” Jace cries out, but he doesn’t reach for the angel. He reaches for Alec instead.

He falls to his knees beside his brother. “Alec!”

“I’m fine,” Alec grunts, through he’s clearly anything but. He’s curled up on himself, his face white with agony, even now that the angel is gone and the pressure on Magnus’ chest has left. “I’m sorry, Jace.”

“It’s okay, brother,” Jace murmurs. “Why did he react like this?” he asks louder, looking up at Magnus.

Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t know. It should only have done that if he had demon blood.”

Jace and Isabelle share a look, and Simon’s breath hitches. Magnus looks between them, but none of them is forthcoming with whatever knowledge they have that Magnus doesn’t share.

Alec sits up with Jace’s help, his hand going to his right hip as he groans in pain. “Help me up,” he asks his brother. Jace seems ready to protest, but he must see something in Alec’s face, because he gets Alec’s arm around his shoulders instead. Isabelle goes to retrieve the crutches and gives them back to Alec, who takes them with trembling hands.

Magnus’ heart tightens, seeing him in such obvious pain. He doesn’t know why—

Or maybe he does. The signs are all there, and it’s time he stopped pretending not to see them.

These Shadowhunters didn’t hurt his lover or his friends. These Shadowhunters were his friends, somehow. And Alec…

Alec is the one who must have broken his heart. That’s the only explanation for what Magnus feels right now. It’s like body memory, almost, a level of compassion and love that cannot possibly come from the few interactions they’ve had that he remembers.

Magnus steels himself against the part of his brain that wants to get the memory box from his nightstand right now and open it. He removed those memories for a reason. Because living with them must have hurt too much.

He’s not going to go back on that and expose himself to that kind of suffering just because he’s curious.

“What does it mean for Clary?” Simon asks.

“I don’t know,” Jace says. “He said she’d be forgiven eventually, but—”

“Angels don’t see the passage of time like you do,” Magnus cuts in. “It could be years. Decades.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Isabelle asks. Alec remains quiet, head down, still leaning against Jace.

“Nothing I can think of,” Magnus answers. He stands up straighter. “Which means you’re no longer in need of my services. Please refrain from coming back here unless there’s a true emergency.”

He doesn’t want the reminder that he decided to erase the last — what, three years? — of his life.

Isabelle looks visibly shaken by that, and she swallows. Alec doesn’t look up at all. He turns away like he doesn’t want Magnus to see his face, and Magnus wonders what he’s trying to hide. Jace throws him a murderous look, and Simon shakes his head in sadness.

“We’ll get out of your hair, then,” Isabelle says quietly. “We won’t bother you again.”

Good riddance, Magnus thinks.

It rings wrong even in his head.

*

“How are you doing?”

Izzy leans against the door frame of Alec’s office. She looks tired, overworked. She’s taken on so much in the last few months.

It’s been two weeks since Alec collapsed at Magnus’. He can still feel the pain burning through his veins, eating away at his body, each day bringing him closer to the edge.

“I’m fine,” Alec says, putting down his pen. He shifts in his seat painfully, his hip seizing. He’s been sitting still for too long.

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Izzy sighs.

“I wish you would stop asking me,” Alec shrugs.

They’ve been beating around the bush, trying to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s too big to tackle during work days. They go through the motions like it all still matters, the Clave, the Downworld Cabinet, the patrols. Alec can see Jace and Izzy struggle with it, but he can’t do anything for them.

Clary’s gone back to art school, all knowledge of the Shadow World erased from her mind. Alec has made sure that she’s safe and settled, and all that’s left is watching Jace tear himself apart as he grieves. The hope that the angel brought them isn’t enough. Not when it’s so vague.

Not when everything else is falling apart, too.

It’s been just over four months since it started, since the day Alec made a deal with Asmodeus. It feels like an eternity ago, and yet also like it was yesterday. Magnus’ desperation as Alec broke up with him is seared in his mind forever, and it accompanies Alec’s every waking thought.

Magnus doesn’t remember.

It’s a comfort, these days. Losing Magnus will remain the hardest thing Alec has ever done, but he’s thankful for it, however much it hurts. Because it means that Magnus has his magic again, that he can be happy.

Because it means that Magnus doesn’t have to live through the aftermath.

It’s been four months, too, since the Battle of Alicante. Magnus missed it all. He wasn’t there when they all thought they were going to die there, trapped by the demon hordes, caught in between two forces of evil. He wasn’t there to hold Alec’s hand when he woke up in the hospital to a broken body and demon venom coursing through his veins.

He wasn’t there, when they figured out that it was a death sentence.

Catarina slowed the spread of the venom, but nothing she or the Silent Brothers tried could get it out of his system.

“You’re hurting,” Izzy says, walking in fully and closing the door behind her. “I can see it. I know you don’t like the painkillers, but you need them.”

Painfree runes have long stopped working on Alec’s abused body. The mundane pills were Catarina’s idea. She was there in the aftermath of the battle, when Magnus wasn’t, she ran triage with the Silent Brothers and saved countless Shadowhunters. She did her best to piece Alec’s shattered hip back together and she was the one who figured out what was wrong with him.

“They’re not much use anymore,” Alec admits. The pills are some of the strongest on the market, but his Nephilim body metabolizes everything faster than a mundane, and they barely take the edge off.

No, it’s better that Magnus isn’t here. That he didn’t have to sit by Alec’s bedside after the battle, praying at every new treatment, every test, that something would change. That he doesn’t have to watch the venom slowly win over Alec’s body, leaving him weak and trembling. That he won’t have to wait with them for the day it will reach his heart, and it will all be over.

Maybe a year, Catarina told him. If you stop working and rest most of the time.

Alec has done neither. He can’t. He’ll go out of his mind if he tries to rest anymore than he already does. Work takes his mind off things.

He’s still the Head of the Institute, if only because there is barely enough left of the Clave to hold Alicante together, and appointing new Heads has been the least of their problems.

“There has to be something else we can do,” Izzy says. “To relieve the pain, at least.”

“You know there isn’t,” Alec sighs.

She’s not doing well. None of them are. They’re barely holding themselves together.

They lost their father, the day of the battle. Robert Lightwood didn’t make it out of the destroyed city. They’ve lost Clary and Magnus, and now they’re losing Alec too, as his deterioration accelerates with each passing day.

Their whole family is falling apart.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Izzy says, faking lightness. “We can meet Simon and Maia at the Hunter’s Moon. It will be nice.”

Alec wants to say yes, to give her that, a moment of normalcy amid the chaos. But he’s exhausted and in pain, the ache in his hip never letting up. He’s tired of people watching what they say around him. Looking at him like he’s going to disappear any minute.

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll just go to bed early tonight. I could use the rest.”

Izzy nods wordlessly, disappointed but understanding. “I love you, big brother,” she says.

She says it a lot, these days.

“I love you too,” Alec replies, like every other time. There’s nothing else to say. No it’s gonna be okay, Izzy because it’s not, and they both know it.

Someone knock on the door. “Yes?” Alec calls.

Underhill pokes his head in. “Sir, your mother is here.”

“Let her in,” Alec nods. Maryse has been hovering, and he can’t blame her. Looking at Izzy, he can’t deny her the little bit of hope in her eyes. “Let’s make it a family thing,” he says. “Go get Jace and Max.” He can hold off his exhaustion for a few more hours, for them.

Izzy slips out with a smile on her face and Underhill comes back with Maryse in tow.

“Hey, Mom,” Alec smiles weakly, pushing himself up to greet her.

Maryse strides to his side and hugs him tightly. “Alec,” she breathes, love and pain warring in her voice. “How do you feel today?”

“Not great,” Alec murmurs.

He finds himself honest with her, these days, more than he is with his siblings. She’s been his strongest support, despite their once strained relationship, and Alec is too spent to be angry with her as he once was. All of that doesn’t matter, anymore.

Maryse doesn’t break down, at least not in his presence. But Alec is too much like her for his own good, and he can see her pain in every gesture, in the way her hugs last a little longer, the way she tightens her hand on his arm, the way her voice hitches every time she says goodbye after spending time with him.

She hands him his crutches and supports him as he gets situated. Walking is getting harder every day, as the venom lights his nerve endings on fire with every step on his already unstable hip. Maryse just squeezes his shoulder as he hobbles around his desk and hovers until he’s safely sitting on the couch.

“Tell me,” she says quietly, kicking off her shoes and curling up beside him.

They’ve become tactile in a way they never were before. Neither of them likes being touched much, but as it turns out, terminal illness has a way of making you reevaluate your priorities. Alec lets his family hug him as much as they want to now, even on the days it makes his skin crawl.

He sighs, leaning his shoulder against his mother’s. “The new Inquisitor is a homophobic dick. And he wants me removed. He says I can’t do my job anymore.”

“Jia won’t let him do it,” Maryse says.

“I don’t know. He’s not wrong.”

Maryse takes his hand in hers. “Alec, even now, you’re a much better Head than I ever was. You’re holding up admirably in the worst of circumstances.”

“I’m tired,” Alec murmurs. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

She squeezes his hand, and he sees her swallow back her emotions. “If you feel like you should step down to rest, I’m sure Jens can handle the fort for a while. Until Izzy’s ready.”

Not until you come back. She’s the only one of all of them who faces the inevitable and doesn’t try to pretend that Alec is going to get better. If nothing else, she’s never been one to shy away from the hard truths.

“Maybe soon,” Alec says. He doesn’t want to, but he’s quickly getting to the point where he won’t be able to work anymore. “I miss him,” he adds, his voice breaking. “I can’t stop.”

Alec can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way Magnus looked at him like he was nothing to him. Alec is nothing to him, now. Magnus doesn’t remember any of their time together.

It hurts more than Alec would have thought possible. He’d thought he’d already reached rock bottom, that nothing could possibly hurt worse than breaking up with Magnus. Than waking up in that hospital bed, having lost everything. But that look haunts him.

Maryse just hugs him without a word.

“Alec!” Max exclaims, rushing into the office with his usual energy. Izzy and Jace are on his heels. He jumps on the couch on Alec’s other side, missing Alec’s quick wince when it jostles his leg.

Max is old enough to understand what’s happening, and not quite old enough to know what to do with his emotions. He alternates between acting like everything is fine and randomly bursting into tears, with no in-between. Today seems to be the former, because he starts rambling about his training without a care in the world.

Alec looks up at Jace and they share an entire conversation in an eyebrow raise. Alec keeps his side of the parabatai bond firmly closed, but he knows that his pain leaks through anyway. He can feel Jace’s despair, the way he’s barely hanging on by a thread.

They say the worst pain a Shadowhunter can endure is the loss of his parabatai. Alec remembers the words. It’s one of the things they learn, in the initial parabatai testing. They’re asked if it’s worth it, risking that.

When they gave a resounding yes, their fourteen-year-old brains had no space to comprehend the pain of today.

Jace and Izzy watch Alec like he’s about to disappear, and he knows, he can see, that they can’t yet imagine what will happen after.

They don’t talk about it during the day. It’s too heavy, to much to bear for all of them.

At night, Alec finds himself more often than not sandwiched between Jace and Izzy in his bed. They come claiming they have nightmares or can’t sleep, never quite saying that they just want to feel close to someone else, close to Alec. They say the words, quietly, the words that won’t come out during the day. It was worth it.

And sometimes, where thou diest, I will die. On those days, Alec hugs Jace tight as he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t mean it, that he will go on.

“—and Kara keeps saying I need to work on my defense, but she’s not a teacher!” Max is saying when Alec tunes back into his surroundings. He’s absently drumming his fingers on his good leg, his other hand still in Maryse’s.

“You should listen to her, Max,” Izzy says. “She’s one of the best fighters of her generation. She’s a fairly new transfer,” she explains to Maryse.

“She’s not even a grown-up!” Max protests. “Besides, Aline said she needs to stop overthinking every fight. So she’s not that good.”

“I don’t think you were supposed to hear that,” Alec says, fairly sure that Aline was not referring Kara’s training but rather the frequent phone calls with her deeply transphobic father that send her crying to either of their offices. “You should spend more time training and less time eavesdropping.”

Max pouts and they all laugh, the lightness of the moment freeing them from the stifling sorrow that’s settled between the adults in the room.

Maryse makes the effort to keep the conversation going after that, though she never releases Alec’s hand. It feels good, to have a normal moment with his family. Jace still has shadows in his eyes, but he settles in a chair and even smiles. Izzy’s cheerfulness sounds a bit fake, but she tries. Alec struggles to keep the pain from showing, but he watches them and feels a deep swarm of love for all of them.

After they’re all gone, Alec painfully stumbles back to his desk and pulls up a piece of paper and a pen.

Dear Magnus, he writes. He pauses, and wishes that even Magnus’ name didn’t make him want to cry. Every minute I spent with you was worth the pain it causes me today.

He writes on, until his hand shakes too much to continue. He doesn’t cross out anything, or bother censuring himself. He puts down his pen, finally, and folds the paper carefully.

He unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk with a rune and opens it. He goes to slip the letter he’s just written inside, but he can’t help but stare at the small box there. He doesn’t open it. He knows its contents by heart. He can almost feel it under his finger, the raised edges of the Lightwood crest in smooth silver, the ring he was going to give Magnus. It will go to Izzy, now. There’s a letter for her, underneath the box.

There are other letters, too. One addressed to the next Head of the Institute, instructions on how to keep the Downworld Cabinet going. Alec’s will, freshly updated. Every Shadowhunter is required to draft a will before their first mission in the field, and rewrite it every year. They know better than any other mortal that they can die at any time.

There’s a letter for Jace. One for Maryse. One for Max, who will have to finish growing up without a father and down one brother.

The rest are for Magnus. During the endless days he spent laid up in the hospital, Alec took to writing him letters. In them, he recounted the strongest beats of their relationship, the sweet moments, the hard truths. Everything Alec can remember, since he now has to remember for them both.

He doesn’t think Magnus will ever read them, but he’s not doing this for Magnus. He’s doing this for himself. One last indulgence, since he’s no longer good for anything else.

A drop falls on the top letter, turning the paper darker. Alec jumps and realizes it’s sweat falling down from his hairline. He puts down today’s letter, carefully tucking it in to make a tidy stack, and closes the drawer, his hands trembling a little. His fever is spiking again. In a few hours, he’ll be delirious and out of his mind.

Jace says he cries out for Magnus, in the worst moments. Alec has stopped letting anyone else into his Soundless-rune proofed room. It’s getting worse. It used to happen every few days, but recently, he hardly ever goes a night without losing himself to the venom in his body.

He’s slipping away.

He doesn’t want to die, if only for the pain he knows it will cause his family. But more and more, on days like today, he thinks it might be a relief.

[iwantitiwriteit]

Slow Burn: Act I - Part 5 cont.

The Lip Sync Battle cont.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Famous!Reader

Summary: Growing tensions between you and Chris overflow in the most musical of battles.

Warnings: Profanity, drunken silliness

Notes: Oh my fucking gosh, I fucking finished it! This part was a BEAST to write! It’s hella long so it’ll be in two posts. Before you dive in, set the mood with the moodboard + music specially curated to go with this part! THIS IS A CONTINUATION Read the previous part here.

There stood Chris, muted mic in hand, pink feather boa around his neck, dramatically lip syncing his way through “Big Shot” by Billy Joel. He pranced around the stage, miming the lyrics with absolute conviction, engaging the gawking crowd. You couldn’t believe your eyes.

Scott grabbed your hand and pulled you down the stairs to get a closer look. A crowd had formed on the dance floor in front of the stage, so you and Scott observed from the bottom steps that were a good twenty feet from it. This is close enough.

Chris was really going for it. Gesticulating and strutting, but it’s clear he isn't fully comfortable with performance. Nevertheless, he was having fun. He may be annoying as hell, but he does know how to have a good time. Just as you were mentally giving him props, he locked eyes with you, and a small smirk appeared on his face. What’s he playing at here?

Chris pointed at you as he performed the last chorus:

You had to be a big shot, didn’t cha?

All your friends were so knocked out

You had to have the last word, last night

You’re so much fun to be around

Is he… calling me out me right now? It did add up. He said he thought you were arrogant and a diva, to your face no less. But now he was slander serenading you in a public forum. What the hell is my life right now?

When the song ended, the crowd applauded and Chris bowed, but before he could exit the stage, the host from earlier pulled him closer. You didn’t care to hear what he had to say and started back up to your party’s section. Before you could even make it half way up, you felt a harsh spotlight on your back, causing you to freeze in place.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” You turn around at the sound of the host’s voice. “You’re not really gonna shy away from a lip sync battle challenge, are ya?” All you could do was awkwardly laugh, still frozen on the step.

“Yeah, not you, the diva with all your many Grammys,” Chris and this word. His smug expression makes your blood boil. Before you could even begin to think about why you let this man ruffle your feathers, you’re making your way to the stage. I gotta trick for your ass… The crowd cheers rowdily, eager for what’s next.

When you reach the stage, the host recognizes you, announcing it to the crowd which is just as excited about your presence. “Thank you for gracing us all! You are a true queen!” You get a little timid from all the praise; it never really becomes easy for you to accept. You offer a small smile and wave to the crowd. Chris senses your shyness, and he wonders if he made the right decision in calling you out. 

“But as much as we all love you out there, you have to earn the title of ‘Majesty’ in here. Do you accept this fine gentleman’s challenge?”

You turn to look at Chris. He’s trying his best to be expressionless, but there’s something there. Unfortunately for you, the ruckus and burning stares of the crowd make it impossible for you to focus and discern it. For the moment, you disregard trying to figure him out, grab his hand, pulling his mic to your mouth and say, “I accept.”

“Yass! We love to see it! What song should I tell the maestro to cue up?” You lean over and whisper your selection in the host’s ear. “Great choice!” The host disappears off stage to relay the message, and you turn to Chris to get his mic, which you assume will be muted once it’s time for you to perform.

You get your hand on the microphone, but Chris keeps his grip, causing you to look up at him. “Good luck,” he says with a smirk you’re starting to think is trademark.

“Luck is for chumps,” you rebut, snaking the boa from his neck and placing it on your own. It blends into your pink furry outwear, a sure clash, but you intend to use it as a prop. He huffs out a laugh as he walks backwards a few steps, then turns and leaves the stage to you.

The music starts; a bass strum and some percussion. You wind your hips to the rhythm. Making an imaginary gun with your fingers, you raise it to your lips and blow the “barrel”. You mouth the intro line:

Son of a gun

This earns you an “ow!” from somewhere in the crowd. You continue to sway your hips and move about the stage with utter femininity and a feline nature. A trance clearly comes over you: you are in performance mode. Chris can’t help but marvel at the sight of you so comfortable in commanding a crowd. He’s snapped out of his thoughts as your gaze finds his and you sing to him, the lyrics reminding him of where you two stand:

I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee

Clouds in my coffee, and

You're so vain

You probably think this song is about you

The mention of coffee from you still stings a little for Chris, but you seem to revel in it. ‘You’re So Vain’, huh? Clever choice. You continue to sashay across the stage, accenting the lyrics with your quirky dance moves, head whipping, and expert work of that pink, feather boa. You finish your performance with a slow curtsey to the crowd, but keep your eyes trained on Chris. Even in the dim lighting you can see his sly grin, and you reciprocate it.

“Whew! Did somebody turn up the thermostat cos it is HOT in hurr!” The host and crowd praise you for your performance a few moments longer. You humbly laugh, a little out of breath from all that dancing. “Where’s our other contender?” Chris strides to join you on stage. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel the heat the host was talking about in your cheeks. “What’d you think of your competition?”

Chris takes a moment before he answers, rubbing a hand over his beard while looking down at you. “I thought she was… aight,” he said with a shrug.

“‘Aight’? Just aight?” you feigned offense with hands on your hips, to which Chris just shrugs again. The crowd began to turn on him with some booing and he was quick to clarify.

“Hold on, hold on, lemme explain!” His Boston accent was thick as he began, and the host helped him out with quieting the riled up room. “It was a great song choice, I give you that. Didn’t think a youngin like you would know anything about Carly Simon,” You scoffed and rolled your eyes as he continued, “but I was expecting something with a little more pizzazz, more diva attitude, ya’know? That was just… cute.”

“Hm,” you contemplated your response, “so, what I’m hearing is... you think I’m cute?” You looked up at him with a mischievous grin, hoping to throw him off a little. It seemed to work as he started to nervously laugh and wag his finger at you. The audience laughed and whooped like a fifth grade class, all while Chris’ face turned red.

“I think you need a lesson in how to channel all that sass into your performance. Here, lemme show you how it’s done,” Chris motions for you to leave the stage, and you graciously take the hint and pass off the mic to him. He then leans over to whisper his next song choice to the host who hurries to get it played.

The aggressive pop production of Ashlee Simpson’s ‘Outta My Head’ begins and Chris begins to faux-belt out the tune, really channeling his inner pop star. Palms to his temples for emphasis, he slowly *and overdramatically* rotates his head to accentuate the lyrics before pointing to you as he sings:

You're in my head

Get outta my head!

A room full of people, but Chris is obviously doing his best to entertain you. You struggle to maintain any semblance of a bitch face, working hard to stifle your giggles and bashfulness throughout his goofy performance. Have I really been on his mind? Just before his performance ends, you whisper your final song selection to the host who nods in confirmation. 

Chris takes his last bow in front of the excitedly raging audience. “See! That’s how you do it!” Chris says, motioning up and down with his outstretched hands to the crowd, them to signal to them to continue their applause. “I hope you were taking notes,” he says offering his hand to help you back on to the stage.

“Yeah, I think I got it,” you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes to the audience’s amusement. “May I?” Chris hands you the microphone with a lingering touch.

A slow sultry start to the song brings the energy down for a few moments but once the chorus starts, the crowd is jumping and jamming along with you. You even have a few members from the crowd and half your party join you onstage. You’re having such a good time that you almost forget that you're in the midst of a competition. You turn to Chris and mime the final chorus just to him:

If we don't fuck this whole thing up

Guaranteed, I can blow your mind

Mwah!

With a wink, you blow a kiss at Chris that he catches and puts in his pocket. You throw your head back laughing, unable to keep up a diva act any longer. Chris is laughing too and you hold each other's gaze as the song comes to a close. 

The crowd that engulfed the stage as well as everyone in the venue roared an ovation. You were so into your good time and silent banter that you have no idea if your performance was worthy of this applause. The host beckons Chris onstage for the crowd to choose which between the two of you is the winner of this lip sync battle. Chris stands across from you, his left hand and your right hand in each of the host’s hands. You don’t hear the verdict; the whole of the crowd is a cacophony that fades to the background as you and Chris look at each other with idiotically inebriated smiles.

Shaking you on your shoulders, Scott shocks you out of your trance, “That’s my girl! Congrats!”

“Thanks!” you say and give him a hug. Remembering that he should be the center of attention, you re-announce it over the mic which is met with another round of rousing applause. ‘Birthday’ by Selena Gomez gets played and you're swept into the sea of bodies dancing on stage. 

You look around for Chris and you find him squeezing his way out of the madness that surrounded you. Your mood sours when he doesn’t stick around. You hoped tonight would give you some kind of resolution, and with the moments you just shared, you hoped a good one was at the of the tunnel. Where you stood with each other was still left open ended. Or not. Guess he got the show he wanted.

——————————————————————————

Waiting outside for your ride, a couple of fans asked for pictures, thanked you for your performance even though you didn’t even sing, but soon enough you were left alone in the soberingly chilly Boston air. A wind blows through and you hug your jack tight to you to cut it, but you still feel the freeze. 

“Here,” You hear a voice behind you say. You turn to see that it’s Chris approaching with his jacket in hand. “I wasn’t using it anyway.”

“Thanks,” you say as he fixes it over your shoulders on top of your jacket. He slowly draws his hands from you shoulders as he looks into your eyes. Catching his actions, he clears his throat and backs away from you a decent distance.

An inexplicable excitement floods you then washes away as you remember you haven’t officially reconciled. You try to seem uninterested when you say, “I thought you left.”

“No, just… needed to get some air. Gotta pretty packed up there on that stage. Congrats, by the way. A very deserved win.”

“Thank you. It’s not the kind of win I’ve been needing lately, but I’ll take it.” You let out the kind of laugh like when you laugh at a painful memory. Chris wonders what you mean by that, but doubts now is the time to ask. “I owe it to you.”

“How’s that?”

“You brought the diva out of me. Couldn’t have done it without you,” you say coldly, looking away from him at nothing in particular.

“I’m sorry,” Chris doesn’t hesitate to say; it’s like he’d been holding it in for a while. He steps towards you making the gap between you a little smaller, but still a few feet wide. “I’m sorry I was judgmental. All of what I said about you being arrogant and a diva isn’t true. I knew it when I was saying it. I was just pissed you wouldn’t give me a chance to explain myself for my first screw up,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “I came off as a jerk, and I swear that’s not who I am. Do you forgive me?” His eyes are wide and waiting, hands in his pockets, more so from nervousness than the cold.

This is what I wanted, right? An apology? You sigh deeply before you reply. “You’re forgiven. And I’m sorry too, for not being up front about what I thought. Kinda just left you wondering about where we stood, and that is childish. I, too, have misrepresented myself since we met.”

He smiles a heartwarming smile at, appreciating your profession. “If it counts for anything, I sent those texts before I’d even met you, and even then, I didn’t know you were who I was talking about.”

“So… you had no idea who I was when we met?”

He shakes his head, “Nope, didn’t put two and two together until you stormed off,” he shrugs

“Huh. Well, that’s humbling, for sure…” you trail off with a laugh. Damn, all this over a misunderstanding? “Are we cool now?”

“Yeah… we’re cool.” Chris is somewhat relieved you didn’t ask to be ‘friends’. “We should start on a clean slate.” Chris takes his hand out of his pocket and puts it out to you for you to shake. “Hi, I’m Chris.”

You look at his hand, then his face, then his hand, and his face again. Noticing your hesitation, he re-presents it and wiggles his brows. You playfully roll your eyes and shake his hand, slow and steady. You get a little lost in his ocean eyes as you introduce yourself, “Hi… I’m—“

“Hey, there you are!” You and Chris snatch your hands away as if you’d just been caught doing something horrible when Lisa approaches. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.” The two of you blush and babble like idiots, but Lisa can only notice it on Chris. “Honey, your face is red! You should put a jacket on if you’re cold!”

You giggle at Lisa’s mothering and can hear Chris muttering “oh my god, Ma” under his breath. You’re handing him back his jacket as Lisa says, “I didn’t give you the details for the museum on Monday.”

“Museum? I love museums!” Seeing a grown man get this excited about anything is charming and you can’t stop the giggle that escapes you. “Can I come, too? If that’s ok with you?” Chris turns to you, hands in front of himself cautiously as he asks for your blessing. You contemplate it. Yeah, we’re cool now, but I don’t know about hanging out with him again so soon. But there’s literally no way out of this. Chris has an expectant expression, and you give him a nod to let him know you’re fine with it. “Yesss!” he says as he sharply pulls his fist into his side like he excitedly won something.

Lisa laughs at her son's antics before giving you the necessary details for your excursion. She bids you goodnight and tells Chris she’ll meet him at his car.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, and you check to see that your sister texted to let you know she’s about 2 minutes away. “Ya know… I should get your number if we’re gonna be meeting up on Monday,” Chris tries to say nonchalantly, making you perk up your brows, but you don’t meet his eyes. 

“What for?”

“Just in case, uh, you get lost on the way there.” You look up at him fully now. “You never know. We may just need to communicate.” You could swear his eyes and smile are kind of flirty. Your stomach is doing flip flops, but you’re determined to ignore it. 

“Should that happen, I’ll just call your mom.”

“What if she doesn’t answer? Who ya gonna call? Don’t—“

“Ghostbusters!” Chris tries not to laugh, but your laughter coaxes it out of him. In the midst of your laughing fit, you see your sister's car pull up a few feet up the street so you turn to walk to it. “That’s me. I gotta go.”

“Wait! Your number?”

“No.”

“Really?” he calls out to you.

You reach the car and open the door. With one foot in, you look back and say, “Really. I’ll see you Monday,” with a wink and duck your head to get into the car. You’ve got the biggest grin on your face and notice in the side view that Chris has a matching one.

“So I take it you had a good time?” Lynn asks.

“Yeah.”

Lynn questioningly mouths your simple under her breath as she wonders why you won’t give her more. “I’m too tired to ask for further details, but tomorrow I’m expecting a full debrief, ok?”

“Yeah, ok. Cool.” With that, Lynn pulls off the curb, and you think to yourself, We’re cool.

Part 6 coming soon!

[popculturebuffet]

Darkwing Duck: My Valentine Ghoul Review aka A Bad Episode Even by Valentine’s Day Episode Standards

Welcome back Darkwings of the Night. It’s time to go back to St. Canard for the very review that got me to finish up my look at the episodes that should’ve lead up to Just Us Justice Ducks and the episode itself last month. While I probably COULD have reviewed this one before finsihing that as continuity’s pretty loose here, I wanted to see Negaduck’s proper introduction first. So was it worth it?

Yeah while I was glad to get one of my retrospectives done and free up some room for other stuff, this episode..was an objective disapointment and might be even worse than “Brush with Oblivion”. If your curious to know why and aren’t already lobbing a harpoon at me for bashing an episode you liked, join me under the cut. 

On PAPER this episode sounded really good. Negaduck trying to seduce Morgana back to crime and in general after Darkwing once again neglected her is not at all a bad premise and the in episode conflict of Darkwing’s obnoxious supscioson of his girlfriend being an ex con, COULD’VE been really interesting. But there’s a reason Could’ve was in all caps folks: This episode is not very well put together and it’s gender politics have aged like fine santa liquor left split in a bathtub surronded by toxic waste for 20 years, and tastes just as bad. Trust me I know. My colon still hasn’t recovered. So let’s get into WHY shall we? 

So we open with a date in a graveyard with Darkwing and Morgana, unsuprisingly though Darkwing isn’t the fondest of their meal which... look like someone scrambled the Star-Spawn of Cthulu. He’s going to be pissed.. especially once I try some. Look i’m very curious and very hungry. 

But things take a turn when Darkwing brings up diamonds, because he’s fully insensitive enough to bring them up in front of his girlfriend. She does take the truth in stride: he’s not proposing he’s simply hung up on a case of diamonds going missing, and no solution and thus might have to cut the date short. She offers to go with him but he shoots her down, saying the last time she helped she turned him into a rutabega.. instead of you know TRAINING her and helping her on her aim.  Then the episode looses me.. and about how long into the episode are we exactly? Not taking the theme song into acount?

Yup. It takes around 2 minutes, with some change. for the episode to become absolutley terrible. But first off Morgana suddenly flies off the table claming he dosen’t trust her for being a former criminal and zaps him in vengance.. which is assualt. Cartoony assault sure but it still hurts and his reactoin is STILL pure feer as he’s turned into some kind of ball... I mean.. it’s not like he can’t fight crime like that. Some of the best have done it. 

But still she goes to physical violence at the drop of a hat this episode and Darkwing seems more than a little afraid of that happening again. Just... wow.  I thought, having finished the Legend of the Three Cablleros, i’d be done with writing so poor a character comes off as a domestic abuser, mental in that case phsyical here, but here we are. Now this is untetional so I don’t blame the writers as much.. but I still heft some blame on them for being SO bad at writing a woman that she can’t get angry without phsyically attacking her partner or grasping the implications there. 

Oh and it gets worse. Yes, it somehow gets worse from “Morgana attacking darkwing for upsetting her”. Darkwing proves to be pretty vile himself, as when Morgana accuses him of not trusting her due to her criminal past.... he says “You know what they say once a crook always a crook. “

My.. fucking.. god.... the show is stacking unfortunate implications on top of itself like lego bricks. And yes attitudes towards prisoners were much worse back then, I get that. Dosen’t make it tolerable to HEAR someone spouting that bullshit, let alone our protaganist. And while it doesn’t make her right to shoot lighting at him, as she does after this or attack him before... it does mean he’s a massive, mentally abusive dick who refuses to trust his partner who reformed FOR HIM, just because she used to do crimes. It takes a special kind of bad writing to screw up so badly that two of your heroes are immensley unikeable in the span of minutes but they did. CONGRADULATIONS DUMBASS!

So yeah Morgana breaks up with him and he tries to go after her  and Gosalyn, who was there the whole time with eek and squeak,  decides she needs to get the two back together. 

I mean at least Gosalyn MEANS well. As a result despite her helping them not being a good idea, she’s one of the most likeable characters in the episode. At least for now. The most likeable?

Yes. REALLY. Now granted he’s as much of a bastard as always; After seeing Morg’s tantrum he wants to seduce her back to evil to help with his diamond scheme, unsurprisingly he’s the one stealing them and his plan to do so.. is not all that bright as he fakes being good to get into her good graces.. forgetting that he’s going to need to show her he’s bad again for any of his plan to work, as during the climax i’ts revealed he’s using a candy company as a front for diamond smuggling. Now granted that.. is actually really clever as no one’s going to think to check a shipment of choclate boxes for diamonds unless their tipped off and he even mentions starting a candy company earlier, so that being his scheme dosen’t come out of left field and i’ts  a clever misdirect that you’d THINK he was lying about the Candy Company.  But while Negsy doesn’t’t escape the contagious case of stupidity everyone’s got this episode, he’s still entertaining as ever and Jim cummings manages to make saying “Well be the best of pals” pants crappingly terrifiying. So Negaduck is a delight as always even if his plan makes little sense, as his way of going about it is still clever: he fakes being good and both uses this to make darkwing jealous, thus making him seem irational, and to provide a shield and also forces himself on their valentine’s date. He even gets past Morgana rightfully beign supsicous by playing to her past. So yeah not the best plan OVERALL but damn if he still isn’t awesome.  They visit a carnival, ah feels like home, though this one has a freak show where MORGANA feels like she’s home. After trying to fry Darkwing and making him look like the bad guy Negaduck manages to seperate the two in the tunnel of love then use darkwing’s own jackassery against him by claming he left saying once a crook always a crook. He hten.. comes on way too strong, first asking if she’s thought about going back to crime when they get back to her place and then isn’t resceptive when he just tries to fully turn on the charm. Oh and Darkwing walks in and thinks his gilrfriend is cheating despite her not returning Negaducks affections because he’s a douchebag.  Gosalyn is in the house at the same time as after Negaducks earlier deception, Eek and Squeak flew her back to Morgana’s house to use the Necronomiduck, which talks like he just walked out of Beast’s house because of course he does, and gets a love potion.. which they accidently spray on Darkwing instead. So we do get one of the few GOOD parts of the episode where Darkwing acts all buddy buddy to negaduck and Negaduck even gets rid of him just by telling him to go jump off a cliff. And the combination of Drake acting all sachrine again, much like posiduck, and Negaduck’s clear annoyance and confusion is just comedy gold. 

Sadly that ends and Drake returns and a fight breaks out with Morgana accidently freezing darkwing and when trying to freeze negaduck, he simpy reflects it back the obsconds with her ice cube. 

While Gosalyn and co thaw her dad out, Negaduck explains the whole choclate scam and Morgana refuses and they fight, with Negaduck covering her in chocolate.. then darkwing when he shows up as you’d expect. Darkwing however has buzzsaw cufflinks, a wonderful 60′s batman type gag, and saves them both.. btu the love potion ends up on Gosalyn who covers her dad and possible step mom in frosting

Thankfully it wears off fast, and morgana gets the idea to put the love potion, which is air born into the gas gun, finally getting Darkwing to trust her and blasting Negaduck, then suckerpunching him when he gets close. Oh and despite her plan being VERY obvious , Darkwing STILL questions her flirting with the guy. 

So the day is saved and we end with him questioning her order at dinner that night and her .. attacking him. And Gosalyng saying “Well you always hurt the ones you love”

Final Thoughts: .I do not like this episode. I do not like it on a moat, on a boat or with a goat or in any way shape or form even though that breaks the ryhme. Reviewing it only had me finding MORE problems with it. Morgana and Darkwing are so unsympathetic here, with her violence towards him making it seem like “Aw all couples are just the woman chasing the man around with the frying pan.. or lighting bolts in this case” even though that’s sexist as hell at BEST and makes light of domesdtic abuse towards men at worst.  Darkwing gets off no better, being THAT kind of asshole who assumes just because someone used to be a criminal they always will be. Which even in pastiche makes no sense as I can name tons of superheroes, a who USED to be criminals or villians: Hawkeye, Scarlet Witch, Black Widow, Luke Cage (Before becoming a superhero), Scott Lang Ant-Man, Hal Jordan Green Lantern, Cassandra Cain, Simon Baz, Mach 10, Songbird, Quicksilver, Rogue, Wonder Man, and Emma Frost. And that’s not getting into the number of heroes, including many on this list, who went evil fo ra bit and came back from it.. some of whom are on this list. Usually his black and white insanity schick works but the episode does nothing to punish him for it and instead makes Morgana seem just as irrational by attacking him. 

While this episode dosen’t use the love potion badly, thank god, with morgana even calling it a bad idea.. i’ts all I can give it outside of negaduck. The love potion and negaduck gags are both great.. but everything else is just so toxic and odious it makes it very hard to enjoy. And so.. this wins the DUBIOUS honor of being the worst Darkwing Duck episode i’ve seen so far. The plot’s weak, filled with horrible outdated ideas even by the time this was made, and no one is likeable, even Negaduck wears out his once he starts getting a bit too pushy with morgana. All in all a waste of potetial and a good episode. Until the next rainbow, this episode can step on a rusty railroad spike and get tetnus. 

[somarsword]

Sleep on the Floor - Part 1

ROGER TAYLOR X READER

Hiii! This is my first fanfic (that I’m posting) so please have mercy on me hahaha. Anyways, feedback is very much appreciated. Enjoy! :> 

Big disclaimer, I am neither American nor British.

oh also photo credits to  @hoopdiddydo_ taken from her post on twitter and pinterest.

Warnings: cursing? TRIGGER WARNING!!! Domestic abuse. Panic attack.

Word Count: 1.8k words

February 6, 1976 - New York

"Well, what do you say Y/n?" he asks, one knee still planted on the ground and holding out the small box containing the ring. This was not something you had ever expected to happen so soon.

The once lively and buzzing restaurant was now engulfed in silence, only the occasional whispers remained. All eyes were now trained on you, anticipating your response in silent excitement.

You watch the smile on his face falter slightly as he waits for your response, worry ebbing his features, reminding you that you have yet to respond.

Simon, a sweet guy, helps out at the homeless shelter during Saturdays, goes to church on Sundays, and someone you've been with for a little over 3 years now. Sure, you liked him, but this all seemed to happen too soon. Try as you may to properly assess your feelings all you could think of was, 𝐼'𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒. So reluctantly you nod, forcing a smile onto your face, albeit one that doesn't reach your eyes.

Cheers and claps surround you as he slips the ring onto your finger but all the noise is drowned out by the deafening ringing in your ears. Your heart begins to beat rapidly against your chest as you suddenly feel an overwhelming feeling of dread wash over you. Leaving only one word to remain on your mind.

NO

Soon enough, everyone resumes their meals, leaving you to listen to Simon's rambling, something you used to see as adorable but now just made you feel icky. "So I was thinking of it and maybe for the wedding we could-", but his words pass through one ear and out the other.

You stare at the plate set in front of you, absentmindedly pushing the food back and forth with the fork beginning to feel incredibly light headed. I can't do this. I need to think.

"I'll just use the restroom. Be right back" is all you say before rushing to the toilet. You push the door open quickly, not making it much further inside before your breathing completely picks up. Grasping the edge of the counter you choke out weak sobs as your throat constricts.

Just as you're sure you'll pass out, a man enters. His movements pause when he sees you, both surprise and confusion written on his face. He's quickly brought out of his daze, however, once he processes the state you're in.

In one swift motion, he's by your side, holding onto your other free hand in an attempt to comfort you.

"Can you try to match my breathing love? Think you can handle that?" He speaks slowly, watching you closely, making sure you understand him. You nod.

"Okay. Breathe in" he takes a deep breath in. You do your best to copy it.

"And out" he exhales.

••• -•- •• •--•

He repeats this for a couple minutes before your breathing returns to normal. You finally loosen your grip on his hands, pulling away.

"Uh thanks for the help. I really appreciate it." You finally say to the blonde man. He nods in response.

"What are you doing in the lady's comfort room though?" at your question the man gives a quick chuckle. With a questioning gaze, you look at him.

"Lady, this is the men's room" and sure enough, as you look around, you see the urinals lining the wall.

"Oh" is all you manage to say, your face flushing a deeper shade of red than you thought possible. Apparently, in your haste to escape, you managed to enter the wrong room.

Leaning back against the counter you stare down at your hands, your fingers grazing over the ring set on it. It gleams brightly, definitely not cheap.

Daring to break the silence you finally speak. "Sorry for keeping you here so long. Your date must be waiting" you say, dropping your hands to your sides.

You look up only to see the man's gaze on your ring as well, recognition in his eyes, as if finally realizing why you looked so familiar. He says nothing of the ring as he looks back at you.

"Oh, it's no worries love, I'm just here with my mates. I don't think those 3 wankers are worried anyway" He offers you a comforting smile, going to lean against the wall directly in front of you.

"The Ritz is a bit pricey for a night out with the boys, don't you think?" you ask, letting out a small laugh.

"I guess it is, huh?" He agrees, letting out a small chuckle of his own, shaking his head. "Kinda lucky it's paid for by the record label"

"Record label?" You ask, confusion laced in your tone and eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah. We're uhm-" he scratches the back of his head, realizing he's said something he wasn't supposed to, "Well we're touring at the moment so all our meals are paid for." You nod in acknowledgement, choosing not to pry into it much further.

Your gaze falls back to the ring on your finger, half expecting it to suddenly vanish and for you to wake up from this monstrosity of a night.

"Hey look, I know you're going through something, and you don't have to talk about it." the man speaks up again, "But if you ever feel like you need someone to talk to just feel free to call me"

Looking up, you finally see him holding out what seems to be a business card. You reach for it, nodding meekly.

"Thanks-" you start, before realizing you hadn't actually caught his name.

"Roger" he says.

"Right. Thanks Roger." You turn to your side a bit, stuffing his business card into your bra (a habit you had to stop doing when in front of people) right as the door opens. A man pauses by the entrance, and before you can look at him he starts speaking.

"What the hell is going on?" Simon growls, his voice an octave lower than usual. You snap your head up, immediately looking at him.

Everything happens so quickly that if you had blinked you would have missed it. He approaches both of you in quick strides before attaching his fist to the jaw of Roger.  Your eyes shoot open in horror as Roger hunches over coughing, a bit of blood seeping out his mouth.

Before you could properly react or make an apology to him you're roughly dragged away by Simon, leaving a surprised Roger behind.

••• -•- •• •--•

Simon drives all the way home, silently seething as he grips the steering wheel to the point where his knuckles go white. You cower slightly at the sight. In all your time together you've never known him to be violent, well physically at least, so this was new.

All the way up to the driveway he says nothing, only gritting his teeth and breathing heavily as he replays the image he just saw. Once you were behind closed doors, however, it was a different story.

"WHAT WERE YOU DOING WITH THAT GUY IN THE TOILET?" He yells, causing you to flinch back at the sheer aggressiveness of his voice.

"Nothing. We weren't doi-" You begin but are cut of by his dark chuckle.

"Then what the 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 were you doing in the men's comfort room?" His voice is deeper and threatening. You say nothing opting instead to stare at the floor. His stance was frightening. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚?

"Answer me" He growls, voice dripping with rage. When he receives no response from you he gets more fueled up, grabbing a glass cup that was left on the dining table before hurling it towards you. It hits your shoulder with an aggressive 𝐭𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐜𝐤 before falling and shattering on the ground.

He approaches you causing you to backup into the wall. Trying to make yourself disappear you slide down, covering your face in fear. He scoffs at your poor attempt to escape his wrath and pulls you up roughly by the hair, picking up a shard of glass as he does so.

"𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐓" you're too encapsulated by fear to register the giant gash he was painting into your stomach, slicing the dress that clung to your body in the process. After a few moments with still no response, he releases his grip on your hair, causing you to collapse on the ground, blood beginning to pool under you.

"Should've known you were a fucking slut. Clean yourself up" is all he says before walking out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Scrambling to gather your breath, you force yourself to sit up. Your hand flies down to the cuts on your belly, applying pressure on it in hopes of stopping it from bleeding any.

••• -•- •• •--•

You don't know how long you stay there on the floor, but it feels like hours. With as much strength as you can gather you trudge towards the kitchen, wetting a hand towel to clean up the cut.

The wind howls outside, causing the front door to rattle. The rattling suddenly snaps you back to the reality that Simon could be back any moment. With shaky hands you quickly press a cut up piece of cloth towards the wound, taping it down haphazardly. Once done, you rush towards the bedroom to pack.

You grab a duffel bag that was hung next to the door, zipping it open before crouching under the bed to retrieve the shoe box you've hidden under it. Drawing it out, you discard the lid and reach inside to pull out the small amount of money you had managed to save, along with the folder containing your birth certificate and other important documents. You stuff it all into the bag, changing your (now ripped up) dress and grabbing a few articles of clothing on the way out.

You make a beeline towards the front door, only stopping once your hand lay on the doorknob.

𝐴𝑚 𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠?

You glance behind you. Everything you thought you ever wanted to have stares right back at you. A house, a (supposedly) loving boyfriend turned fiancé, and a stable job. So why did it feel wrong when he proposed last night?

Shaking your head at your own thoughts, you rip the ring off your finger and toss it on the floor before storming out into the dark and empty streets.

••• -•- •• •--•

February 7, 1976 - New York

The sky is now a deep shade of blue, sun beginning to rise from a night's slumber. You've been walking for hours, figuring out what to do. With barely any money on you, you had nowhere to go, so unless you could manage to walk all the way to the next state, you were dead. You could barely afford to eat. Why had you ever agreed to share a bank account with him? How could you have been so stupid as to not have kept more for yourself? Without Simon's signature on the withdrawal slip they wouldn't give you even a penny of your hard work.

𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑒𝑑.

[chelsfic]

Guillermo the Heartless - Guillermo x Nandor (part two to the so-called oneshot)

WWDITS Masterlist <-- click for part one

Summary: Nandor is nervous about his ex-master, Simon the Devious, coming to the house.

A/N: Really? Really, Chels?

Warnings: Non-con, Dub-con, Stockholm Syndrome, Past abuse, Hand-feeding kink, Praise kink, Sex slave, Vampire Guillermo/Human Nandor, Dom/Sub, Dead dove--please.

---

“How do I look?”

Nandor secures the final button on his master’s cardigan and steps back. Guillermo is dressed in dark wash denim jeans, gleaming patent leather shoes, a black dress shirt and one of his signature sweaters--the black and gold striped cardigan. Nandor’s eyes roam up and down the vampire’s body, lingering on his favorite parts: his full, round belly, his thick thighs, the deceptively soft-looking hands, the stubbled edge of his jaw...his pouty lips. Nandor swallows, a blush visible above the line of his full beard.

“You look beautiful, master,” He answers truthfully, meeting Guillermo’s eyes for a second before quickly lowering his gaze. Guillermo has never punished him for admitting to his impertinent attraction and...feelings. But Nandor still feels the raw edge of panic whenever he feels as though he’s let too much slip out. 

The vampire steps closer, reaching out and wrapping impossibly strong hands around Nandor’s biceps, squeezing gently. Guillermo could easily break his arms, liquefying his bones with the flick of a wrist. Nandor thinks about the scars on his legs, his arms, his chest, his back. No, no, no. Guillermo will never hurt him...not like that. Guillermo is good. Guillermo gives him food and clothes and he buys him books and movies. He doesn’t force him to live in a cage no bigger than a dog crate. He doesn’t glamour him into paralysis and torture him. He doesn’t...He isn’t…

“Baby...” Guillermo’s soft tone cuts through the invasive thought spiral consuming Nandor’s mind, “tell me what’s wrong.”

Nandor clears his throat, looking up and holding his master’s gaze as he responds, “I’m just...a little nervous…”

Guillermo lifts his hands to cup Nandor’s cheeks and Nandor flinches dramatically before settling into the soft touch. His ass still stings from the spanking he’d received the previous night for questioning his master’s plan. He doesn’t want to be bad again, but he’s so scared…

“Because Simon is coming,” Guillermo states, not really needing a confirmation but Nandor nods anyway. 

“Mmhmm,” Nandor squeaks and then remembers himself, “Yes, master.”

Guillermo smiles at him, finding something about all this amusing, and Nandor’s heart skips a beat. His master has a megawatt smile and it feeds his soul to see it, even if he’s unsure whether or not Guillermo is laughing at him or trying to comfort him.

“Have you eaten yet?” Guillermo asks and Nandor’s brain takes a second to adjust to the rapid change of topic.

He shakes his head slowly, big brown eyes looking down into his master’s with a childish look of guilt.

Guillermo huffs a laugh, “Were you waiting for me?”

Nandor nods, letting his lips curl upward in a cautious smile. Guillermo rolls his eyes. 

“Alright. Come on, baby.”

Guillermo leads the way into the back of the house to the little kitchen. They don’t always do this anymore, but Nandor is feeling especially shaky and vulnerable tonight. Being fed from his master’s hand was once a degradation that filled him with burning embarrassment. Now it’s the ultimate comfort to Nandor. It makes him feel small, cared for and--most importantly--safe. His master cares about him enough to cook for him and feed him with his own hands. 

“What do you feel like having?” Guillermo asks, opening up the cupboards over the stove to peer at the contents. Nandor looms at his side. He’s far taller than his master but, somehow, he feels smaller in his presence. He reaches up to the top shelf and pulls down a can of beef stew, handing it to Guillermo wordlessly. 

The vampire grabs a pot from the rack beneath the cabinets and opens a drawer to get the can opener. He looks up at his human with an arched brow, “Do you want to sit down or do you want to cling?”

Nandor is practically glued to his master’s side, his fingers delicately clutching the knit fabric of his sleeve as he watches him dump the contents of the can into the pot. 

“Is it okay…? If I...cling?” Nandor’s voice is barely there. But it is there. And even if his words come out as a pathetic, hopeful question, at least he has words. He still remembers the months on end that Simon kept his brain locked down, denying him the ability to speak, to cry, to scream. It took weeks after he came to be Guillermo’s familiar before he felt safe uttering a single word.

He’s watching his master’s face like a hawk, gauging his reaction and trembling in anticipation. Is he annoyed? Angry? Disgusted? Finally, Guillermo smiles and Nandor is almost light-headed with relief.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he answers and Nandor thinks that the look he gives him is almost warm. Like maybe he’s feeling the same way that Nandor feels. Like Guillermo is the ocean and he’d willingly drown just to feel his embrace.

He watches Guillermo stir the soup, condensation fogging the thick-rimmed glasses that he only wears out of habit and because they look cool. He picks up a spoonful and holds it out to Nandor to test.

“Hot enough?” he asks and Nandor nods. “Alright. Go sit at the table.”

The chair squeaks as he pulls it out and Nandor folds his long body down into it, looking like a giant at the rickety old kitchenette table. Guillermo comes over and sets down a bowl heaping with steaming hot stew. He takes a seat beside Nandor and turns to face him, dipping the spoon into the bowl and holding it up before his familiar’s lips. Nandor locks eyes with him as he leans forward, opens his mouth and takes the food off the spoon. He feels a thrill in his chest to be so thoroughly taken care of and he thinks the gleam in Guillermo’s dark eyes means that he’s enjoying it, too. He hopes so. He scoots forward in his seat until their knees brush together, needing the added comfort of physical touch.

Guillermo gives him another spoonful and starts talking while Nandor chews, “I’m going to tell you how things will go tonight. I’m taking care of you right now and I’m gonna take care of you tonight when Simon and his crew arrive. We’re going to meet in the fancy room. You’re going to sit at my feet like you always do. You don’t have to speak, you don’t have to even look at him if you don’t want to. But you have to be there, alright? Do you think I liked having to hurt you last night?”

Guillermo sets down the spoon and his eyes are suddenly intense as he waits for an answer. Nandor shakes his head, swallowing before speaking, “No, master. I’m sorry--”

“I know you’re sorry,” Guillermo cuts him off. “I am too. But I had to teach you. I’m your master, Nandor. If I tell you to do something, you do it. And you trust that I won’t ask you to do anything that would cause...permanent damage.”

He holds up another spoonful of stew and Nandor stares at it for a minute, his throat rapidly convulsing as a single tear rolls down his cheek. Guillermo sighs.

“If you’re a weepy mess when Simon gets here, I swear...What is it? Speak,” he commands with a sharp edge of warning in his voice.

Nandor takes a shaky breath, wanting desperately to ask something but terribly afraid of what the answer might be. His mind flashes back to social gatherings, parties, where Guillermo had lent out the use of his familiar’s warm mouth to his vampire guests. 

Nandor finally forces himself to form the words, “Are you going to l-let them...use me?”

Please don’t make me say it.

Guillermo takes in a sharp breath and holds it for a long, silent moment, during which Nandor wonders if his master is picturing him gagging on his ex-master’s dick with tears running down his face. He knows Guillermo likes it when he cries. 

Finally, mercifully…

“No, Nandor,” Guillermo says, stirring the stew and once again lifting the spoon to his lips. “No one but me will touch you tonight.”

---

Nandor stands in the front hallway quietly coming apart. He’s still attached to his master’s side and he can’t seem to keep his hands from seeking out and subtly touching him. His long fingers flutter at the hem of Guillermo’s sweater, clinging to the fabric like a security blanket. Guillermo is largely ignoring him. He glances down at his watch with an annoyed frown. Nadja and Laszlo stand on the far side of the hallway.

Laszlo suddenly pipes up, “I say, Guillermo, any chance of a quick nip before Simon’s posse arrives?”

He makes a show of eyeing Nandor and mimes biting him. Nandor shrinks even further into Guillermo’s side. 

“Fuck off, Laszlo,” Guillermo grunts and Nandor almost weeps in gratitude. Instead he does something unthinkably bold. He leans down and drops his head onto Guillermo’s shoulder, nuzzling his face into the vampire’s smooth, cool neck. Throughout his time as Guillermo’s familiar, Nandor has become increasingly needy in terms of physical touch. Once he started to trust Guillermo and then, later, to love him, he began to seek out small touches from him whenever he was in need of comfort. Tonight, Nandor is especially needy.

The doorbell rings and Guillermo shrugs his shoulders, dislodging his familiar’s head. One of the thralls, lower than familiars but still above victims, answers the door and allows the vampires inside with an obsequious bow. Simon the Devious, flanked by Count Rapula and Mr. ‘50s, strides into the house like he owns it. Nandor shudders and keeps his gaze firmly fixed to a spot on the floor.

“Guillermo! Nadja! Laszlo! I haven’t seen you since you stole my favorite little pet!” Simon’s voice is booming and obnoxious. Nandor’s grip on the back of his master’s sweater tightens but he remains otherwise perfectly still. 

“Good evening, Simon,” Guillermo greets, perfectly unaffected by Simon’s grandstanding. “You’re late, so why don’t we get straight down to business, then we’ll have more time to enjoy the virgins waiting in the cell.”

Everyone shuffles into the fancy room. Simon takes a seat on one couch with his crew members standing stoically behind. Guillermo takes the opposite couch, Nadja and Laszlo remain standing and Nandor sinks to his knees at Guillermo’s feet with an intense feeling of relief. On the floor he’s beneath notice. He can hide his face in the side of his master’s thigh and tune out the vampires’ territory negotiation happening over his head. He feels Guillermo’s fingers sink into his hair and begin stroking him as he makes his opening offer. Nandor sighs, wrapping his hand around Guillermo’s ankle and shutting his eyes, maybe he can fall asleep…

“You certainly have him well-trained, G-man…”

Time has passed. Nandor had floated away into his head for a while, lulled by the rhythmic motion of his master’s fingers in his hair. But now the business portion of the evening seems to be wrapping up and Simon’s voice cleaves through the air, penetrating the little protective bubble that Nandor has imagined around himself. His fingers tighten on Guillermo’s ankle.

“Maybe he just prefers my company over yours, Simon. I hear you find it rather challenging to keep human help. Alive, that is,” Guillermo’s voice is soft but full of lead. 

“You’re so hilarious, G! The dreadful Guillermo the Heartless, gone soft for a pathetic human pet,” Simon laughs and then his tone changes and Nandor knows, without looking, that the vampire is addressing him directly now, “You might think you’re living high now, human, but you’ll always be the same mewling insect who begged me to kill him--”

Nandor can’t help it. He feels the sob clawing up his throat and he presses his face desperately into his master’s thigh to try and muffle it. If he’s weepy, Guillermo will be angry, he’d said so in the kitchen…

“Nandor,” his master cups his jaw, angling his face up to look at him. Nandor’s heavy brows are drawn together and his eyes are glassy but he’s trying to keep it together. “Do you want to show Simon what a good familiar you are now that you have the right master?”

Guillermo leans down and presses his lips to Nandor’s ear speaking lowly, “Pretend it’s just you and me, baby.”

Guillermo’s hands go to his belt buckle and Nandor understands at once. His face flushes a brilliant red but he moves into position at once, kneeling between his master’s spread legs and waiting expectantly as Guillermo reaches into his pants and frees his half-hard dick. 

“Thank you, master,” Nandor says and he speaks louder than he likes so that Simon will hear him clearly. His master wants to show him off, wants to show Simon how much better a master he is than him. Nandor wants to help him. He bends forward and wraps his hand around the base of Guillermo’s cock, licking a long, wet stripe along its length before taking the head into his mouth and beginning to suck. He loses himself in the familiar task, forgetting his fear and anxiety and instead focusing on pleasing his master.

He hears Simon’s voice vaguely in the background, sounding a little defeated but attempting to rally, “I believe someone said something about a virgin feast?”

There’s some movement and commotion and suddenly he hears his master’s voice, slow and heavy with the influence of his hypnotic power, “You will sit down next to me and give me your neck.”

Guillermo’s hands never leave his familiar’s hair, stroking and petting gently as Nandor drools around his length and bobs down, attempting to take more of him down his throat. The victim, utterly mindless, jostles Nandor as they clamber onto the couch, baring their neck.

Guillermo shoves the human back and says, “You will be more careful of my familiar. Now put your neck in my mouth.”

Nandor knows the exact moment that Guillermo begins to feed. His master’s fingers tighten in his hair and he starts rolling his hips up, thrusting into Nandor’s mouth enthusiastically as he drinks his fill from the human. 

“Fucking show off…” Simon mutters darkly.

But Nandor doesn’t hear. He’s completely unaware of everything else in the room, in the world, except for his master’s hands and cock and the sounds he’s making low in his throat as he drinks the virgin dry and fucks Nandor’s mouth. The victim falls to the floor at Nandor’s side and Guillermo presses his hands down on the back of Nandor’s head, holding him down as he ruts against his face, finally finishing with a smug sigh. He lets go of Nandor’s head, trusting that his familiar knows to wait until he’s finished spilling his plentiful, vampiric seed down in his mouth. Nandor’s throat convulses as he swallows and swallows, breathing hard through his nose and straining to look up and meet his master’s gaze. His eyes are pleading and vulnerable. Begging his master for what he needs. 

Guillermo’s blood stained lips quirk into a smile and he obliges, “You are such a good boy for me, Nandor. So, so good.”

“Alright, alright. We get the picture,” Simon grumbles in the background as Nandor finally pulls away from Guillermo’s softening dick. His lips are swollen and his jaw aches but when he turns to see that Simon’s crew is getting ready to leave, having finished their business and sated their unholy hunger, he feels nothing but overwhelming relief and happiness. 

“If you ever tire of my leftovers...I’ll be happy to take him off your hands,” Simon remarks casually as he strolls toward the door.

Guillermo’s voice is as cold as granite as he replies, “That’s not going to happen.”

---

Nandor lies in the cramped twin bed wedged into one corner of Guillermo’s crypt. His master told him to go to bed, relieving him of his valet duties for the evening as a reward for his good behavior. Nandor watches Guillermo moving about the room, blowing out candles, slowly getting undressed and ready for his slumber. He hopes he’ll come and kiss him goodnight before getting into his coffin, but he doesn’t want to push his luck by asking. 

Nandor’s eyelids feel heavy. The stress and fear of the evening have taken their toll and he’s barely clinging to consciousness when he feels a weight on the mattress beside him. 

“Move over,” his master’s voice sounds tired, too, and Nandor wonders if maybe Guillermo had been just as worried about the meeting tonight.

Nandor shifts closer to the wall and swallows his shock when Guillermo climbs all the way in with him, drawing the blankets up over both their bodies and wrapping and arm around Nandor’s large frame. 

“Master?” he asks breathlessly. They’ve never...just slept together before. 

“Shhh, Nandor,” Guillermo murmurs, placing a kiss to the back of Nandor’s neck. “Go to sleep.”