#Fourth the second guy from the left has two strips on one sleeve and three on the other

[shortguyswag]

Bizarre headline aside, that image is absolutely ai generated

[emo-and-confused]

au//// When someone’s causes you emotional damage or trauma, thin flowers raise from your skin. Most people have, on average, three groups. The people of the DSMP typically have a few more than the average. However, Tommy has significantly more, and people don’t realise.

Tommy’s first set of flowers raise when he’s only seven years old. Phil neglected him for his oldest brother, leaving Wilbur to raise him. The group of five flowers raise when Phil misses his seventh birthday in favor of going on an adventure with Techno. The flowers are green and white, and cover his upper thigh, raised slightly from the skin, the marks being tender and feeling slightly like a petal. He doesn’t tell Wilbur, even as his brother holds him while he cries. He knows what the flowers mean, and he doesn’t want Wilbur to feel even worse for him. Even when wearing shorts, the flowers aren’t visible.

(A small flower is added to the group of five on his thigh when he leaves for the Dream SMP, Wilbur promising to come and meet him soon, while Phil and Techno don’t say anything. The flower hurts a little more when it grows in, and the green petals have a mixture of pink swirled in. He still doesn’t tell anyone)

Tommy’s second set of flowers is smaller, during the Disc Saga with Dream. Two flowers raise from the skin along his shoulder blade, both a shade of green usually associated with the admin he’s at war with. He didn’t feel too hurt by the war, but he felt enough of it. He understood though, even if Dream had invited him to his land, Tommy guesses he was just too much to handle. But Tubbo kept him grounded, so he didn’t back down from the war. They were his discs anyways. The sleeve of his shirt covers the flowers; he keeps it a secret.

Tommy’s third set of flowers bloom when Eret betrayed them for the Dream Team. Six flowers bloom across his chest, hurting while they raise. He had liked Eret, he had thought they were friends. Now he can barely look at the guy without remembering the feeling of betrayal, the words “It was never meant to be” ringing in his ears as he remembers Dream killing him and taking his first life (a new green flower is added to his shoulder blade). He trades his red and white shirt in for a bigger size, so the flowers don’t show through the shirt.

Tommy’s fourth set of flowers grow when Sapnap kills Henry. It hurt more than when Sapnap killed Harold, because Henry’s death was intentional. He liked Sapnap at one point, but they had an unsteady friendship. Henry’s death caused a single cream coloured flower to raise at the skin on the right side of his ribcage, creating a constant reminder of the death of his pet.

Tommy loses sight of when the flowers start to bloom after that. He stops remembering which grew in chronological order, and instead only remembering why they grew in the first place.

More neon green flowers raise across both shoulders as Dream continues to mess with him, sometimes the colour of his discs showing up at the ends of the petals. He adds length to his sleeves, and makes the neckline of his shirt a little higher. It’s okay, no one needs to know. He’s not weak, he’s not sensitive (he knows the amount of flowers he already has say otherwise).

The flowers from Eret hurt less as time moves, the king redeeming himself slightly. The flowers don’t fade, he doesn’t think he ever will, but the pain is almost completely gone.

(When he comes across the Final Control Room with Techno, the pain comes back. It doesn’t leave for a week.)

Schlatt causes a grey flower to raise on the back of his neck. He was Tommy’s idol, and he really thought they were, or could be, friends. But his and Wilbur’s exile proved otherwise. His hair covers the flower easily; he doesn’t have to try hard to hide it.

Quackity’s betrayal of L’manburg for Schlatt makes two small blue flowers bloom right above Schlatt’s grey one. It hurts but is almost completely forgotten when Quackity joins them in Pogtopia later.

He gains five brown and yellow flowers from Wilbur during Pogtopia, covering the left half of his stomach. Four more are added when he blows up L’manburg, one more is added when he sees his brother begging his father to kill him. A huge green and white flower is added to those on his thigh. He doesn’t wear shorts anymore to keep it hidden. All of them cause him pain.

Techno causes four pink flowers to run down his right arm. His brother told him to die and spawned withers. It hurt a lot, but he continued to hide. The flowers were thinner than the others, and he starts wearing a white long sleeved shirt underneath his iconic red and white tee. It hides them perfectly. No one questions the new fashion choice.

Seven yellow and black stripped flowers bloom across his heart when Tubbo exiles him. His best friend exiled him and sent him away for a mistake that he didn’t mean to make. The prank had gotten out of hand.

In Logstedshire, the green flowers across his shoulder blade multiply and grow darker, and he has to ask Ranboo to get him the red and white hoodie he has stored in his home, back in L’manburg. He prepared for this, he knew he was going to be covered in flowers one day. People just didn’t like him. Ranboo doesn’t ask why, he doesn’t see the dark green flowers through the white shirt sleeve.

Dream finds out about his flowers. He’s the first one to ever find out. Dream manipulates and gaslights and abuses him, and he almost jumps into the lava so many times. When Dream blows up Logstedshire, no new flowers are added, but the preexisting ones burn. He almost jumps off the pillar he made. (He doesn’t).

When he finds Technoblade’s cabin, he starts to heal. His flowers hurt less and less as the days go by, but they never leave. They never fade.

But then Dream blames him for blowing up the community house, and he and Tubbo fight after Tubbo gets his disc from the enderchest. A new black and yellow flower is added to the bunch over his heart.

Then he chooses Tubbo over Techno. His best friend over his brother. Both have caused flowers but Tubbo was always there. He doesn’t feel like he’s betrayed Techno; he never agreed to L’manburg getting blown up. And Techno sides with Dream, causing more pink flowers to be added to his arm. He understands though, he did chose the opposite side. It doesn’t matter if his brother was the first one to hurt him.

Fundy and Niki both cause flowers; Niki’s two purple and Fundy’s two orange ones intertwining with each other on his ankles. Niki burned down L’mantree and Fundy sabotaged their war supplies. It’s okay though; they might want him dead but he fucked up in the past. He understands their hatred of him.

Other miscellaneous flowers are spotted across him, and his gives up on trying to remember who all hurt him. His skin is painted with thin petals of all colors, from so many people.

When L’manburg’s been blown up for the last time, Dream’s TNT running out and Techno’s withers being dead, and Phil standing with the two of them looking at their work, Tommy is tired. He struggles to breathe normally, but he doesn’t cry. He’s past that.

Dream looks at him, his mask lifted up just barely enough to see the smug smile on his face. Tommy looks down, looks at the destruction. He’s so tired.

“How many were added?” Dream asks. Tommy knows what he means. Tommy doesn’t respond.

Everyone is listening, just like they did at the community house. They’re confused, but they let it play out, not intervening. They never do.

Tubbo moves closer to Tommy as Dream does. Techno and Phil just watch with the rest.

“I asked a question.” His voice makes Tommy shiver and represss memories of Logsted. “How many flowers were added since I last saw?”

Tommy’s reply is simple: a shrug and a quiet “too many”.

Dream moves before Tubbo has a chance to stop him, and Tommy doesn’t try and defend himself. Dream’s axe slashes at Tommy’s hoodie, cutting away the fabric and revealing the flowers that cover his arms and stomach and shoulders and back. The axe cuts at Tommy’s jeans, the denim peeling slightly and showing a sliver of flowers at his thighs and ankles.

No one knows what to do, no one knows what to say, as Dream reveals the pain of the sixteen year old. None of them have as many flowers as that. A lot of them have more than three bundles, but no where near as many as those on Tommy’s skin.

Tommy just closes his eyes, and breathes in. He turns around and walks away, hearing Dream’s laugh coat the silence in the destruction of the broken country. It’s not until he’s at the stairs of the Prime Path that he hears yelling, everyone accusing others and shouting for revenge at Dream.

Tommy doesn’t notice when he gets to the bench, he doesn’t notice when he sits down and watches the sunset. He only becomes aware of reality once more when he feels Tubbo’s presence behind him.

They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. The silence is comforting.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.  

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

[buoyantsaturn]

Bring On The Monsters (1/?)

summary: A rewrite of the percy jackson series? starring solangelo instead? it's more likely than you think

word count: 2455

read on ao3

Some things happened too fast for Nico to register. Bianca often talked faster than Nico could process the words, and he couldn’t play a lot of action-heavy video games because his character always died before Nico ever saw the attacks coming. Other times, time seemed to drag on around him, like he was the one moving at the speed of light, but the world wasn’t turning beneath his feet. He didn’t know which feeling he hated more.

It always felt so unnatural whenever he seemed to move out of sync with time itself. Like his mind was straining to either speed up or slow down, but it couldn’t figure out which was which. Eventually, when he finally figured out why he had felt this way, he couldn’t decide if things had really made more or less sense.

See, his father - a man Nico had only met once or twice that he could remember, but even that seemed to get foggier and foggier the more he tried to think about it - had decided to send Nico and Bianca on a little vacation. A week in some hotel a few blocks down from the hopping Vegas Strip, supervised but only the dead-eyed employees who wouldn’t let them so much as crack a window in their bedroom for fresh air.

When they finally left, it wasn’t their father that picked them up, but his lawyer - a grouchy woman with her hair pulled into a bun so tight that it lifted all of the wrinkles she should have had. She had ushered the children into a car without letting them enjoy the sun and the breeze for even a second, and refused to answer any question the two of them had (like: “How did they build so many new hotels so fast?” and “Why is everyone dressed funny?” and “Where are we going?” and “When can we see our mom again?”)

Even outside of that hotel, with wind blowing through his hair from the cracked-open car window, Nico felt like he was moving outside of time. Nothing looked familiar anymore, besides the green grass on the roadside and the blue sky above. The cars were smaller and shinier than anything Nico had ever seen, and every inch of roadside was covered in advertisements. Somehow, without him noticing the passage of time, they’d wound up in New York, speeding down country roads as the ground started to shake behind them.

Nico turned around in his seat and knelt on the cushions so that he could look through the back window. It was dark outside, and it had just started to rain, so he couldn’t make out any distinguishable figures - until lightning struck. The flash was so bright that, for just a second, Nico could a hulking shape a few hundred yards behind them - like a man who took bodybuilding too seriously, or a bull that learned how to run on its hind legs.

Nico grabbed his sister’s shoulder and began to shake it. “Bia, look! There’s something out there!”

Bianca glanced over her shoulder, but turned back around soon after. “You’re seeing things, Nico.”

“You didn’t even look!” Nico argued, tugging on her shirt sleeve. “It’s like a giant guy running after us! He was right there, I swear!” Lightning flashed once more, and Nico saw the figure again, closer, clearer, spotting two pointed horns on the top of its head. “There it is! It’s closer now!”

That made Bianca move. She turned around, mirroring her brother’s position, and stared out the window. “Nothing can run as fast as a car, Nico, you know that. And I don’t see anyth--” Another flash, and Bianca screamed. The creature was right there, almost close enough to touch, and it jumped. It tried to grab onto the back of the car, but the rain-slicked metal left nothing to hold onto, so the creature fell, but not before taking off the back bumper.

The car swerved for a moment, and the lawyer shouted, “Children, in your seats!” The car picked up speed, but it wasn’t much - that creature could easily catch up again.

Suddenly, the back window shattered, and the bumper was wedged in between Nico and Bianca as they screamed. The car swerved again, this time going off the road and colliding with a tree. Nico’s head hit the back of the seat in front of him, leaving him dazed, the ringing in his ears overpowering the shouting going on around him. Somebody grabbed his arm, and he was pulled underneath the bumper and out the opposite side of the car. He thought he heard the lawyer shout, “Up that hill! To Percy’s tree!” but he was starting to think this was all a dream.

His feet carried him close behind Bianca, but he couldn’t feel when they hit the ground beneath him - not until he slipped on the soaked grass and fell face-first into the mud. Bianca tugged him up again. They kept running. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as the bull-man figure approached the abandoned car, and the lawyer jumped out - except, no, he didn’t remember the lawyer having wings.

She scratched the creature with hands like talons, but before she could fly away, a big, meaty hand reached out and pulled her down by a leg. The lawyer was slammed against the round, and Nico watched her dissolve into a coppery powder.

He was dreaming. He had to be.

Bianca continued onward, up the hill toward a giant pine tree. If it hadn’t been for her vise grip on his hand, Nico never would have been able to catch up. He kept slipping and tripping, and his head was starting to pound. He flinched at every flash of lightning that seemed to burn his eyes.

Then that thing caught up.

It grabbed his leg and pulled him away from Bianca, raising him into the air. It took a moment to sniff him - gross - before Nico was dropped. He managed to catch himself on his hands before his head hit the ground, but something in his arm snapped with an audible crack!, so painful that Nico’s vision blacked out.

“--and I mean, Chiron said that the two of you are probably going to be really powerful, but I don’t think I was supposed to hear that. But, you know, maybe he shouldn’t talk to himself so much when just anybody could be waiting around the corner, right? But, like, I mean, your sister killed the Minotaur, with her bare hands! That must mean you two are powerful, but I just wish Chiron told me what was going on, you know?”

Nico didn’t know where he was, or who this blond boy was that kept rambling at him, but since Nico didn’t know what to say, he found himself, for the first time, speechless.

After probably five minutes of listening to this kid, the boy finally looked at Nico to see that his eyes had opened. “Oh! You’re awake! Let me get you some water!”

He jumped out of his seat and turned his back to Nico, filling up a glass of water from a pitcher that sat on the other side of the room. He helped Nico sit up before handing him the glass. “How are you feeling?” the boy asked as Nico drank. “You had a concussion, and I’ve never fixed one of those before, but I think I did okay, you know, since you woke up again. So? Does your head hurt?”

Nico shook his head. “Um. What happened?”

The boy frowned at him. “Do you have memory loss? Maybe that concussion was worse than I thought. What’s your name?”

“Nico.”

“Do you know where you are, Nico?”

He shook his head again.

“You’re in the infirmary at Camp Half-Blood. Do you know what year it is?”

Nico hesitated. “Um. 1939?”

The boy looked shocked for a second, then laughed. He had a nice laugh. “Okay, I get it, you’re messing with me. You and your sister were fighting the Minotaur last night, but you got knocked out. I treated you for your concussion, and now you’re caught up!”

“Treated me? But you’re just a kid.”

He grinned at Nico. “So are you.”

Nico frowned. “What about my arm? I thought I broke it.”

“Oh! You did! I fixed that, too.”

“In one night?”

“Yeah, I’m good like that,” the boy said, looking awfully proud of himself.

“What’s your name?” Nico asked.

He looked surprised at the question. “Me? I’m--”

“Hey, Will,” somebody else called out, stepping into the doorway - he looked like he could be the boy’s older brother, with the same freckles and blond hair. “Chiron said to tell him as soon as this kid wakes up. You promised me I could trust you on this one, right?”

“You can!” the boy - Will, Nico figured - exclaimed. “I was just making sure his concussion was healed! We’re going right now, I swear!” He jumped up and grabbed Nico’s hand, tugging him out of bed. “C’mon, Nico!”

They brushed past Will’s brother and out of the building until they were on a large, white porch that seemed to wrap around the side of a house. Will pulled Nico around the bend and up to a card table, at which three of the four seats were filled - one by Bianca, the other two by a couple of grown adult men.

One of them, a man with a friendly smile and a brown beard, says, “Ah, Nico! You’re finally awake. Please, take a seat. We need a fourth for Pinochle.”

Nico hesitated, then let go of Will’s hand and sat down in the open chair, next to the other man who was covered in leopard print from head to toe.

“Will,” the first man said, “please go to Cabin 11 and make sure Luke has prepared enough space for Bianca and Nico.”

“Yes, sir!” Will said, and turned on his heel to leave.

The bearded man folded his hands on the table and turned his attention to Nico and Bianca. “Now, I’m sure the two of you have plenty of questions. Where would you like to start?”

Nico couldn’t wrap his head around any of it. He was supposed to believe that he was the child of a god? He was going to have crazy powers and learn how to fight with a sword? Don’t get him wrong, it was the coolest thing he’d ever heard, but how could it be real?

Bianca had gone off to make friends as soon as Chiron had finished explaining things to them, but Nico couldn’t make himself leave the Big House. If he stepped out into that world, then everything would become real. So instead, he sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around his knees, and watched the campers around him.

After a short while, someone came to sit next to him. It was Will, who immediately started picking at a bandaid on his scraped knee. “It’s crazy, right?”

“Huh?” Nico was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a little bit of peeled skin.

“The whole gods thing. You understand what’s going on, right?”

Nico huffed. “I get it. I don’t think I like it.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot to take it. I hear it gets easier once you’re claimed.”

“Claimed?” Nico repeated. “What’s that mean?” “It’s like… So, I know who my mom is, because she raised me, but I don’t know who my dad is, because he’s a god. But I don’t know which god. So claiming is, like, when my dad finally tells me who he is. Once you get claimed, you get to move into the cabin where all of your siblings are, and you get to do your activities with them, and you get to learn how to use your powers - if you have any.”

“Like you have. You healed me.” Nico said. “So you have healing powers, right? Who���s your dad?”

Will blushed and looked away. “Okay, so, I might have...lied to you about that. See, I really, really want my dad to be Apollo, because then I’ll get to hang out in the infirmary all the time and learn how to heal people, but… Lee actually healed you, not me. All I can do is give people ambrosia, and even then I have to have Lee portion it out for me.”

Nico frowned. “But… You and that other guy, you look so much alike. I thought you were brothers.”

That seemed to perk Will up again. “You think so?” Nico nodded, and Will’s smile brightened. “Okay, who do you think your parent is?”

Nico shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I can help you narrow it down! Is it your mom or your dad?”

He tried to think, but it was like something was blocking his memories. He couldn’t remember who had raised him. He tried to remember his mother, but the only face he saw was Bianca’s. Did he even have a mother?

“I...don’t know.”

“Oh. I mean, that’s okay! Let’s go through your options.” Will reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small deck of cards. “Have you ever played Mythomagic?”

Nico shook his head.

“It’s this game where you can fight using the gods as your weapons. Kinda like Pokemon, you know?”

Nico didn’t. He nodded anyway.

Will started laying out cards between them, naming gods and explaining their basic roles in the universe. Nico noticed that Will had called Zeus and Poseidon Big Three gods, but after he’d laid out the twelve cards for the twelve cabins at camp, Nico never heard the third name.

“Who’s the third Big Three god?” Nico asked, frowning down at the cards between them.

Will started searching through the remaining cards in his hands. “Oh. I mean, there’s like, zero chance that you’re the child of a Big Three god, because they made this pact that they would never have children again. Because those kids are way too powerful, you know? And the last time the pact was broken by Poseidon, well…” Will’s eyes drifted toward the edge of camp, and Nico followed his gaze, but all he saw was a standalone pine tree at the top of a hill. “It didn’t go well.”

Will placed the thirteenth card on the step between them. “The last of the Big Three is Hades. He doesn’t have a cabin here because he doesn’t have a throne on Olympus. He’s kind of the black sheep of the family - the god of the dead and the Underworld. He hasn’t had kids since World War two, I think. So, it’s more than likely not him. Besides, you kinda look more like an Ares kid to me, you know?”

[buy me a coffee] | [more solangelo stuff]

[crystalgirl259]

The Flame and the Dragon Ch 7

Chapter 7: The Master

"What the hell were you thinking!" A voice rang in Nya's head as she felt herself slowly regaining consciousness. She tried to shake the weariness from her mind and focus on the different voices echoing around her.

"Well, we weren't leaving them to freeze to death out in the rain all night." A soft voice argued.

"Yeah, and it's hard to ignore two people who suddenly dropped on your doorstep." A third voice with a laid back, casual tone to it added. The first voice shrieked in frustration.

"I don't care! I understand you guys wanted to help the poor things, really I do, but think about home! What do you think he's gonna do when he comes downstairs, finds us taking care of two strangers who are currently sitting on his favorite couch, after having trespassed! He isn't going to consider you're good deed!"

"Then don't tell him, Zane." A fourth, female voice entered, heavy with a hissing sound.

"Don't encourage them, Tox!" The first voice, Zane, scolded the woman, Tox.

"Come on Zane, we can't just leave them out in the storm? I mean we could just..." The soft voice argued timidly, pausing as if to ponder his options. "Just let them stay here the night and let them leave before he wakes up? The Master will never know."

"Jay..." Zane addressed the boy to who the diffident voice belonged too. "Look me in the eye and tell me you actually believe that will work?"

"Oh for FSM's sake, Zane." The unidentified voice howled, followed a stomping foot. "What do you suggest we do?" He challenged. Silence soon followed, allowing Nya time to recover and force her eyes to open. Haziness filled her vision as lights suddenly filled them but she blinked them away and sat up. Relieved to find Lloyd next to her. He was fast asleep, breathing normally, and wrapped in a warm blanket, and his clothes, hair, and skin bone dry.

She couldn't help but smile at how cute he looked sleeping.

She looked down at herself, not only to find she was no longer on the cobblestone path but a soft leather couch, covered by a thick fur blanket. The rainwater has been stripped to the last drop from her clothes, hair, and skin, much to her shock, though she refused to complain. Nya shook away the last waves of sleep and turned to thank their caretakers. But when she turned to the source of the voices she found not people, but four creatures standing in a circle.

One was a troll, one was a white yeti, and one was a green naga.

The last was a creature she didn't recognize. Its body was composed of lightning and with the form of a white and blue fox. Lloyd stirred awake, cutely rubbing his eyes, and shook his head adjusting to the light. The blue fox gently strolled over to Lloyd. It started climbing up the couch like a cat and perched itself on the headrest before cutely holding out a small paw for the boy to shake.

"Hi there, I'm Jay." It smiled and Lloyd's reaction was that of a wound-up spring. The small boy screamed and jumped and fell backward all in one motion, his hand missing the couch and fell into nothing causing him to crash to the floor in a heap. His eyes bulged out of his skull when the furry creature looked over the edge of the couch.

"You okay?" Jay asked.

"A talking fox?" Lloyd muttered from the floor, his voice speaking automatically, shaking. Nya was clearly frozen from shock.

"I'm not a talking fox! I'm a raijū!" Jay stomped his foot, rising to his feet insulted. He growled when he heard the troll and naga snickering, threatening to burst into laughter. Lloyd repositioned himself onto his knees just in time to meet toxic green eyes. The green naga smiled brightly.

"Hey! Name's Tox, what's yours? And before you ask, I'm a naga."

"I'm... Lloyd." He replied, momentarily forgetting to breathe, but answered nonetheless, before turning his he'd to his sister. She was frozen on the couch, with Jay floating around her head on a ball of electricity, waving his blue paws in front of her face.

"Hello? Is she mute?"

"She's in shock, you idiot!" The troll howled. "I'm Ronin, by the way."

"So who are you?" Lloyd smiled at the quiet yeti.

"I am Zane, a yeti with the power to control the element of ice," Zane explained, holding out a clawed hand to Lloyd. Lloyd shook the yeti's claw.

"I'm Lloyd and that's my big sister Nya." She smiled at his elder sibling. Though shock was evident all over her face, Nya held up a hand and waved.

"Oh for the love of FSM." Ronin smacked his forehead before a brilliant glow surrounded his body. A second later, the troll vanished and the light expanded until a tall human man stood in its place. He had wavy brown hair, dark brown eyes with the beginning of a beard on his face. He wore a dark cyan jumper with light brown pants and a large red hat. His arms crossed over his chest as he turned to the siblings.

"Is this better?" He asked but Nya fell out of her seat, still in shock.

"Perhaps this will help?" Zane suggested and a flash of turquoise and in place of the slender, white yeti stood a tall, strongly-built boy, around Ronin's height. He had platinum blonde, almost snowy white, hair that stood up straight in something like a crew cut and bright icy blue eyes. He wore white pants and shoes with a long-sleeved, cyan blue shirt under a navy blue knitted vest. The newly turned man offered a hand to the youngest Smith who was still on the floor.

Lloyd took it without thinking unable to take his eyes off the white-haired man standing before him.

Lloyd's eyes darted to Zane, then Jay, then Ronin and Tox. Tox and Jay looked at the other and smiled, before answering his unasked question. Jay landed on the floor, bathed in a navy blue light, before the blue fox he once was transformed into his true form. He was a young man with reddish-brown curly hair with brown eyebrows and light freckles. He usually wore a blue jacket with a white stripe over a white t-shirt and blue pants with an orange wooly scarf.

Despite his mature features his large, dark blue eyes and mischievous smile radiated innocence and youth.

They all looked to the naga. Tox smiled and a light green flash was the only warning anyone had before in the green naga's place stood a small, petite, almost delicate girl who was around Nya's age. She had long green hair tied back into a ponytail similar to Nya's with sickly, pale, yellowish skin and bright green eyes. Around her neck was a black, studded choker. She was wearing a ripped green tank top that was cut short to reveal her stomach and black, torn-up jeans.

Even though all of them were in human form they still had a few tell-tale signs that they weren't fully human.

Tox still had snake eyes and Ronin's ears were pointed and he had fangs poking out of his mouth. Zane still had a cold air around him and every time he exhaled the siblings could see his breath. Jay's limbs occasionally twitched with electricity.

"I'm sorry if I sound rude, but you three know they can't stay here! It's bad enough you even brought them inside!" Zane suddenly glared, dragged them back to the issue at hand.

"We didn't mean to intrude," Nya explained, "I just needed to find Lloyd shelter from the storm, we'll leave in the morning."

"Hell no!" Jay cut him off. "You're not intruding at all! Zane is just worried about the Master that's all, but he's asleep, just let us warn him quickly that you're here, and then—"

Suddenly an earth-shattering roar echoed through the castle shaking everyone within it to their knees. A tremor ran through Nya's body and Lloyd threw himself in his sister's arms, shaking in fear. The master was awake, and he was furious with the four creatures. A sharp gust of wind roared through the castle, silencing all the candles and shrouding everything in darkness. Despite the fear wracking their bodies the four creatures moved to hide their guests as best they could.

It was a vain attempt to hold their master's anger.

All four of them shook in fear. They knew full well the Master would never harm them, but just his presence alone was intimidating.

"Nya, I'm scared." Lloyd trembled as he tried to hide in his sister's coat.

"Shh, it'll be alright, I've got you." Nya soothed in a vain attempt to calm him down. But she screamed when suddenly a loud gust of wind like the beat of giant wings followed by the loud thump of someone landing behind him before the siblings or the creature could react, and then suddenly she came face to face with two blazing green eyes with black slits, not human, almost like a dragon's. Kai stories flashed in Nya's mind like old photographs.

Stunned mystification caused her eyes to bulge.

"That's not possible," She muttered as her mind began spinning and her body felt faint, but she stood her ground. She couldn't show fear with Lloyd in her arms. The master glared at her, those impossibly green eyes bore into her terrified ocean eyes like piercing arrows. Then he chuckled, a low callous laugh.

"Is that all you can do?" He spoke in a dark, humorous hiss. His green eyes aligned with the fire of hurt and rage that seemed so much older and deeper than his youth. "Stare at me, like I'm some kind of monster."

"It's our fault, not theirs! We're the ones who brought them here!" Jay, who had always been outspoken, tried in vain to defend them but the master's loud growl soon silenced him. Even Zane, who was one of the few who could speak to the master freely, shivered at his temper.

"We mean no harm," Nya replied. "My brother and I just needed shelter from the storm." She explained. The eyes left her and the moment they did, Nya felt as if some enchantment upon her had broken, until she realized the master has not even noticed Lloyd until that point. Before she could speak another world, Lloyd's screamed pierced the night, followed by Nya's when she felt Lloyd ripped from her arms. Something cold and metallic, wrap around her arm, prying them apart harshly.

"Please don't hurt my brother!" She screamed, without thinking. The master's eyes bulged in both horror and confusion before bitterness and humor once again filled them. Harsh laughter spilled from the master's lips shaking everyone to the core.

"Of course that would be your first assumption, too bad; I was going to be lenient, but since it seems you don't know how to hold your tongue, I suppose you'll need a harsher lesson." The master spoke arrogantly, in a tone that froze Nya's core, she couldn't see Lloyd in the darkness but could hear his tears and trembling. Each one ripped another piece of her apart.

"Zane, put them to bed, now." He ordered, glaring at Ronin, Jay, and Tox. Zane reluctantly nodded and obeyed. Eyes wide, the trio moved to flee, but Zane caught them before they could escape. In a flash of light, the boys and Tox human forms vanished and the three creatures fell to the floor. Again they attempted to make a dash for the nearest door, but the Zane caught them in ice before they could escape. They struggled if only to help their new friends.

The master simply snorted at their efforts.

"That's all they'll ever see me as." He muttered in a harsh voice, ceased all of their strugglings. The tone he said it in made it impossible to tell if he was speaking to the siblings or the other four creatures. "They'll only see me as a... a monster" He hissed in a voice of rage and bitterness, before scolding harshly at the trio's loud protests.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" He commanded before flying away dragging his thrashing and screaming prisoners with him, towards the tower. Guilt and remorse poisoned the four creatures. Even Jay could no longer struggle as Zane brought them upstairs to the room they shared for as long as they could remember. The guilt and harshness of their master's tone hurt more than the extremely light punishment ever could. Even worse were Lloyd's screams of terror echoing through the castle until the loud clang of the tower door slamming shut replaced it.

A gloom once again settled over the castle as their master retreated brokenly to his only sanctuary.

A silent shiver of hope was tearing thread by thread that they would ever be free. Or the master's true love would ever come to free their prince from the undeserving and unspeakable fate that was sure to come the following spring...

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, bidnezz!

For @bidnezz. Happy Holidays! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Read On AO3

*****

wouldn’t it be the perfect crime (if I stole your heart, you stole mine)

If Alec knew that being an FBI agent would involve long hours of schmoozing at a fancy party in the Hamptons, he might have chosen a different career. He thought he’d left this kind of thing behind him along with his parents’ plans for a future they’d never even bothered to consult him about when he chose Quantico over Columbia Law. But, no. It turns out that years of enduring tedious socialites means he’s apparently the perfect person to send undercover in a gathering of tedious socialites.

“Quit looking so bored out there, Lightwood.” Lydia’s voice is flat and tinny in his earpiece. “I’m the one stuck back here watching the cameras all night. At least you get to sample the canapes.”

Lydia Branwell had been a class ahead of Alec at Quantico, and as the newest member of the team, it should by tradition be Alec on camera watching duty, but Agent Aldertree thought he'd blend in better. Not only does Alec disagree, but he's certain he and Lydia would both be a lot happier with their roles reversed.

Alec grabs a couple canapes from a passing tray and makes sure he's in full view of the nearest security camera as he wraps them in a cocktail napkin and tucks them into his pocket to give to Lydia later. He hears a soft snort, and Alec is glad to have brought a little levity into this very, very boring assignment.

The whole mission is a long shot. When the host of the party contacted the authorities about a series of notes he received that could maybe be construed as threatening and explained his very tumultuous history with a man who just so happened to be on the FBI's most wanted list, Alec's superiors at the Bureau decided it was a lead worth pursuing, especially since the notes made repeated references to this particular party, which was apparently an annual tradition. Personally, Alec thinks the notes sound more like an annoyed neighbor or fed-up employee than actual threats, let alone threats from a guy wily enough to have evaded authorities for almost two decades, but his superiors think this op is worth it, and they’re the experts.

Alec takes up a position near some kind of decorative pot thing, pretending to examine it while he scans the other side of the room for any new faces or anyone that looks even remotely like their target.

“That’s a lovely piece,” says a voice over his left shoulder.

Alec starts. He didn’t notice anyone approaching him, and he’s usually a hard guy to sneak up on. His surprise only grows when he turns to the man who’d spoken. Alec cannot begin to fathom how, in his hours of surveilling this crowd, he’s managed to miss a man who looks like that.

Deep brown eyes are rimmed with kohl and accented with a just a hint of vivid blue that perfectly matches the streak in the man’s hair and the stitching on his brocade waistcoat. His nails are lacquered in a deeper blue set off by the array of silver rings that adorn his fingers. His lips quirk in an amused, almost secretive smile that steals Alec’s breath and gives him a number of thoughts that aren’t entirely appropriate to be having about a man he’s only just met, and definitely not appropriate to have while he’s working.

“Are you a fan of ceramics?” the man asks, and Alec flushes, realizing that he’s been staring. He’s a little surprised he can’t hear Lydia snickering at him in his earpiece. She must have decided to be kind and mute her mic.

“Not really,” Alec admits. “I just, um. I like the blue.”

The way the man’s smile widens makes it clear he knows Alec isn’t talking about the pot. Still, he nods at it and says, “Cobalt oxide. That’s what gives that vivid blue when fired at high temperatures. Very emblematic of Ming dynasty porcelain, although the style did spread to the West in the following centuries.”

Alec blinks. “Wait, is that thing an actual Ming vase?” He doesn’t know much about ceramics, or art in general, but he’s heard his parents’ friends go on about it enough to know that a Ming vase is very valuable, and not the kind of thing most people have just sitting around their house. Although, this particular house could probably be more accurately described as a mansion.

“Oh yes,” the man assures him, reaching out a hand to point at the vase. “See that faint rust color down near the bottom rim? That’s not something you tend to see except on real Ming dynasty porcelain. It’s caused by a reaction between the firing process and the iron in the particular Kaolin clay used. It causes that rust color on any parts of the piece that aren’t fully glazed, most often seen near the bottom rim.”

Alec nods, but he’s not paying attention to the vase anymore. Instead, his eyes are caught by the strip of skin revealed when the man pointed at the vase, and the color that adorns it. He’s surprised by the sharp disappointment that wells up, and he feels immediately foolish for it. What does it matter that this man who he’s barely exchanged a handful of words with and whose name he doesn’t even know has a soulmate? Especially since the indistinct gray lines on his own forearm mean Alec has a soulmate somewhere out there, too.

It shouldn’t matter. But, somehow, it does.

“It’s not a sure sign, of course,” the man is saying. “A competent forger could fake it. But Lorenzo is notoriously thorough in vetting his collection for authenticity, so in this particular case— Oh.”

Alec pulls himself out of his own thoughts, wondering what caught the man’s attention so suddenly, only to find the man’s gaze fixed on him, sharp and intense. Alec can’t look away.

“I’m Magnus,” the man tells him.

“Alexander. Um, Alec. Everyone calls me Alec.”

“Alexander.” Magnus says his name almost like a prayer. “Would you—”

“Darling, there you are.” It’s the word ‘darling’ as much as Lydia’s hand on his arm that finally breaks Alec’s lazer focus on Magnus. ‘Darling’ is their code word that an op has gone off the rails, and if Lydia is out here talking to him in person instead of over his earpiece from the security room, then something is definitely very wrong. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I didn’t realize,” Alec tells her. He turns back to Magnus, excuse already on his lips, only to find that the other man has already disappeared back into the crowd.

Alec firmly pushes aside the ridiculous sense of loss that accompanies that realization. He has a job to do, and he shouldn’t have let himself get distracted in the first place. Especially not by a man who’s already found his soulmate.

“All our cameras and communications went down about five minutes ago,” Lydia explains in a low voice. “Aldertree and Fairbrand are running protection on Rey. We need to round up Starkwright and Heygrove.”

It takes two hours to clear out the guests without causing a panic and another half hour before they discover the missing painting: a Renoir that had hung in the library on the second floor. It was expertly cut from the frame without setting off any of the alarms meant to protect the precious piece of art.

It isn’t until he’s back in his hotel room that Alec sees it, the dark curl visible as soon as he unbuttons the cuff of his shirt sleeve. He can barely breathe as he rolls his sleeve up to reveal his now fully-formed soulmark.

Alec stares down at the image of a sleek black cat with eyes such a vivid gold they almost seem to glow. Something in the tilt of its head and set of its tail are distinctly reminiscent of Magnus's smile. Alec isn't sure if he wants to laugh or cry.

He's still unsure two days later when the Art Crimes Team announces that the Renoir was stolen by the notorious art thief Le Chat Noir.

~!~

Magnus is on his fourth glass of whiskey when Ragnor and Cat make it back to the rendezvous.

"I'll have you know," Ragnor says, "that it is deeply unfair of you to start celebrating without us when we did most of the work on this—" He stops mid-sentence and mid-stride when he actually processes what he's seeing.

"Magnus," he says slowly, "are you drinking whiskey?"

And Magnus is so, so grateful that his friends know him as well as they do. Well enough to recognize his heartbreak drink. Well enough that all he has to do is show them his arm, now bearing the image of three crossed arrows fletched in blue, and they understand without him having to say a word.

Catarina stows their prize and gear while Ragnor grabs two more glasses. For several minutes, the three drink in silence.

"You know," Catarina offers as Magnus fills his glass for the fifth time, "we don't have to go Prague right away. It's more dangerous to stay in the States, but if you want to stay, Magnus, if you want to find your soulmate again, you know we'll help you look."

Magnus shakes his head. There's a part of him that does want to find Alexander, desperately wants to recapture the hope he had in those first moments after he noticed that his mark had changed. But that hope was built on a fantasy, and Magnus is fairly certain Alexander doesn't want to be found. Not everyone who has a soulmate wants one, after all.

"He's married," Magnus says.

He doesn't tell them what it felt like to watch the pretty blonde slide her arm through Alexander's, light glinting off her gold wedding band. He doesn't say that it felt like a physical blow to hear her call him darling.

They leave for Prague in the morning.

~!~

It takes Alec two years to get reassigned to the Art Crime Team. Two years of spending all his off hours studying, because he knows nothing about art when he starts. Two years of gathering evidence for what he knows has to be true, because Magnus was standing right next to him when the Renoir was taken, but no one actually on the case seems to have figured out yet.

He doesn't let himself feel guilty when he presents his case and the SAIC praises him for figuring out that Le Chat Noir is a team rather than a single person. He can't let himself feel guilty, because he has to find Magnus. He just isn't sure yet what he's going to do when he does find him.

It should be easy. Alec is an officer of the law. Magnus is a criminal. Soulmates or not, there's only one way for this to end.

But.

But the longer Alec studies Le Chat Noir's crimes, the more details he learns, the less certain he is about, well, anything. Because Le Chat Noir never hurt anyone in the course of their heists—not even minor injuries—and a lot of the art they take only technically belongs to the people they steal from. And all of those pieces—taken from families by invading armies, plundered by early archaeologists who gave no thought to the supposed savages whose cultural artifacts they took—always seem to find themselves back in the hands of their original owners' descendents.

That’s not all Magnus and his team steal, of course. Some of the pieces they steal, like the Renoir, are clearly chosen for their monetary value. But even then...

When Alec joined the Bureau, he did it with dreams of protecting people from violent criminals who prey on others. He can’t help noticing that the people Le Chat Noir steals those valuable pieces of art from all seem to share much more in common with the sorts of people Alec always thought he’d be putting behind bars than those he thought he’d be protecting.

"I've got the neighbor's security footage from the Rouse case for us to review."

Alec winces at the thought of reviewing yet more grainy security cam footage, especially first thing in the morning in the company of his distressingly chipper partner.

"I also brought you coffee."

His distressingly chipper, but also very thoughtful partner.

"You're a godsend, Fray," he tells her, accepting the cup. "What have we got?"

"Simon cut out all of the footage with no movement on it, but we're still looking at about ten hours."

"Which leaves us with five hours each if we split it," Alec says. "So let's see if we can get this done by lunch."

Alec finds Magnus in the third hour of footage. He's only in frame for a few seconds, and Alec has to backup twice to be sure. And then he backs up several more times just to satisfy the part of him that's desperate for even that much of his soulmate.

He doesn't tell Clary. He tells himself it's because Magnus isn't doing anything on the security footage besides walking down the street the morning before the theft, that he would have to explain who Magnus is and how Alec knows who he is.

He's relieved when someone else on the team puts it together that Le Chat Noir is responsible for the theft.

~!~

Magnus manages to ignore his soulmate's existence for almost three years, or at least make a good show of it. And it’s fine, really. He reassures Cat of this every time she asks, reassures Ragnor every time he gives Magnus one of those looks. Any foolish, romantic fantasies Magnus might entertain between sleeping and waking are between him and his idiot heart.

Except then Alexander is there on the television, standing among the team of FBI agents investigating Le Chat Noir’s latest stateside heist (one that Magnus is particularly proud of, thank you very much), and looking just unfairly hot in his dark suit. And there’s really just no ignoring that.

Magnus spends the next week researching. Some things are easy to find out. There are only twenty agents on the FBI’s Art Crimes Team, and currently only one Alexander. From there, it’s easy enough to track down Alec’s employment and school records, his family, even his gym membership. Other things take a bit more work, like his current address, mobile number, and email.

One thing is very clear, though, no matter how many times or places Magnus checks: Special Agent Alexander Lightwood is not—has never been—married.

“I messed up.”

Ragnor and Catarina exchange a worried look.

“Magnus, he’s an FBI agent,” Catarina says gently.

“An FBI agent currently trying to track down and arrest all of us,” Ragnor adds, somewhat less gently.

Magnus knows they’re right. He does. But...

“He’s my soulmate. And I just left.”

There’s no fixing this, Magnus knows, but he can’t leave things the way they are.

~!~

The first note comes on heavy cream cardstock, delivered to the PO box Alec uses for anything that might get him put on a mailing list. It’s addressed simply to “Alexander,” and he knows as soon as he reads it who sent it.

It takes almost a week to determine that the anonymous tip about their current case is legitimate, and only a few days longer before they have the perpetrators of the string of violent home invasion robberies in custody. It’s the first case Alec has worked since he transferred to the Art Crimes Team where the criminals seem as interested in hurting the people they steal from as stealing valuable art, and he’s very, very glad to have it behind him.

After that, the notes become a regular thing. They come in a variety of formats: cards sent to Alec’s PO box, his home, his office; texts from burner phones; emails from non-existent addresses; tucked into a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses on Alec’s 28th birthday. They don’t come for every case Alec works, probably not even one in ten, but they do keep coming.

Alec never mentions the notes to his team after the first one. He can’t keep them from Clary, not all of them, but she never mentions it to anyone else, never suggests that they should. For once, Alec is very grateful for his partner’s tenuous relationship with following rules.

Alec keeps that first note tucked into the billfold of his wallet.

~!~

Magnus isn’t sure why started sending the notes. No, that’s not true. He sent the first note because those sadistic bastards were giving all art thieves a bad name, and they didn’t deserve to have beautiful things any more than the people Magnus steals from do. He sent the tip about how they were offloading the pieces they stole (and really, how sloppy were they that Magnus had found it so easily?) to Alexander because, well, it was the closest he could get to an apology.

Magnus isn’t sure why he keeps sending the notes, but he can’t seem to stop. It would be easy to say that it’s the only way he knows to be—in some small way—a part of Alexander’s life. And that is a part of it, but...but the truth is, it’s also fun. There are too many art thieves who have no place in the business, either just because they’re terribly sloppy (really, do they have no respect at all for their craft?) or because they’re horrible people who Magnus has no desire to share an occupation with. Screwing them over while also making Alexander’s life a little bit easier is doubly satisfying.

“I think we should retire,” Ragnor says. They’ve just finalized the sale of their latest score and are having drinks in Barcelona to celebrate.

“Retire?” Magnus asks. “Why?” He can’t help noticing that Catarina doesn’t look surprised.

“Because,” Ragnor says with a shrug, “I don’t think any of our hearts are really in it anymore. I started doing this for the money and the thrill. Now, I think I’m getting a little too old for thrills, and I have more money than god.”

“You’re thirty-eight,” Magnus points out irritably.

“Even so,” Ragnor says. “And you’ve gotten all wrapped up in your,” he waves his hand, “side project.”

Magnus can’t deny it, he’s been distracted. But that doesn’t mean he wants to quit.

“Cat?” Magnus asks, turning to look at her.

“When I was little,” Catarina says, studying the dregs of her Manhattan, “I wanted to be a nurse. After my parents kicked me out, I gave up on that dream, but lately I’ve been thinking maybe I could settle down, go back to school.” She looks up, meeting Magnus’s eyes. “This, what we do, it was great when I was sixteen, when I was twenty-five. But it was never supposed to be forever, and I think. I think I’m done.”

“I see.”

It’s Magnus’s turn to stare into his drink. The truth is, he’s never thought about retirement, not really. Cat and Ragnor chose this life, and maybe it wasn’t much of a choice for either of them, but they weren’t born into it the way Magnus was. Stealing is something his friends do, but it’s who Magnus is. Going straight just isn’t an option for Asmodeus Bane’s son.

Is it?

“Maybe you’re right,” Magnus says.

If Cat and Ragnor want to retire, he doesn’t want to be what stops them. Magnus can always take some time off, and when his friends are settled into their new lives and well clear of him and his father’s influence, he can look into putting together a new team. It won’t be the same without Cat and Ragnor, but Magnus will survive. He always does.

And maybe... Maybe it means something that Magnus’s soulmate isn’t a thief. That Alexander is about as far from a thief as you can get. Maybe...

Magnus doesn’t let himself finish the thought, but he doesn’t let go of it, either.

~!~

“Come on, we’re going out for lunch.”

Alec looks up from the report he’s in the middle of. “Uh, not today. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

“Yes, today,” Clary says, reaching down to flip his folder closed. “We’ve been working crazy hours all month, and I’m not letting you skip lunch again now that we’ve closed the case just so you can do paperwork.”

For all of Alec’s protests, he finds himself in the passenger seat of Clary’s car not ten minutes later. He frowns when realizes they’re headed out of the city.

“Where are we going?”

“Just a little hole in the wall place I found.” Clary’s voice is light, but she has her mission face on. “I think you’ll like it.”

Alec is suddenly on high alert. He has no idea what’s going on, but it’s clear Clary is worried about someone listening in, and whatever this is, he trusts Clary. He doesn’t always like her, but he trusts her.

“There’d better be melted cheese involved,” Alec tells her.

By the time they pull up to a modern, high-rise apartment building in Bethesda, Alec’s stomach is doing somersaults. He follows Clary up to an apartment on the fourth floor, not sure what to think when she pushes open the door and motions Alec inside.

The inside of the apartment looks like the platonic ideal of a nerdy bachelor pad, with an entire wall of the front room devoted to an extensive video game collection punctuated by superhero figurines, and an empty pizza box on the coffee table.

And the platonic ideal of a nerdy bachelor sprawled on the couch with a laptop.

“Lewis?” Alec says. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh,” Simon answers, “you’re in my apartment, dude.”

“It’s the only place we could think of that we’re sure the Bureau doesn’t have under surveillance,” Clary explains. “And you might be my partner, but I don’t actually want to lose my job for you if I can help it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I sweep the place for bugs every couple weeks,” Simon says. “I helped develop a lot of the current surveillance tech, so it’s easy enough to find them. They spy on all of us, you know. Like, all the time.”

“No, I—” Alec shakes his head. “Why are you worried about bugs? And what’s this about Fray losing her job?”

Clary and Simon exchange a look, that wordless communication they have that never fails to give Alec a headache.

Finally, Clary looks at him, just the faintest hint of uncertainty in her smile. “Simon figured out where your notes are coming from.”

Alec feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “What?”

“I’ve actually been tracking them for a while,” Simon explains. “But they were never sent from the same place more than once. Not until recently.”

“But why?” Alec knows his poker face is terrible. It’s why he never goes undercover anymore. Still, he tries very hard to act like this is no big deal. “They’re just anonymous tips.” He’s pretty sure he fails.

“Because they’re from your soulmate?” Simon says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’s not— I don’t—” Alec can feel the panic rising in his chest and does his best to push it down. If he lets it overtake him, there will be no getting out of this. “Why would you even think that?”

“That time in Atlanta,” Clary says, “when you got stabbed. I saw your soulmark when the nurse put in the IV for your antibiotic drip.” She shrugs. “After that, it didn’t take a genius to figure it all out.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Fuck, Atlanta was years ago. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

“I told you, you’re my partner,” Clary says, looking almost offended. “And you haven’t done anything actually illegal.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me if you have. Please. Besides, your soulmate’s been helping us solve cases.”

“But you decided to tell Lewis?”

“He’s my best friend. I trust him.”

“Also a hopeless romantic,” Simon adds cheerfully. “I’m kinda jealous of this whole star-crossed lovers thing you’ve got going on, to be honest. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with less death.”

“Oh god,” Alec says, sinking onto the couch and burying his face in his hands. He can’t believe he’s been this careless. Who else knows?

“I can see your panic wheels spinning, Lightwood,” Clary says. “And I think you might have missed the important part, here.”

Alec raises his head to look at her. “Missed what?”

“Simon found where the notes are coming from. We have an address.”

“The messages have been coming from the same place for over a year,” Simon adds.

Alec stares at the slip of paper Simon holds out to him like it might bite him if he touches it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“That,” Clary says, “is above my pay grade.”

Alec takes the paper with a shaking hand. If Magnus has stopped moving around, does that mean he wants to be found?

~!~

Magnus watches the sun dip beneath the Paris skyline. Nearly two years into his stay in the city, and he’s still not tired of the sight. It’s the longest he can remember ever staying anywhere. Maybe there’s something to this whole retirement thing.

He sips his martini and flips open the stupidly expensive imported issue of The New York Times he purchased entirely for the very grainy photo of Alexander, along with the rest of his team, on page A-7. Magnus didn’t help with the case they’d recently closed, but he can’t help being just a little proud of Alexander, regardless. There’s a part of him that knows this whole thing is foolish. He can’t spend the rest of his life pining after a man he met for five minutes a decade ago, soulmate or no soulmate. He needs to let it go, needs to let Alexander go. He runs his fingers over the photograph, staining them with newsprint. Just. Not tonight.

A sharp knock on his front door pulls Magnus out of his thoughts. It’s probably Madame Boucher from upstairs again. The woman has to be old enough to be Magnus’s grandmother, but she’s still a terrible flirt and comes up with the most ridiculous excuses to stop by Magnus’s loft at least twice a week. Magnus adores her.

“Êtes-vous à nouveau à court de sucre, ou—” Magnus freezes in the act of opening the door when he registers who, exactly, is on the other side.

“Uh, my French is pretty rusty, but I definitely don’t have any sugar.”

“Agent Lightwood,” Magnus says, holding onto the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Maybe it is. “I’m fairly certain the FBI doesn’t have any jurisdiction here.”

Alexander frowns, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows that Magnus refuses—can’t afford—to find endearing. “I’m not here in a professional capacity.”

“Then why are you here?” Magnus’s voice comes out sharper than he intends. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this, with Alexander standing in his doorway, with the longing trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I thought— And then, you sent all those messages.”

Alexander pushes up the sleeve on his sweater, and Magnus sees his soulmark for the first time. Magnus has to dig his fingers into the doorframe to keep from reaching out to trace its lines. It’s startling how a cat can bear such a striking resemblance to him. He wonders if Alexander would have the same reaction to his mark.

“Oh god,” Alec says, misinterpreting Magnus’s silence. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I’ll just— I’ll go.”

“Alexander, wait.”

The moment Magnus’s hand closes around Alec’s wrist, a frission of energy goes through them both. Magnus should let go. He should.

He doesn’t.

“It’s just,” Magnus says, “I’m a retired art thief and you’re an FBI agent. What kind of future could there be for us?”

“Former,” Alexander answers.

Magnus frowns in confusion. “What?”

“Former FBI agent.” Alexander gives him a sheepish smile. “I, um. Resigned. Before I got on the plane to come here.”

“You quit your job?” Magnus understands the words, but he’s having trouble assigning them meaning. “Why?”

Alexander shrugs. “Why’d you retire?”

“I—” Magnus wants to say that it’s not the same. But, then again, maybe it is. “So, where do we go from here?”

“I was thinking we could start with dinner?” Alexander smiles, hopeful and earnest, and Magnus feels that same spark of hope light up his chest that he felt all those years ago when he realized who Alexander was to him.

“I’ll get my coat.” Magnus lets his fingers slide free from Alexander’s wrist, and it doesn’t feel like letting go.

[the-fangirlingwriter]

love, alcohol and movie sets

inspired by “I’m Drunk, I Love You”

"Ready, guys?" Direk shouts over the increasing noise. We nod in reply, and he returns his gaze to the rest of the staff. "Quiet on the set! Now, three, two, one, action."

"Elise," Dante utters, bringing my focus back to him. "I want you to know that I didn't do anything you wouldn't like. I don't know what the others are saying, but whatever they are I would never do those horrible things to you."

He says this as he opens a green bottle of alcohol, then hands it to me. Sort of like a peace offering. It says so in the script, but the audience doesn't get to see that. They're left to interpret it as an obligatory gesture, but never as something straight from the past. Nothing ever stays the same, as real and as pure as the source material when it's adapted into something else.

I take the object from his hand, pausing for a few seconds and finally taking a swig. He does the same, visibly anxious as he waits for my reply and I take my time to think about a particular scene in the book that didn't make it to the final script. It's about the first time Elise and Carlos went out alone, and it remains a cute, fond memory in my mind.

It's described to be at the early stages of their friendship, when they were first getting used to each other in person, like how one would wear a new pair of shoes slightly different from what they're used to. In the first month of freshman year, Carlos asked my character if she would accompany him to the nearby convenience store. Elise, lovestruck as ever and of course wanting more of his time, predictably said yes. 

I remember Elise eliciting a happy "Yay!" from him when she said sure, and how she was frowning a little because he sounded so nervous when he did so, like he was asking--admitting, rather, to doing something wrong. 

He asks her if  she wanted anything. She replies no, that she was fine, thank you. but he gets her a can of beer anyway, even though Elise didn't drink the beverage. But life has its funny ways, because fast forward to senior year and they're into the harder stuff, drinking in pubs and participating in drinking games in their organization's house. 

His voice takes me back to reality, and I'm thankful that I needed to look like I spaced out lest the director asked for another take. This was our fourth, and the wasted alcohol didn't really sit well with my conscience. "Please, say something."

I stare at him with searching eyes, recalling the lines and preparing myself to project them. It was a miracle that I could still remember them at this point. "Really? Then would you kindly tell your friend to stop, please? This was supposed to be a fun trip to La Union-- you and me. It was supposed to be just the two of us, then you brought her along and the rest of your squad followed." I chug down a swig, closing my eyes and feeling the fizz of the beverage. 

Switching to a more accusatory tone, I say, "I don't even know why you decided to have a girlfriend without telling me first. I mean, it's your life, but I'm still your best friend." I bite my lip after the last sentence. The words sting-- both as myself Alicia and as my character Elise. Emotional instability wasn't something anyone would welcome, but today, right here, right now, at this moment, it's all I ever want. "It would be nice to know how my best friend's life is going."

"She's not my girlfriend," he exclaims immediately after I finish my sentence. It's not like him in real life to (almost, in this case) cut off people, and he's just that polite that it rubs off on his character during filming. Luckily he's an actor so he plays it off smoothly, like everything else that he does. "Ashley's not my type. I just couldn't say no to her since our moms are friends. Come to think of it, maybe that's how she found out about the trip."

My head falls slightly to the side, my eyes tracing the soft curl of his long eyelashes, which are longer than my own. "Yeah...maybe." "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Elise."

Redemption sets in, and at this point Elise makes sense of what happened but still holds a little grudge. A little indifferent, I say, "I forgive you." "Paolo and the others are heading to the club later. I think Ashley's going with them." I make a face at the sound of so many lights, sweat and dirty sexual intention, and he continues with the trace of an amused look on his face. "I know we both don't like those kinds of environments, so what do you think about a peaceful night out? Just the two of us?" 

I pretend to consider his suggestion. In my mind-- and Elise's-- it was a definite yes. Nothing else.

"Please, let me make it up to you. I know things haven't been the greatest, but this is what we had in mind at the very start, so even just for a short while, maybe we could-"

"Sure, Carlos," I smile. "Why not?"

He looks rather pleased, and relieved at my reply. "Thank you. Thank you so much." He reaches out for a hug, which I cherish more than I should since Dante would never hug me like this in real life. 

"I've missed you, Carlos. I can't wait for tonight." Dante gets up to leave, cueing me to lower my voice to a soft whisper, but still audible enough for the microphone to hear. "Just us. Again. Like the old days."

But the audience doesn't get to see that.

We move quickly to the next location-- a beach already decorated with all sorts of lanterns and occupied by a bunch of extras. I'm ushered almost immediately to get into wardrobe when we arrive-- and moments later I'm sporting a pair of frayed denim shorts, a loose, bohemian white cardigan and a flowing mauve top. The platinum blonde streak in my slightly wavy brown hair is incredibly prominent at this point, since Elise often wore her hair in a bun. Later in the movie, however, we film a scene where she's wearing a braid. At least, that's what I've heard from my stylist.

I get out of wardrobe about the same time as Dante (shocker), who's wearing a pair of dark blue swimming trunks and a fitting white shirt. Honestly, what is it about white shirts that make guys--especially the ones you like--look even hotter than usual? 

In fact, why is Dante Ashford so attractive? To others, he may not look like much, but to me he is everything from the stars and the sun and beyond. It baffles me how I find him-- a guy with honestly mediocre looks-- so incredibly beautiful.

Maybe that's the magic of love.

The next scene consists of Carlos and Elise laying on the pure, white sand, having a conversation just on the edge of teasing before both of them strip down to their bathing suits and head to the water, creating more sexual tension just in time for Elise to get even more drunk and almost confess her feelings for Carlos. The key factor here is just that-- the alcohol, and I'm a tad bit worried (as well as secretly hoping) that I will parallel Elise's situation.

Hah. Like I wasn't already.

I push away my worries, remembering my "alcohol tolerance training". A few months before the shoot, I tested my boundaries for alcohol and drank a little more each time to help my body get used to it. Probably not the healthiest thing to do, but it proved useful since that scene from earlier. I have a stronger alcohol tolerance now, but Dante doesn't know that and tonight is all the more reason for him not to. 

Maybe, if I convince myself that I'm drunk enough, I might be able to confess my feelings for him. 

I just hope it doesn't get a little too awkward.

Playing in the water is a piece of cake-- it's not hard to fake fun when you're with the person you love. Heck, you don't even have to. All emotions that you feel-- you don't fake. You just mask. "Aah!"

I slip on the sand-- I slip on the fucking sand and grab desperately on the closest thing to me-- Dante's arms. I try to ignore that my head is against his bare chest, that we're out in the beach with so many people watching us and I am in a bikini and this is not in the script at all--and just go along with it.

Dante's good at improv, and so am I, but I hold my breath and hope anyway that he'll catch on.

He does. Laughing lightly, he asks, "You okay?" 

"Yeah," I reply, raising my head and looking into his eyes, mine wide. His pupils are dilated, which I assume is from the beginning sunset and the sheer lack of lighting. "Thank you." 

Time stops. We're standing there, looking, alternating between the sunset and the other's eyes, and nothing else matters. It's just me and him. Carlos and Elise. Dante and Alicia. Alone. 

Just like the old days.

I remember that Elise's shy, so I look down on my hands and back away. Returning to the script, I splash him again with water and utter a few sentences of dialogue, and we're off to the next scene.

Alcohol is fucking delicious.

There's a scene in the film where we go to a restaurant after swimming, so we're dressed a little more formally this time. I'm wearing a black dress that's just slightly revealing my legs and he's wearing black slacks and a red button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows (please fucking kill me) but the content in the scene is not as classy.

Carlos, being the driver, can't drink. But I'm the passenger and the restaurant has a wide selection of high-quality drinks, so I get to taste Heaven. Poor Carlos. I'm lucky to be Elise.

"You know, Elise," Dante says, taking a bite of blueberry cheesecake. "I think we should go out here more often. Just us, no one else." I raise an eyebrow.

"And I'll make sure Ashley and the others won't find out."

"Maybe we could go somewhere else. Explore. El Nido, maybe?

"That would be nice, if I had enough money." 

He erupts into a fit of giggles, and soon enough I'm laughing along with him. Carlos and Elise are rich, but not rich enough that would allow them to go on a trip by plane. Road trips are the best option...for now.

"Someday, Carlos. We'll go to El Nido and swim with the fishes and who knows, you might even step on a sea urchin."

"My father stepped on a sea urchin once, when he was younger. History will not repeat itself this time."

"Hah! We'll see."

"Excuse me."

The waiter arrives, smiling at us as he places a glass of pale gold substance on the table. "Caribou Lou, ma'am, sir. Enjoy."

Dante eyes the drink, which I take away from his gaze and give him a teasing look. He pouts, making me giggle before I took a sip. "Mm. Tastes like pineapple. Then there's coconut and...oh! Rum. Of course."

"I wish I could have a sip, but I'm the designated driver so..."

"Want one?" 

"Are you kidding me? That's like, almost pure alcohol. I'd advise you to be careful, but you already ordered."

"Hee hee! You know you love me."

It doesn't take long for me to finish the drink. Same goes for the effect. A few chugs and it feels like I'm tripping on LSD. Just a little tipsy though, as one might say.

"All right, we better get home before the alcohol really gets to your system," he says, calling the waiter for the bill.

"Aww, but I'm having a lot of fun!" I stomp my feet in a quick succession, pouting and giggling almost a little too loudly. I hate to say it, but the alcohol's starting to take effect-- even more quickly than I expected. I wonder how I'm even able to create a sentence without another interrupting my train of thought.

"Let's go, Elise." He pays the bill and helps me stand up, and I grin and cling to his arm. 

We walk out the door, ending the scene with a lot more authenticity than I had in mind.

But, of course, the audience doesn't get to know that unless we tell them in an interview.

The next scene is horrendous. I'm supposed to sing--badly, might I add, for the whole trip back to out hotel. It's very short, although humiliating, and there's no doubt it will become a joke of some sort before and after release of the film. I actually want to forget about it-- drunk me is so embarrassing and no one else has to know that.

Another thing no one else has to know about is my big, fat crush on the man I’m playing opposite to. Elise, sadly, doesn’t end up with Carlos, and dear God am I so afraid that it will happen to me too..

I didn’t have to worry about it for the time being, though. By some fantastic miracle we were able to shoot without any Freudian slips or anything of the sort. I survived...

But I'm not sure about after filming. It's a wrap for the day and it's so incredibly boring because for the amount of alcohol I drank I didn't even get DRUNK like what the fuck?? Weak shit??? Omg??

The world is a happy, happy place. But then it's also sad because there's AIDS and HIV and people are dying and there's world hunger and there's war in Iran and in Syria and the Philippines is still a third world country and can Asians be sexy oh wait that's a video right HAHAHAHA

Whycan'tpeopleloveme? Sad.

Why is the car stopping what why am I in a car oh hahaha

Right 

I'm in a movie shoot

HAHAHA just got home at midnight you fuckers 

No fucking curfew bitchhh

Such a fucking ADULT

Oh hey someone's here to escort me to my room! Wow he looks so...HOT! 

So...HOT!

"Heeeyyyyy." I grin, taking his hand and stepping out the door. My legs feel like jelly...but why?

"Oh no, Alicia," he replies. He looks worried. Who's Alicia?

"Don't you...love meee?"

"What?"

"Love. Me. Who's Alicia?"

"That's you."

I guess he got impatient with me so he just picked me up and carried me to a room? Ugh. Guy doesn't know how to wait. What. A. Turnoff. 

Still cute though.

"You know...hm....whaaat's your name?" 

"Dante. Dante, Alicia. You need some water."

He takes a bottle of...ev...evia...evi From his bag and hands it to me. 

"This is sealed...isn't it? You're not....drug..me?"

He looks at me in the eye. "No, Alicia. Never."

I plop myself on the bed, opening the bottle and draining it halfway through. "Aaaah! Thank you, kind sir! Your kindness...will forever be appreciated! Kaso...walang...forever..."

A wave of sadness washes over me and tears begin to prick my eyes. "Walang...forever..."

He places a hand on my shoulder and speaks. "Alicia, you need to rest. We still have shooting tomorrow. Actually, I do, and you don't...but still. Go to sleep."

His voice is soooooo soothing. I want..this man...so...hot...

But my heart belongs to another. Someone...hotter than him. This guy looks like a nerd.

"You can't-" I throw off his hand. "touch me! My heart belongs to someone else."  His face falls. "Really?"

"Yes. He's...hotter than youu. And I think he loves me."

"Well, good luck with him."

"I'll tell you who it is, but keep it a secret, okay?" I giggle, then look at him in all seriousness. 

"Alicia-"

"I love..."

The morning after

What happened last night?

My head is pounding. Horribly. And I can't remember anything after going to dinner. 

I look down. I'm wearing a t-shirt and shorts, certainly not the black dress I wore last night. My heart rushes into a frenzy. Who changed my clothes? How did I get back to the hotel? Who was I with? What did I do?

Just how drunk was I?! 

"Dante," I spoke in a hushed voice. "What happened last night?"

Dante's on his lunch break and my head still hurts a little bit, but it's a lot easier to walk around now as compared to this morning. 

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks. 

"Yes now what happened last night?"

"You really can't remember?" he asks, an edge of amusement present in his tone.

"What does it look like?"

"We shot the restaurant and car scene. You drank Caribou Lou, remember? You were hopelessly drunk."

I pressed further. "And?"

"I led you back to your hotel room."

"Who fucking changed my clothes?"

"Ricoletta. It's Ricoletta."

The half-Italian girl who plays one of my friends. "Then?"

He hides a smile at the last second. "That's it."

"...No way."

"Yes way."

"I do not believe you for one second. I swear, the crew laughs when I pass by." There are a handful of scenes left to film, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to handle the torture for the rest of the month.

"They do? Same with me." "Dante!"

"That's all, I promise you."

"You may be an actor but I know when you're lying to me, Dante."

"I'm not."

"When will you ever speak the truth?"

"I am."

"Dante!" 

I am so, so frustrated at this point I don't care about the headache. Right when I'm about to insult the son of a bitch, the director calls for him and it's my time to shut up.

"Later, Alicia. Get better soon!"

The fucker even has the nerve to skip away, leaving me alone looking like a total bitch with my eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. This is not according to plan. Pretending to be drunk enough to probably confess is the plan. Instead, I actually got terribly drunk and the aftermath is a total pain to go through.

I hate you, Dante Ashford, and I will make you pay no matter how much I love you.  "Please, please just tell me what happened," I shake his arm when we walk out from the dining room. Dinner was a loud mess (for me, anyway) and it was torture waiting for it to end just to talk to him. 

"That's what happened. I gave you a water bottle, if that's what you want. Left a couple Advils on the nightstand, too."

"By the way you're acting, I can tell something else other than that happened."  "You know? There might be."

My breath hitches. Dante's a gentleman, but there's always that one fear that could possibly happen whenever someone's intoxicated. "And that is?" He stays silent, looking at the scenery around him. I realize that we're near the pool, in an area a little bit secluded.

But the view, at this point, is beautiful. 

The skyline is breathtaking. City lights illuminate the night, and I'm left speechless at the sight. 

"Alicia?"

I tear my gaze away and look at him. We're close, closer than usual and soon it's just me, him and the pounding of my heart. 

He plays with my braid, which has been tied ever since this morning. I frown slightly at him when he pulls the ponytail, letting my hair flow free in the wind. "Dante? Why did you--"

"Alicia, I like you."

My heart explodes. "Huh?"

"I felt a connection ever since we first met at university. I like you, Alicia. A lot. And I know you probably like someone else, but I just had to let you know." I. Can't. Breathe. And I can't believe it either. Somehow, Drunk Me didn't tell him I like him.

"What do you mean?”

"I touched your shoulder when I was telling you to fall asleep. You shoved it away and told me your heart belonged to someone else. Someone...hotter than me. You were going to say his name, but you passed out."

I bite my lip and exhale. I want to jump all over the place. The guy I love loves me back. 

Poor Dante, though...the suspense must've killed him.

His eyes are hopeful as he takes my hands in his. "Please, say something."

I smile. Liberation is one of the best feelings in the world.

"I don't know who drunk me was thinking, but it's you that I like."

His grin makes everything I've been through worth it.