#but i liked how migs back turned out so it would be a shame to cover it ip with clothes :P

[nocek]

Bunch of wip progress from sketch to lineart to "flats" to end up with all of the effect since my hand slipped and I've went a little bit overboard. But I had fun and I'm quite happy how it looks like :3

[chaotic-iguana]

hiiii!! i love your stories sm thank you for taking your time to write them<3 can you do one of a miguelxreader where he has been playing video games allllll dayy and the reader just wants a little attention so they "tempt him" if you know what i mean🤭 and he ends up getting just a littlee hissy about it. it can continue on however you like ;)

anywaysssss love you and i wish you all the best<3

-🪷

distracted. 

gamer! miguel x f! reader

a/n: anon. first of all, thank you and second of all im sending u a sloppy forehead kiss bc this is such a delicious fucking idea i was literally feral to write this. 

warnings: mdni. subspace, oral (m receiving), dacryphilia, cockwarming, degradation, (but they’re in love and it’s discussed, i promise), aftercare. 

“mig-gy,“ you whine tearfully, a culmination of the frustration you’ve been feeling all day. it started when you woke up with a warm, sticky feeling in between your legs; a dull ache settling in your gut and tugging at the edges of your thoughts ever since. miguel’d already been out of bed, and you’d found him in the living room in front of the tv, sitting in his pyjamas with a controller in his hand, barking orders into a headset. 

and while you didn’t want to disturb him on one of the very few days he had to himself, you couldn’t help but feel…antsy. you’d been trying (and failing) to get his attention all day, barely met with hms and grunts as it were. which was how you found yourself changing into a pink lace slip, unable to meet your own eye at the reflection before you. your poor, overworked brain made you think it would be a good idea to try and - ahem- tempt him, but when it came to actually doing it, the thought made your face warm. another slew of miguel’s curses at the game made you jolt, and before you knew it, you were walking outside to make sure he was okay. 

and he was, because of course. you, on the other hand, were standing half-naked in the living room at three pm while your boyfriend neglected to even look your way. you stood to the side, wringing your hands and waiting for him to look at you, but after a whole minute with you getting no attention whatsoever, you gave up and cleared your throat. miguel’s eyes flicked your way - victory! - for a bare second until he rolled them and turned back to the screen. which was also how you ended up here, whining from over his shoulder for him to acknowledge you. 

he doesn’t, of course, not until you’re stood next to him pouting while looking down at him with dazed doe eyes, giving you away. miguel knew exactly what you needed and within seconds a harsh order to pause was being whispered into his headset, fingers flying over the comedically-small-for-him controller as his chair finally turned your way. swallowing pitifully, you squirm under the weight of his gaze before risking a glance up at him to find his eyes twinkling with amusement, brow raised in question. 

“need you, migs.” your whispered confession only raises his brow impossibly higher, ghost of a smirk curving his lips before he’s turning away from you again. you’re frowning, half-stomping to stand between him and his screen before he wears his stupid headset again. desire winning against the shame brewing in you, you reach a hand out to his chest- 

and his wrist circles yours, stopping you in your tracks. you’re staring shamelessly at the slant of his jaw, the slope of his nose and the light caught in his hair, gauging his reaction until his voice rings out: 

“prove it.” 

and you’re confused, too lost in the reliving the feeling of the way his nose bumped against your swollen clit as he ate you out for hours last week, responding with a meek “hm?” that has him huffing. he doesn’t even clarify, just clamps a hand on your shoulder and pushes so you’re on your knees, settling you with your head at crotch-level. 

“prove that you need me.” 

and then he’s gone, eyes glued to the screen again. you blink up at him from the floor, content to watch the muscles of his forearms flex as his fingers move on the controller, the vein jumping in his neck as his jaw clenches, the tension in his wide shoulders. startling, you realise that his his eyes are back on yours and twinkling with a challenge. right. proving it. 

shuffling between his legs, you lay your head on his thigh and peer up at him. he’s looking away now, of course. you’d be happy to drool at the sight of him semi-hard through his fitted light gray sweatpants (am i projecting? i am projecting) for hours, especially when the fabric stretches just right to give you a barely-visible outline you can’t help but trace with your fingertips. which is exactly what you do without realising until his breath hitches ever so slightly, a muscle jumping in his thigh. fueled by the vindication, you start tracing patterns on him through his trousers, palming him ever so slightly until he’s bucking his hips into your hand oh-so-slightly. you’re too enchanted by the way he twitches against your fingers to realise how teasing your touch has been until you hear a half-whimper escape his lips, sending a jolt directly between your legs. pressing your thighs together in a futile effort to relieve yourself, you trail your fingers to his waistband and tug it down, reveling in the sharp intake of breath sounding from above you. 

the sight of his tip flushed red makes your mouth water and your tongue darts to catch the precum beading at his slit before you can stop yourself; the sudden warmth making him jump under you. rocking back on your heels, you fumble to pump him with both hands - he’s just so fucking big you can barely touch the tip of your thumb and forefinger with your palm around him - before ducking down to lap lightly at his balls, slick with sweat. kitten licking the underside of his cock while pumping him slowly, you hear him loose a breath slowly before you feel the weight of his hand on your head. faster than you can blink, his fingers curl into your scalp and tug your head back, gaze thunderous when his eyes find yours. his fingers tap your cheek in silent command and your lips part on instinct, and then he’s pushing your head down between your legs, jaw aching at the sudden intrusion. ignoring your choked garbling, miguel rocks his hips into your mouth until your nose is buried in his happy trail and holds you there, tears spilling over your cheeks while you struggle to adjust. the second you struggle against his grip instinctually, his tsk tsk fills the room, mic clicking off before he strokes your hair, so at odds with the fact that he was holding you down with his cock in your mouth. 

“thought you needed me, honey? where’d my good girl go?” and oh fuck, it’s the tone he’s using as if he’s amused by the sight of you all ruined for him that has something cramping between your legs, breath wet and clicking in your throat as you whine around him, your fists trembling where they rested on his thighs. ‘m right here, i’m your good girl and i need you so, so badly so please please please- 

but it’s like he heard your internal monologue, because his gaze softens in moments, thumb sweeping across your damp cheek. 

“lo sé, lo sé. mi buena niña. tómalo por mí, amor.” [i know, i know. my good girl. take it for me, my love.] and all your queasiness dissolves the second his fingers scrape over your jaw, your discomfort dissipating at the sound of his gentle murmur. 

then he’s going back to his game, leaving you kneeling at his feet and gagging around him. every choke, cough or splutter is met with a quick glance at you; at your fingers curled on either side of your head to make sure you’re okay, not tapping out. you know if your eyes had even a hint of hesitancy in them he’d stop; his supposed mean demeanor melting to give way to the cuddly teddy bear he really is. but you’ve reverted entirely to a floaty, dazed headspace, where your thoughts feel blissfully hazy and just out of reach, and you can’t comprehend the thought of not being here, keeping him warm. 

you don’t realise how much time has passed until miguel shifts forward, and the pins-and-needles in your legs make you whimper, gripping his thighs for support. miguel immediately cups your jaw, reaching his other hand to rip off his headphones and turn the game off entirely before pulling you off of him, wiping the drool off your lips and supporting your head as you splutter, his patience infinite when it came to taking care of you. 

“háblame, princesa. ¿cómo te sientes, hm?” [talk to me, princess. how are you feeling, hm?] 

still on your knees, you shift forward with tearful eyes; breath hitching at the bruises you can feel have formed already. you're barely stammering through "h-hurts, miggy" in a hoarse whisper before he's leaning down, wrapping an arm under your thigh and around your head, lifting you into his lap  instantly. you tuck your face into his neck, reveling in the safety of his embrace as you catch your breath. he presses his lips to your forehead, stroking your head over and over while cooing praises to you. it takes a while, but before long you're pulling back, kissing his chin with a soft grin. 

"there she is. there's my good girl. so perfect for me, aren’t you?" your shy nod makes him smile, fangs poking through in that endearing way that makes your heart hurt and the warmth blooming in your belly burn. 

“can i have u now, migs?” 

and oh, you sound so wrecked for him, how could he ever say no? 

and if his team lost the game, well. that’s on them, isn’t it? 

masterlist.

hello my loves, as always, thanks for reading, comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones, @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore, @millerscoffee, @nostalxgic, @sscorpiiio, @its-nebuleuse, @sofiparallel, @mandoisapunk, @bastardmandennis (hey pal), @party-hearses (hey gruv), @chiogarza, @jenispunk. message me to join my taglist. divider by the amazing @cafekitsune.

[kairiscorner]

A one shot or fic where Gabriel falls in love with a villain. Miguel would disapprove but Gabi doesn’t care!

OOOOO anon. ily. platonically. THIS IS SO CUTE AAAAAAA i eat it up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

i'd let them eat my heart anyway. — gabriel o'hara x villain!reader

summary: he was told to stay away from you, since you're his brother's archenemy or whatever, but all he can focus on is how kissable you are... word count: 550

his brother's words of warning and berating entered one ear and exited out the other as he reminisced how quickly you could've shut him up and silenced him. yeah, maybe you were keeping him alive for spider man to save, or you were maybe... teasing him?

"gabri," miguel called out to him as he caught his younger brother gazing off into space, smiling like a doofus who was madly--oh no. gabri's eyes widened and a warmth coated his cheeks as he nearly stumbled over and fell from where he was leaning against. "ah, uh, yeah, mig?" "stay away from them, you have no idea just what they're capable of." he reminded his younger brother again as he nodded dismissively and still smiled to himself. "yeah, yeah, i got it, entiendo, hermano." he said as he walked away with a pep in his step as miguel sighed and muttered to himself how gabri, despite his intelligence and proficiency at anything technical, was extremely hopeless at anything romantic.

as gabri cleared up the mess on his work table, he heard a whooshing sound from outside of his laboratory. he whipped his head around to see just what dashed by, and before he could dismiss it as the wind, he was soon faced with you when he turned around. you grinned at gabri as his eyes widened, as his lips parted instinctively for you as you leaned closer to him. "ah, b-bella, i-" "shh... gabe, listen," you said as you pressed your index finger against his lips as he muttered an, "of course," as he got flustered in the face and stared at you with undivided attention.

"did spider man visit you tonight?" you asked him slowly and in a sultry voice, to which gabri shook his head profusely. you pursed your lips together and sighed exaggeratedly. "what a shame... i would've maybe kissed you if you gave me some information about him to work with, but i guess..." you trailed off as you pulled away from gabri, with him mumbling as he reached out for you and your tempting figure. "wait!" he exclaimed as you turned around and made him freeze up all over again. "i... i have some information on... on spider man..." he muttered as you grinned gleefully and was about to flatter him to get him to fess it up, but he stood his ground and told you that his information came with a price.

you groaned at the catch. "what price?" and so, gabri perked up and leaned closer towards you. "besame, hermosa." he said in a low, husky voice as he grinned as widely as you did earlier. he placed both hands of his on your hips, though he backed away when you showed him a dagger and brought it close to his nose as he inched closer towards you. "woah, that's hot." gabri teased as you rolled your eyes and reluctantly placed your hands on either sides of his face and gradually kissed him on his lips gently. "okay, info on spidey, now." you demanded as gabri lapped at his lips, tasting your lipstick as he chuckled. "one more, bella..." he pleaded with you as you grumbled and kissed him again, and... you two kept at it for a little more than two kisses that night.

a/n: he kept forgetting he had to give you info on miggy, so he kept telling you to kiss him so he remembers <33

tags !! @binibinileonara @miguelswifey04

[lolitystories]

Don't let me down 4 : Spider-man.

Miguel rushed downstairs. The capsule in which the man was locked opened, once the experiment ended.

"Sir ? Sir, can you hear me…”

Miguel's throat was caught, taking his breath away.

The man who had come out of the capsule was no longer human. His body was deformed, his skin had melted, his body had reacted badly to the fusion.

"Sir ! Sir, it’s me…”

Mr. Parker looked at Miguel, and before killing him, his eyes widened, he seemed to recognize him and let go.

Miguel held his throat and looked at him.

“...S…Sa…Sara…”

Several tears streamed down his face, before he collapsed.

“Hmm… Dead. Too bad, but do you see what strength he displayed in his last moments ? We are on the right path. Keep it up gentlemen.”

Said Tyler Stone.

Aaron was delighted, but Miguel…

This time... He wasn't going to run away.

**

*Sarah…*

Lyla begged.

“...”

*Sara please… If you don’t calm down you will…*

The young woman was in the ducts.

She was no longer moving, curled up in a ball, holding her mouth tightly with her hand, she was holding back from screaming, biting her fingers until they bled, her face was covered in tears and she was trembling, she couldn't stop trembling.

*I'm here...I'm here Sara.*

**

"I resign."

Miguel announced to Stone, he had followed him to his office, he was opening a bottle of wine.

“Come on, I don’t like this kind of joke Miguel, come celebrate this progress with me instead.”

“You call that progress ? I have enough evidence to bring you and the company down.”

“...”

Tyler looked at him, seriously this time.

“Let’s sit down and let’s talk calmly, will you ?”

He said, pouring him a drink.

He then went to sit down in front of him.

“Did you know ?”

"Know what ? That Sara Parker is the daughter of the man who was just tested ? You have no proof, nothing remains of his body… Mr. Parker disappeared a few years ago already…”

“...”

“Let’s just say he stuck his nose where he shouldn’t have.”

Miguel took a sip, before speaking.

"For what ? Why is it so important to you to…”

Suddenly he froze, something was wrong with him, he felt bad, his head was spinning.

“And then, who would believe a drug addict ?”

"What ?"

“Do you know we are developing a drug ? Some of our employees can use it for free, but you have always refused and well… I just poured some in your drink.”

“You…”

But Stone raised his finger.

“You should take a few days off Miguel and rest, Sara will take your place while you feel better.”

“Don’t involve her in this !”

“I won’t do anything, as long as you hold your tongue… This is our agreement, I need you and you need me. The drug is already starting to take effect, isn't it ? Hallucinations, anger, tiredness… Soon, your body will be totally addicted to it and you will have no choice, you will have to come back, if you want your dose. So go home, it would be a shame if you hurt your dear colleague or someone close to you, while you are not yourself.”

After that, Miguel was taken home by security.

He had a headache, he didn't feel well, not well at all and unfortunately for him, the first thing he heard was the loud music of Dana, who was doing her gym exercises.

“Dana… Please turn off the music.”

“Miguel? Is that you darling ? You’re early ?”

“Cut the music…”

"Stop !"

"...You must leave."

Worried, Dana approached.

“Honey what’s wrong? Talk to me."

"Do not come near me…"

“Mig…”

"Go away !"

He pushed her away and accidentally hit her.

“...”

“Dana! Oh no darling I… I…”

He didn't dare approach her.

“What’s wrong with you !?”

“I… I’m sorry, it’s because of this drug I…”

"Drug ? How long have you been taking drugs !?”

“Since Tyler Stone made me take it when I wanted to quit.”

"What !? You want to leave Alchemax ? But you never told me about it…”

“Well, after what happened today I was going to do it but now…”

Miguel fell to the ground, his whole head hurt, he wanted to throw up.

He heard Dana leave, then quickly return with a bucket and ice for the beating he had given her.

“I’m so sorry… I never meant to.”

"I know…"

Being like his father was the last thing he wanted, he still remembered all the nights he would come home and argue with his mother, beating her.

Those evenings, Gabriel would come to his room and cry, Miguel would stay by his side all night, hugging him.

He didn't want to become a monster.

Soon after, Dana brought him water, supporting him as he emptied what he had ingested.

“What are we going to do now ?”

she asked.

“...This drug is powerful, I need to find a solution.”

“I have friends… Who could provide you with some, so you won’t have to go back there.”

Miguel frowned.

“Provide me some ? There's no way I'm going to get addicted ! Can you imagine… I couldn’t bear becoming someone like that… I don’t want to hurt you or anyone…”

Dana hugged him.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you… That’s all…”

She cried in his arms and he tried to console her.

He didn't want to lose her, he had to find a solution, he wouldn't be a monster !

A few hours later, Dana woke up. Miguel was no longer in the bed. He disappeared…

**

Following the experiment earlier, the laboratory was empty.

Sara after several hours, had fallen asleep in the ducts, or rather passed out, following all the tears she had shed. Lyla had woken her up.

*Sara, do you still want to carry out the plan ?*

"...Yes. Let’s destroy everything and go home…”

Sara opened the trapdoor and dropped down.

All her muscles ached from the uncomfortable position in which she had slept.

“Are all cameras disabled ?”

*Yes, but…"

"What ?"

*It wasn't me who did it... Someone just arrived, it's Miguel.*

“What is he doing here?”

*Apparently, he is going to try the experiment again but on himself, with his DNA...*

Lyla showed her his code.

"Drug ? How did it happen ?"

*I don't know, but it looks like he wants to make it disappear, using his DNA, before that happens.*

“...”

*Should we interrupt it, there is a 50% chance that it will end up like...*

“...Let's go to the control room. If his life is in danger, let’s stop the operation.”

The machine started up, Sara headed towards the control room, but before she got there, she heard footsteps, then light.

Damn… It’s a festival tonight.

“Miguel O’hara working overtime ? To further shine on the eyes of the boss I imagine…”

This voice… Is it Aaron?

“What a shame, something happened to Miguel during his experience, and I arrived too late to help him.”

What ?

Sara moved closer and looked at the screens.

“File 47-B, spider 50”

The machine gave an alert signal, it was overloaded.

“Lyla! Stop the experiment !”

'Who is here !?"

*Impossible, the commands no longer respond, we are above the limit !*

“Sara ! What are you doing here ? You have no right to be…!”

"Get away !"

Sara tried to stop the machine manually, sparks flying all over the room.

“...I have nothing to do with any of this !”

Said Aaron, before leaving to hide himself.

We could hear a terrible scream escaping from the capsule, she no longer had time, Sara was going to try to force him out.

*Be careful Sara, it’s going to…*

The machine exploded and the shock wave propelled Sara against the wall.

There was smoke everywhere in the room, following the shock, Sara had been knocked out. Footsteps came closer.

“Stupid woman… Couldn’t you just mind your own business ?”

Aaron said, pushing her body with his foot.

“...”

"You're still alive ? But you won't have the opportunity to speak, I would say that it was you who killed Miguel, just after I killed you..”

He kicked her back and she cried out in pain.

“That’s all you deserve, you poor idiot…”

He was going to give her another blow, but...

“...”

Aaron froze.

A sound, the breath of something had blown, near the back of his neck.

He turned around, but no one was there.

And when he turned to Sara, she was gone.

"Who…"

“Aaaaoooon….”

He turned around in terror, the man behind him... Wait, was it a man ?

His eyes were red, his fingers had long claws, and huge fangs protruded from its mouth.

"Who, what are you…"

“What did you do to me Aaron !!!”

He was furious, in his arms he held Sara, who was looking at him half awake.

Aaron pulled a gun out of his blouse.

“Don’t… Don’t come near me monster !”

He fired, but with superhuman speed, Miguel dodged the bullets, clinging to the wall with the strength of his fingers alone.

“Aaron stop!”

"No ! I don’t know what kind of mutant you’ve become, but I won’t let you kill me !”

By pulling in all directions, Aaron ended up shooting into a product can which exploded.

Miguel protected Sara from the shock, then the duo looked at the large window which had shattered.

"Where is..."

"Help !!!"

Aaron was holding on to the railing as best he could, the wind was blowing hard and he was about to fall.

Miguel approached, to extend his hand, but when Aaron saw his claws and panicked. All he had time to do was grab his fingers before he fell.

“...”

Miguel looked at his fingers.

“I… What did I…”

*Sara ! Miguel ! Security is on the way, you need to leave, now !*

It was time to get his act together.

Sara grabbed Miguel's arm, who was still in a trance.

"No ! Leave me Sara, I’m a murderer, I’m…”

“He tried to kill us ! Do you really want to die like that !?”

“...”

“Lyla ! Emergency evacuation !”

*All exits are blocked, you will have to go through the roof.*

Following Lyla's instructions, they reached the top of the building.

"And now ?"

Miguel asked.

“Are you afraid of heights ?”

She took a device out of her backpack.

"What do you want to…"

A rope ejected, to cling to the opposite building.

"...Who are you ? Really ?"

“We'll talk about this when we're safe, so hang in there... Oh, and watch out for the claws...”

Miguel wrapped his arms around her and they dropped, using her grappling hook.

They managed to escape the security of Alchemax, mingling with the crowd below.

“Come quickly, with his torn clothes you risk attracting attention.”

“And you with your black jumpsuit ?”

“It’s already less striking !”

"...Where are we going ?"

“My home, we need to understand what happened to you, at least… I won’t have to destroy the labs anymore…”

“...You wanted to destroy them ?”

Sara looked at him coldly as they entered a subway.

“I was there this morning…”

“...”

“But I know you have nothing to do with it…”

“Sara I…”

He reached out his hand towards hers.

"Claws !"

"Sorry !"

He shouted, quickly walking away.

**

*Hello Miguel.*

“...Let me sleep Lyla.”

*Sorry but, Dana tried to contact you several times…*

“Dana ? Oh…"

He sat up.

“I had a funny dream where I became a kind of spider-man…”

*...Well, it wasn't a dream, your DNA is now 50% of a spider.*

Miguel laughs.

“Yes of course, and I even have claws on the end of…”

He looked at his fingers and cried out in terror.

"It's... It's..."

“Oh, you finally woke up ?”

Sara, entered the dimly lit room and turned on the light, but Miguel hid his eyes, as if it hurt.

“I see… We will take the sunglasses.”

She said bringing him a pair.

“You owe me a new bed…”

He had reduced her sheets to confetti, at least… He was wearing clothes, men's clothes, but a little small for him.

“…It was real…”

“Yes, at least… The drug has completely disappeared from your system.”

“But… I’m going to stay like this…”

"...Yes."

"I should have…"

" Oh no ! I don't want to hear that!

"..."

“You saved me last night, again…”

Miguel smiled sadly.

“We’re back to where we started.”

"...Even if we can't make you look like before, I can help you adapt. The claws retract, there are contact lenses and…”

"Sara…How about you tell me what you were really doing in the lab… What happened to you and your father ?"

"..."

"You said you would tell me the truth, that's why you disappeared, all those years, right ?"

"Yes."

" What happened ?”

"Well… Let's start at the beginning, it might be a bit long."

"..."

She sighed and took a deep breath.

“I am the great, great-granddaughter of the first Spider-Man. Peter Parker.”

Back to masterlist - Previous chapter - Next chapter

[whenisitenoughtrees]

to be honest, capable (of holding you) (part 2/3)

He walks forward, crouching over the snake, and when it doesn’t stir at all, he works up his courage and pokes it, just a little. Its scales are warm and smooth under his fingertip, and he resists the urge to stroke them. He doubts he could get away with that.

“Janus?” he asks, trying to keep the somewhat hysterical laughter from his voice. “That you?”

Thomas didn’t know that Janus could turn into an actual snake, but he’s glad to hang out with him regardless. More than glad; ecstatic, even, because he’s been trying to figure out how to befriend him for ages, and this seems like a good first step. What he can’t figure out is why human-Janus is being so weird about it.

(Alternatively: Janus doesn’t trust easily. He wishes he could stop trusting Thomas— it would be so much less terrifying.)

Chapter Warnings: blood and injury, Remus being mildly unsettling

Chapter Word Count: 5,074

Pairing: platonic Thomceit

(part 1) (part 3)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

They don’t talk about it.

Thomas would very much like to talk about it. But whenever he goes to bring it up, Janus glares at him in a way that promises a world of trouble if he so much as breathes a word, and Thomas really does not want to set back any of the progress he’s already made with him, so he shuts up about it. He’s not entirely sure why Janus is so opposed to addressing it; it can’t be that he doesn’t want the others to know, after all, because all the others are literally parts of Thomas and as such are privy to the knowledge of everything that Thomas experiences.

As best as Thomas can tell, it’s some sort of embarrassment that holds Janus back, some sort of shame, and Thomas doesn’t get it. Surely he knows that Thomas doesn’t mind at all, that Thomas enjoys the time they spend together, even if their conversations are far more one-sided than he would like. Janus seems to be under the impression that coming to him at all is in some way unseemly, while Thomas just wants him to be comfortable enough to approach him as a human.

But as more time passes, that seems less and less likely. Thomas spends far more time with snake-Janus than with human-Janus, and Janus begins to come with him even when the sun shines bright and his spot by the window is available. Thomas becomes quite familiar with carrying a weight looped around his neck, and wishes he could puzzle out why Janus is acting this way.

The worst part is that with every passing day, he feels like he understands Janus less, not more. Because the way he acts during meetings and discussions, when he pops in to offer opinions and advice masked as sarcasm and cutting quips, is entirely different to the way he acts as a snake, when he and Thomas are alone together, when he leans into all the contact Thomas has to offer, seeking warmth, and, Thomas suspects, company. It’s almost as if he’s dealing with two entirely different people, each one unwilling or unable to discuss the other, and frankly, Thomas has no idea what to do about it.

Because he’s worried that if he pushes too hard, demands one answer too many, Janus will stop approaching him at all, in any form. And that is the last thing he wants.

So, he leaves it be, and resigns himself to the idea that human-Janus may just remain incomprehensible to him, and that snake-Janus is the closest he will get to making a friend out of him. And if that turns out to be the case, then gosh darn it, he will be the best friend to snake-Janus that he possibly can be.

This has the side effect of leading him to a snake-centric fact-finding mission, which Logan appreciates, at least, because “even if the information may not be applicable to most aspects of your life, at least you’re learning something, Thomas.” Which he supposes is fair. He learns a great many things about snakes over the course of a few days, most of it interesting, if not particularly relevant. He doesn’t know how much of this actually applies to Janus, since he’s not a real snake.

Though he does find out that snakes don’t have eyelids. That would explain the whole no-blinking thing.

Other than his impromptu investigations, they fall into an equilibrium fairly easily. Janus will seek him out at all hours of the day and wrap himself around his arm or neck, sometimes staying awake and aware and sometimes drifting off into sleep. And when he’s fed up with the company, he leaves, disappearing with neither warning nor fanfare. Thomas settles into this new routine with little effort, and decides that if this is all he’s going to get from Janus, he’ll take it.

He gets used to it, so much so that he stops looking every time he feels Janus curl around him. This turns out to be a mistake.

He’s procrastinating, as per usual. His deadline is a full week away, and even Virgil has been unable to provide the urgency that Thomas needs to push through and finish his latest project. He knows that this will only end badly, that he’s going to end up staying up until the early hours of the morning in a few days if he doesn’t get started now, but he simply doesn’t feel like it. So, he’s scrolling through Amazon instead, clicking through pages of items that he neither needs nor particularly wants.

He’s been looking at a lot of frogs, lately. Cute, decorative frogs, the kinds that sit on mantles and don’t do much of anything. And plushies, too, and those are actually tempting. He’s pretty sure that it’s Patton’s influence.

“What do you think?” he asks, holding up his arm so that Janus can see the screen. Janus hisses quietly, and he laughs. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He doesn’t have the money to spend on a bunch of decorative frogs, even if he had a strong inclination toward doing so, but it’s fun to look. He’s seriously considering a stuffed animal, but he’s pretty sure that Logan intends to talk him down from that, so there’s no real need to be concerned about it. Even if he ends up buying one after all, he thinks it would be worth it.

He glances down at Janus, trying to figure out if he’s enjoying this at all, or if he’s just irritated. And that’s when he finally notices the blood.

He freezes up, his muscles tensing, and blinks hard, hoping that it’s a trick of the light, or that spending so many hours doing practically nothing has fried his brain at last. But no; Janus’ scales are dotted with rusty red, and Thomas traces the blood back to a long gash trailing down his side, sluggishly oozing, slowly dripping onto his arm. He stares for a long moment, his mind stalling, and he wonders if the scent of iron flooding his nose is real or imaginary. Or rather, real by a certain standard, since everything to do with his sides is technically imaginary, but oh god, why is he bleeding so much? He thought that his sides could wave off injuries, that nothing could truly affect them unless they wanted it to? Or is that just Logan? And then there’s the question of what did this to him in the first place, and how exactly he’s supposed to treat someone who’s a figment of his imagination, and whether or not any of the real medical supplies he has would work at all—

Focus, Thomas.

It’s like a whisper in his ear, gentle and firm. Logan’s voice. The world snaps into sharp clarity, mind and adrenaline working in tandem.

“Oh my god,” he says, and Janus’ head swivels to face him. The movement is slow, almost lethargic, as if he’s operating on a time delay. “You’re hurt. Okay. Well, not okay. But you’ll be okay.”

He has a first aid kit in the bathroom. He has no idea whether that will help or not, but he won’t know until he tries, as his logic helpfully points out. So the first order of business is to get to the bathroom. He stands, setting his laptop to the side, trying to jostle Janus as little as possible. Now that he’s paying attention, more and more details filter in; Janus’ grip on his arm is looser than usual, his eyes dull and glazed. His hat, usually so perfectly placed, is just slightly askew.

He makes it to the bathroom in short order, yanking the kit out from under the sink and nearly spilling its contents across the floor. He’ll need both hands for this, and he looks to Janus with no small amount of trepidation, wondering how well he’ll take being moved. He doesn’t want to cause him more pain than necessary, and he doesn’t know how aware he currently is, doesn’t know if he’ll lash out if he feels threatened. He gives him an experimental nudge, prodding at him with one finger, and Janus hisses, shifting his coils to hold on tighter.

“C’mon,” Thomas says. “You gotta let me help you, buddy.”

There is is again: buddy. He still doesn’t think it fits quite right, but it seems to slip out anyway, and now is hardly the time to worry about it, not when Janus still shows no sign of budging.

“Please, Janus,” he says, dangerously close to begging. “I promise, I’m not gonna let anything else happen to you, but you need to let me see where you’re hurt.”

Janus’ tongue flickers out, tasting the air, and his eyes seem to focus just a bit. One minute passes, and then another, and Thomas is about to try to remove him by force when finally, he lets go, slithering onto the counter, his motions hesitant and pained, softly hissing all the while. Blood begins to drip onto the sink, the sickening red smearing across the countertop.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, not bothering to hide his relief. “Okay, um, I’ve got bandages. And painkillers, if you want them… can snakes take painkillers?” He sets things out as he names them, slowing as he hits a snag. Not only does he not know if snakes can take painkillers, but he also doesn’t know if there are any other substances in here that would do more harm than good, or if there are any special steps he should take due to his scales, or the fact that he’s cold-blooded. In fact, he has absolutely no idea how to treat a snake, and the idea that he might end up making things worse is enough to send his anxiety ratcheting up a few notches.

Is he overthinking this? He might be overthinking this. But what if he’s not?

Try to remain calm. If you don’t know enough to work within this situation, change the situation.

Logan again, though he’s not sure how that’s supposed to help. He would change the situation if he could— heck, that’s what he’s trying to do— but if it were so simple as wishing this whole scenario away, he would have done it by now. He’s not sure how to—

Oh, wait. Change the situation, or change Janus’ situation?

He has absolutely no idea how to treat a snake. But Janus doesn’t have to be a snake.

He crouches down so that he’s on eye level with Janus, who is limp and unmoving on the sink counter, tracking his motions with clouded eyes. It’s not just the large gash, he realizes; that’s the worst of it, but there are several shallower cuts, all still open and bleeding, and he swallows hard.

“Okay, so, I don’t want to make things any worse,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Do you think you could turn back into a human for me? Just so that I know what I’m doing?”

Not that he knows much about treating humans either, but at least he’d know where to start. Perhaps if Janus’ injuries were less severe, he could work with them in this state, but that prominent gash looks deep and angry, probably about six inches long, wide and painful, rending scales apart and leaking dark blood and god, he is so afraid of making this worse—

Janus stares at him, and doesn’t react.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, because he is. He doesn’t know why Janus only initiates contact with him as a snake, doesn’t know why the very idea of deviating from that seems to disquiet him. Asking him to be human now, like this, almost seems wrong, like they’ll be breaking what understanding they do have between them, breaking the peace they’ve found with each other lately. But then, the peace is already broken, he thinks, has been broken since Janus showed up bleeding. “I know you probably don’t want to. But I want to make this better, and I don’t think I can if you’re uh, shaped like this. I… I guess I’m asking you to trust me.”

It’s a tall order, and he is well aware of that. Janus is Deceit, after all, and Deceit is practically the antithesis of trust. He’ll probably have to work with Janus as a snake after all, and he’s just resolving himself to do the best he can when Janus shifts in place, raising his head.

Thomas isn’t sure how to process what happens next. One part of his brain tells him that the change happens slowly, that Janus’ form stretches and morphs in impossible ways, scales fading away and features rearranging before his eyes. The other part of his brain insists that the shift is instantaneous, that it happens as quickly as blinking, that in one moment, there is a snake curled on the counter and in the next, there is a man, with no gradual transition between the two. But however it happens, Janus now sits in front of him, arms and legs all present, hunched in on himself and wheezing. One hand flies to his side, clutching at his shirt.

Thomas blinks. For a second, his mind fights with itself, trying to decide on what, exactly, he just watched. Then, he decides that it doesn’t matter, that he’ll have a crisis about it later, and that there are more important things to concentrate on.

He reaches out, placing a steadying hand on Janus’ shoulder. “Easy, easy,” he says, raising his voice to be audible over Janus’ gasps. “Are you okay?”

It takes a minute for Janus to get his breathing under control, and when he does, he looks up at Thomas, his expression pinched. “Just fine,” he rasps. “Absolutely perfect, can’t you tell?” His voice is strained, tension showing in the lines around his eyes and in the thin set of his mouth. “Really, Thomas, the fuss is hardly necessary. I—” He cuts off with a slight gasp, eyes squeezing shut, and Thomas feels his heart clench.

“Hm, yeah, no, I think I’ve got the right to fuss a little bit,” he says, hoping his voice stays level. He looks him up and down, searching for the injury, and finds nothing; his shirt appears immaculate, his whole outfit as perfectly assembled as usual, not a rip or tear in sight. If it weren’t for the pain on his face, the tremors wracking his frame, Thomas wouldn’t suspect that he was injured at all, and he frowns. “Can you, uh—” He gestures— “take off your shirt, maybe? So I can see where you’re hurt?”

Janus sighs heavily, as though the request has greatly burdened him. He waves one hand in the air, and his shirt and capelet vanish, revealing his bare torso. Under any other circumstance, Thomas might be fascinated by the scales that trail all along his chest and left arm, but right now, his attention centers on the gash bloodying his side, and the thinner scratches that cover him. They all look bigger than they were before, more serious, and he hopes that he didn’t make the wrong decision in requesting him to shift. If it had been a bad idea, he would have refused, right?

“God, Janus,” he says. “What happened?”

Janus sighs again, rolling his eyes. “A mishap in the Imagination,” he says. “Unfortunately, both Roman and Remus designed the place so that its effects stick around even after leaving.”

… Alright. That’s probably something to talk about later; he doesn’t particularly like the reminder that he has no idea how most of the mindscape works. “But I thought you could heal yourselves?” he can’t help but ask. He vividly remembers the day he met Remus, the way that none of his attacks seemed to affect Logan for more than a few seconds.

“We all can, to some degree,” Janus agrees. “It’s more difficult for some of us than it is for others.” He hesitates, and the next words come out slow and almost defensive. “I am capable of it, if I succeed in persuading myself that the problem doesn’t exist in the first place, but in order to do so, I need to sufficiently distance myself from any negative sensations that accompany the harm. I am… currently finding that difficult.” He glares. “I’ll mange perfectly well, given time. There is no need for any of this.” He waves an arm to punctuate the declaration, and it might have been somewhat convincing if it weren’t for the fact that he immediately curls in on himself, face paling, like he’s pulled something the wrong way.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Well, how about you let me help you anyway, just for my peace of mind?”

Janus stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Finally, he glances away. “Do what you wish,” he says. “If you want to waste time on this, be my guest.”

He hums noncommittally, already inspecting the wound. “I don’t think that taking care of you is a waste of time,” he says, fishing through the first aid kit. He comes up with a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, looking up just in time to see what can only be an expression of shock fade from Janus’ face, and god, what must he be doing wrong if that is Janus’ reaction to being told that he cares about him? He can’t unpack that right now, or else he might cry, so he holds out the Tylenol instead. “Painkillers?”

Janus nods slightly, and takes two dry. From there, Thomas works in silence, cleaning the wounds as best he can and bandaging them. It takes longer than he expects, and he debates whether or not the long gash will need stitches. He decides not to make the attempt, trusting that what Janus says is true and that he will be able to heal before too long. So he wraps bandages around his torso, and Janus, for his part, remains perfectly still, staring straight ahead, an occasional soft hiss the only thing that betrays his discomfort.

“Okay,” he says quietly, inspecting his handiwork. “I think that’s the best I can do.”

Janus shoots him an unreadable look. “In that case,” he says, “I believe I’ll be going now.”

He hops down from the counter before Thomas can stop him, and his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper. Thomas catches him as his knees give out, hooking his hands under his arms. He is surprisingly light, his skin cool to the touch.

“How about we don’t do that, actually,” he says. “I’ll tell you what, let’s go to my room, and I can work and you can get some rest?”

Janus hisses, trying to jerk away. It’s not difficult to prevent him from doing so; he has all the strength of a floppy pool noodle. “Oh yes, because I’m in dire need of a babysitter,” he spits out, and perhaps Thomas should feel intimidated, but looking at him, at the way all the color has drained from his face, at the way his eyes have glazed over even as they dart around the bathroom, all Thomas can muster up is a deep worry.

“I’m not trying to babysit you,” he says. “Believe me, I know that you of all people don’t need babysitting. But if you try to sink out now, I’m just gonna be stressed out, so if you’d stick around for a little bit, I would really appreciate it.”

Janus stills. The silence stretches on.

“Fine,” Janus says. “Sure. Whatever.”

Thomas restrains himself from letting out a sigh of relief, instead adjusting his grip on Janus until he is only supporting part of his weight. From the look on his face, Janus wants very much to grumble about the indignity of the situation, but miraculously, he remains quiet all the way to Thomas’ room, though he begins to drag his feet when he sees what Thomas intends.

“If you want me to rest,” he says, “I am perfectly capable of doing so in my own room. There’s hardly a need for me to take up space in your bed.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, lowering him to sit on the bedsheets and doing his level best to ignore his glare, “but then I won’t know that you’re alright. Also, I don’t see what the big deal is? It’s not like we haven’t done this before. You were just, uh, snakier.”

He knows immediately that it is the wrong thing to say. Janus’ face sets into an impassive wall, and he looks away, refusing to make eye contact. Thomas can’t tell what he’s feeling, whether it’s anger or embarrassment or frustration or some stubborn combination of the three. But he settles himself against the headboard without further argument, seemingly determined not to carry on any further conversation, so Thomas resigns himself to the silent treatment and sets up with his laptop on the other side of the bed, several inches placed between them.

The atmosphere is awkward, heavy. They both know that Thomas wants to talk, and they both know that Janus will not reply, or if he does, it will be with sharp sarcasm or otherwise cutting words, an answer that will not answer anything at all. So Thomas doesn’t say anything, merely glances over every now and again to be sure that Janus is still there, is still fine, is still breathing. Every time, he is greeted with the same sight: Janus staring off into the empty space in front of him, face blank, a faint tightness around his eyes the only indication that he is still in pain. There is a wall between them, invisible yet insurmountable, and Thomas has no idea how to breach it.

Why does their relationship feel so off-kilter now? Why are things so natural between them when Janus is a snake, small and speechless and cuddly, and not when he is a human?

“I don’t mean to force you to stay,” he murmurs. “If you’re really that uncomfortable, it’s alright if you leave.”

He’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, and as such, he sees the wince, slight though it may be.

“It’s… not that,” Janus admits. “I am grateful for your concern, truly. I just… so love being in unfamiliar territory.” His voice is a quiet drawl, but laced with exhaustion, his words just shy of slurred together.

He takes a second to parse through the words, and then smiles. “Well, that makes two of us,” he says. “I’d be alright with muddling through together. And look, I know that most of the time, when we hang out, you’re a snake. And that’s fine! One hundred percent fine, if that’s what you’re most comfortable with! But uh, I really wouldn’t mind spending more time with you as, like, a person, too, if that makes sense. Not that you’re not a person when you’re a snake! Wait—” He furrows his brow, trying to untangle his words, and looks over, certain that Janus will at least be amused by his rambling.

He’s not. Because Janus is asleep, his chin resting against his chest and his hat about to fall into his lap. Thomas feels an inexorable sense of fondness sweep over him, and with a gentle movement, he reaches over to pluck the hat from Janus’ head, revealing brown hair that falls in springy waves. He places the hat on the nightstand, casting one last look at Janus before returning his attention to his laptop.

There is plenty of work to do, and he is content to do it here, sitting in bed with Janus napping by his side. So he does, his fingers clacking against the keys long into the night, and Janus sleeps on.

-----------

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. But he must, because he wakes, and slowly processes the fact that all is not as he left it. For one, the light is off, the room dark, and his laptop is resting on the nightstand, next to the shadow of Janus’ hat. For another, there is a heavy weight on top of his chest, pinning one of his arms against his side, and in the seconds before his eyes adjust sufficiently to the darkness, he fears the worst, fears that someone has broken into his apartment and… crawled into bed with him, and the irrationality of that idea is enough to dampen his panic. He squints, trying to will his vision into focus, and begins to make out what features he can see of the face pressed against his chest, features that very closely resemble his own, and that is when he remembers: Janus on his arm, Janus injured and bleeding, Janus on his bed, Janus asleep. Janus… still here.

Janus, snuggled up against him, his head resting on his chest, his body curled into his side, latched onto him with both… no, there’s more than two arms. At least four, maybe more; it’s difficult to determine without the light on, because all that Thomas can tell is that he is being very thoroughly hugged, and that it feels very nice.

This fact is distracting enough that it’s a full three minutes or so before he realizes that there is another figure perched on the edge of his bed. Panic roars up in him once again, his heart pounding and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, but then he notices the details, notices the poof of the figure’s sleeves, the wildness of their hair silhouetted against the light that creeps around the edges of the doorframe, the unholy red gleam of their eyes. And he… well, he doesn’t relax, not exactly. But most of his fear sidesteps directly into annoyance.

“Remus,” he hisses, as quietly as he can manage. “What are you doing?”

Remus cocks his head, his eyes shining brighter. He’s crouched almost like a grotesque parody of a cat, ready to pounce. But the Duke himself is still and silent, and it’s very odd. Almost worrying. And when he finally speaks, it’s not at all what Thomas was expecting.

“DeeDee got hurt,” he says, voice a subdued whisper, and Thomas is taken aback, both by the seriousness of his tone and the evident consideration toward not waking Janus up.

“I— yeah,” Thomas replies, uncertain as to where this is going. “I, uh, patched him up as best I could. He said he’d heal soon.” A thought occurs to him, and if Janus weren’t keeping him flat on his back, he’d be sitting bolt upright, finger pointed in accusation. “Wait, he said he was hurt in the Imagination. Did you have something to do with that?”

“I can’t keep an eye on every part of La La Land at once, Thomas.” He shrugs. “It’s not my fault if Snake from Snake Farm wandered into something he shouldn’t have.” He giggles, high-pitched and a little manic, but Thomas wonders at his tone of voice. It’s as irreverent as always, but underneath that— can it be concern? He really didn’t think Remus did concern. “Snakes should know better than to let their guard down. Your mind is dark and full of terrors.” He smiles, several rows of pointed white teeth gleaming an unnatural white in the shadows.

“I don’t even watch—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and then freezes as Janus makes a small sound. Seconds pass, and he waits with bated breath, but Janus doesn’t seem to wake. “Okay, then,” he continues, more quietly. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

Remus blinks, and once again, Thomas is reminded of a cat. A terrible, eldritch horror of a cat, but a cat nonetheless. “DeeDee doesn’t like to be around people when he’s hurt,” he says, rocking back and forth in place. “He doesn’t like people knowing when he’s weak.” He sighs through his nose, his breath whistling more than is natural. “He holes up in his room and doesn’t come out for anything, usually. Not even when I bang on the door and put rats in his air vents.”

Thomas stares, trying to process that. “But he’s here with me,” he says dumbly. “He decided to stay here. He’s…” He trails off. He doesn’t need to describe what Janus is doing; surely, Remus can see it for himself, can see them engaging in what can only be labeled as cuddling. And it’s not as if this is the first time; it’s just the first time Janus has been human-shaped.

“Yes, he is,” Remus agrees, voice sharp, and he is definitely trying to convey something here, something that Thomas is missing. “Tommy-boy, Tommy-boy, Tommy-boy, you’re just not getting it, are you? Well, that’s fine. Just remember that the snakes on the plane die too, if the plane crashes.”

“Is the plane crashing?” Thomas asks, voice hoarse, hesitant, and once again, Remus smiles, wide and dangerous.

“Not now, maybe,” he says. “But it still could. It always can. That’s the fun thing about airplanes. I could help with that, if you wanted.”

“No thanks,” Thomas is quick to reply.

Remus shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and then pauses. “Janus doesn’t let just anyone this close, you know. So don’t fuck it up.”

It’s such an uncharacteristic statement that by the time Thomas has recovered enough to reply, Remus is gone, melting into the bedsheets in a grotesque puddle of goo, and then, even that disappears. Thomas is left in a dark, quiet room, and he has never felt more awake.

But Janus is still here, still asleep, is holding onto him for dear life and hiding his face against his chest. And it’s something precious, something intimate, something that Thomas feels privileged to see at all, and Remus’ voice rings loud in his head: Janus doesn’t let just anyone this close. Why, then, has he allowed him this? Why has he let Thomas see him at his most vulnerable, no matter how reluctant he was at the start? Why did he choose to stay, rather than leaving once Thomas nodded off?

Each question only leads to more questions, and it’s clear that he won’t receive any answers tonight. So he settles back in as best he can, though it is a long time before he manages to fall asleep again.

In the morning, Janus is gone. He wishes he could be more surprised.

------------

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii @severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease @elizabutgayer @dwbh888 @thatoneloudowl @sanderssides-angst @gayboopnoodle @wildfire5157 @ldavmp4 @a-ghostlight-for-roman @sammy-is-obsessed @imlovethomassanders @a-yeet-bop-bop-boom @halfordshysteria @random-fander @addykatb @i-cant-find-a-good-username @intruxiety

Fic Taglist: @5am-the-foxing-hour @idkanameatall @i-fear-no-god @dwbh888 @why-do-you-care @astraheart04 @lonceallivander @im-a-creepy-cookie

Feel free to ask to be on the taglist!! (But please specify which one!) (And also if I ever accidentally put you on the wrong taglist, let me know and I’ll fix it!)

[firebrands]

Well, since you said no to the fake relationship au (crying in a corner), can you please do a meeting at a masquerade ball au? Pretty please? Ps: follow you for some time now, i love you writing 🥰

i’ve written a few fake dating fics! (here & here) 

thank you for this prompt, i really enjoyed writing it. i hope you like it!

a shift in the light, E, 2.1k | “masquerade ball” + stony bingo prompt fill “light bondage ” | on ao3

The suit feels too tight, and the mask cuts off his periphery. This was supposed to be a simple recon mission, but they hadn’t told him about the mask until the last minute and now Steve wants nothing else than to rip the damn thing off himself and everyone else; how was he supposed to find anyone here?

Steve’s about to turn away from the party when someone catches his elbow. He flinches at the touch, fighting down the instinct to throw whoever it is to the floor.

“Looking for someone?” The man asks. He’s wearing a gold mask cut just above his cheekbones, highlighting the tan of his skin and the brightness of his piercing eyes.

“No,” Steve replies gruffly, feeling a little off-balance, all of the sudden.

“Pity,” the man says, “I imagined you were looking for someone to dance with.”

Something about him stirs faint recognition in Steve, but he can’t seem to put his finger on it. It makes him want to know more, so he takes a second to steady himself before saying: “Are you offering?”

The man’s smile is dazzling. “Why, yes I am, darling.”

He offers his hand to Steve’s, and in the moment between standing at the precipice of the crowd and stepping onto the dancefloor, Steve begins to put together who the man could be.

“Shall I lead?” The man asks, though not seemingly expecting an answer, if his hand on Steve’s waist is anything to go by. Steve doesn’t even have time to disagree before he’s swept into a waltz.

“You’re excellent at following,” the man says, just as Steve turns his head away as they move. “I didn’t expect that.”

Steve nearly falters when he glances at the man, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

Tony. It had to be Tony.

Over the swell of the violins, Steve tried to steady his heartbeat—why was Tony here? Did Tony know that it was him behind the mask? What was he going to do about it?

As if sensing Steve drifting off, Tony pushed their chests closer together. “Were you thinking of leaving, before I asked you to dance?”

“I think I asked you,” Steve says, looking away from Tony despite feeling the weight of his gaze. Steve could feel every point of contact between them hot as a brand, but didn’t know what to do with that. He’d never dreamed of acting on the attraction he’d felt, they were teammates, and if his own history was anything to go by, there was never anything good that came with shitting where you slept. But the look Tony had given him earlier was hungry, wanting, and if Tony didn’t know Steve was under the mask, then maybe...

It seemed like Steve wasn’t the only one in the ballroom casting away inhibitions because of their disguises; already he’d spotted a few couples standing close, and some were already kissing and leading each other out of the room.

“You did,” Tony says, snapping Steve back to attention. The song ended and Tony bowed to him, and Steve fought back a flush. “Well, darling. How would you feel if I asked you up to my room?”

Steve suddenly felt short of breath. He knows he should just leave, call this mission a failure and go home, and pretend this never happened because it’s not like he has absolute proof that it is Tony behind the mask.

But then, there’s a bigger part of him that’s curious to see where this goes, and on impulse, he nods.

Tony smiles at him, wide enough to make his cheeks lift the mask slightly. “Wonderful.”

****

Tony pushes Steve against the door as soon as it’s shut behind him. Steve barely sucks in a breath before Tony’s kissing him, and any regret he’d felt in the elevator and in the hallway flies out of his mind.

Steve struggles weakly against him, surprised by the delicious burn of Tony’s beard against his chin, how different it is to kiss a man compared to a woman; harder, unyielding—dominant.

Tony takes the hint and guides them to his room, their lips barely leaving one another’s as they stumble through the suite.

The back of Steve’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he sits down. Tony easily sits himself on Steve’s lap without breaking the kiss, and Steve is momentarily stunned by the desire that takes over. He wants to be closer, wants to take Tony’s face in his hands, kiss his neck, to catalogue all of the differences because he knows, too, that this can’t happen again. Not if his life depended on it.

Steve cups Tony’s cheek and his fingers catch on the mask. He’s surprised by the sound of protest that spills from his lips.

Tony pulls away, a familiar smirk on his lips. In a practiced motion, he undoes his tie with one hand, his other flat against Steve’s stomach, pushing him down onto the bed.

Steve knows he could easily flip them over, take Tony’s mask off by force, but Tony’s confidence makes desire curl in Steve’s stomach. He wants to know what Tony’s going to do next, so he stays still and catches his breath.

Tony holds up his tie, the bright red silk catching in the yellow light of the room. “I could put a blindfold on you,” he says, licking his lips.

Steve sucks in a breath, and a strange powerlessness settles over him as Tony reaches over and gently undoes the knot holding Steve’s mask in place. Steve’s eyes flutter shut on their own volition, and he blinks them back open as he feels Tony’s fingers against his cheek.

“Why should you be allowed to see me, but I can’t see you?” Steve asks, wrapping one hand around Tony’s wrist, holding his mask in place.

Tony tilts his head, assessing him. “Well, I can’t put the blindfold on with my eyes shut now, can I?”

Steve grunts. “And why should I be the one blindfolded?”

Tony moves his hand and strokes Steve’s cheek with his thumb. “I had a feeling you wanted it.”

Steve lets go of Tony’s wrist, and takes the tie from him. “Close your eyes,” Steve says. “I’ll do it myself.”

Steve can see Tony bite back a smile, but he shuts his eyes anyway. Steve pushes himself up on his elbows and fumbles a little, but does a good enough job fitting the tie around his eyes.

“Done,” he says, sinking back down on the bed. “What now?”

Steve reaches out instinctively when he feels Tony get off his lap.

“That depends entirely on you, darling. Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

A fresh wave of heat washes over Steve, and he moves blindly as he tries to find Tony; already, he misses his touch, and craves the reassurance of his body against his.

“Undress for me,” Tony commands, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

“Only if you do the same.”

“You’re under the impression that you can make demands of me.” Tony’s voice is closer, and Steve can feel the bed dip on his right side. He gasps when Tony grabs his chin and turns his head. “Whatever shall I do to correct that behavior?”

Steve gasps again when Tony grabs his cock, hard and straining against his slacks. “Now, undress, unless you want to be punished.”

Steve swallows, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Shame burns through him, mixed with desire so strong he feels feverish. He struggles to take the shirt off, and his heart picks up when he hears Tony’s shoe tapping against the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, trying to move faster. It’s absurd—absolutely insane how immediate his need to please Tony has become his reality. He shucks off his pants and stops when his hands hit his briefs. “These too?”

Tony hums, and Steve moves instinctually towards where the bed dips, again. “Do you think I can fuck you with those on?”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “No,” he murmurs, getting on his knees and slipping them off. He sits back on his haunches in waits.

“Good,” Tony purrs. He pushes Steve back down onto the bed, covering Steve’s body with his own and making Steve groan at the touch. Even though Tony’s still fully dressed, Steve can still feel his warmth through the cloth, and the lack of sight makes him sensitive to every touch.

“Ready for your reward?”

“Yes,” Steve says, surprised at how desperate he sounds.

Tony kisses him—first lips closed and pressed against his, then Tony’s mouth parts slightly and Steve doesn’t even register it, doesn’t think, just takes the invitation as it is. Mouths slotted together, tongues slipping against each other and sending sparks down Steve’s spine. Tony’s hands are trailing up Steve’s flanks, up his arms, finally settling at the base of Steve’s neck to cradle his head, tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair, angle their heads just so.

Overcome with desire, Steve presses his body against Tony’s, and moves his hands from Tony’s waist to cup his ass.

Tony pulls away with a jolt and tuts.

At this point, Steve isn’t even embarrassed anymore by the whimper that slips past his lips.

“I don’t recall giving you permission.” The bed shifts, and Steve hears clothes rustling.

“Sorry,” Steve breathes out, desperate to have Tony touch him again.

“Darling, if I didn’t know any better, I’d start thinking that you want to be punished.” Tony says.

Steve lets out a choked out moan when Tony straddles his hips, the weight against his cock both a relief and a curse, and follows wordlessly when Tony lifts his hands up above his head.

Tony holds his wrists together and Steve makes a small sound when he feels another silky cloth wrap around his wrists.

“Do you?” Tony prompts.

“No.”

“Very good. Now keep your hands there for me, sweetheart.”

Steve breathes. He could do anything he wanted, but it feels so much better to be told—or, when it’s Tony that does the telling.

Tony grips his chin. “Will you keep your hands there and be a good boy for me?”

“Yes,” Steve breathes out.

“Yes ‘sir.’”

Steve takes another breath, trying to steady himself. “Yes, sir,” he grinds out.

“Very good,” Tony purrs.

Steve tries his best to listen for what might come next and can feel Tony shift on top of him. He gasps when Tony’s lips press against his chest.

He licks his way down to suck on Steve’s nipple and Steve bites back a shout, nearly doubling over and instead straining to keep his hands together and above him.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve moans.

Steve feels hyper-aware about every inch of skin that Tony is touching. He’s still clothed, but he’ll take what he can get: with his vision impaired, everything else is heightened. The cloth and steel feel cool against his rapidly overheating skin.

Steve groans when Tony palms his cock, begins to writhe as Tony starts moving his hand up and down his shaft. He’s desperate to touch Tony, to at least get his damn shirt off at the very least, and he shudders to a stop when he feels the cloth above him rip, just a little.

Tony stops as well, then huffs out a laugh.

He presses a quick kiss on Steve’s hip. “Good,” he murmurs, breath hot against Steve’s thigh. “I knew you could be good for me.”

***

The night had ended with Steve falling asleep with the blindfold on, right after Tony had fucked him into his third orgasm. When Steve woke up a few hours later, the mask was askew on Tony’s head, caught in his hair as he slept.

Steve didn’t know what to do with the tenderness of it all; Tony had cleaned him up, evidently, and his hand was resting on top of Steve’s stomach in a loose embrace.

He takes a deep breath and gently lifts Tony’s hand up, then gets up from the bed. His body is smarts in places he didn’t know could ache, and he’s wincing as he pulls up his pants when Tony wakes up.

They stare at each other in a moment that seems to stretch on to infinity.

Then Tony yawns and takes off his mask fully, setting it aside on the table beside him.

“Surprised?”

Steve sighs and fastens his belt. “No,” he admits. He looks up at Tony. “Are you?”

Tony smirks. “No.”

Steve knows he should leave, but can’t tear his eyes away from Tony’s gaze, intense despite the bedhead.

“Stop being dramatic and come back to bed,” Tony says, yawning again and settling back into the pillow.

Steve stands up a little straighter. “Is that an order?”

Tony opens an eye and looks at him.

“Well, soldier,” he murmurs, lifting up the blanket. “Only if you want it to be.”

[guineapigsinwinter]

Cat Among the Canines

So finished the first chapter, this is likely the final version.

Chapter one: For want of a smoke alarm.

It was two weeks before the start of a new school year, and the sirens of fire engines filled the air as the blaze raged throughout the building that housed the male feline carnivores. Half the building had been consumed by the flames when the fire engines had arrived, and whilst they had successfully prevented it spreading to any further, the damage was done.

Two weeks before a new term and one of the main dormitory buildings of the school was destroyed, though thankfully everyone had managed to escape physical injury.

Flying at a speed unheard of, the school’s administration team searched for a solution, trying to figure out how to house the 50 students who had been assigned to it. An old dormitory that had been closed several years prior for refurbishments that had never happened was hastily cleaned out and made habitable, and whilst this accommodated the returning feline student population, the 8 incoming young carnivore students still needed beds. An additional bed was installed in several rooms throughout several carnivore dormitories, with a table atop it instead of a top bunk, and the starting feline students were informed they would be in mixed dormitories for this year, with the option to switch to feline only ones the next once burnt out one was rebuilt.

 And so a 12 year old tiger named Bill found himself nervously standing in front of the door to room 701, assigned to live with a bunch of dogs for the year, his aunt’s drunken rant about the situation replaying in his head as he took the key and entered.

Surprisingly, Bill fitted in quite well with his roommates, his rumbustious nature gelling well with the energetic canine group, though his attempt to bond with Legoshi as “Alpha carnivore” as his aunt has ordered him to backfired, the shy small wolf jumping back behind the slightly taller Labrador.

“I’m not, or at l, l, least I don’t want to be.. please d,d,d,d don’t call me that” the grey wolf stuttered from behind his friend, the shame and anxiety in his voice catching everyone in the room by surprise. Bouncing forward, trying to get past the protective and glaring Labrador to the wolf. “it’s who you are man, like me what is there to be ashamed of?” Bill said.

Shouting the Labrador replied as he shoved himself into Bill. “He’s not, he’s Legoshi! He knows loads about bugs and is my best friend and leave him alone!”

“I’m not doing anything to him, I’m just saying it as it is” The now angry tiger yelled in the glaring Labrador even as Legoshi tried to defuse the situation, quietly asking everyone to calm down. Seconds later, the Labrador shoved Bill to the ground with a cry of “Stop scaring Legoshi” even as said wolf shouted “Don’t fight Jack!” as the pup and tiger cub started rolling around on the floor, the rooms other inhabitants scrambling up into their bunks to watch. For several minutes of rolling on the floor, various insults being shouted and everyone else randomly cheering for Jack or Bill whilst a stammering Legoshi begged them to stop. This came to a holt when they rolled against Miguno and Durnham’s bunk, at which point the hyena and coyote grinned at each other and flung them onto the brawling pair shouting their own names as a means of introduction.

This caused the tiny Fennec fox atop the third bunk pair to laugh whilst rolling his eyes, whilst the walking cloud that was the young English sheepdog also jumped in, laughing. Panicking, Legoshi drew up to his full tiny hight and jumped in with a cry of “I’m coming Jack. This concern faded, as he realised both Bill and Jack were laughing as well and soon started enjoying the rough housing, at one point rolling with Jack off to the side whilst the sheepdog attempted to pin a wriggling Bill to the floor, energetically introducing himself as Collot.

Eventually everyone was lying on floor panting and smiling, Legoshi quietly asking “Can we do that again?” Glancing at the young wolf, Bill replied “Sure, sorry for earlier, wasn’t trying to insult you or anything”.

Following this, the small fennec fox jumped off his bunk onto Bill’s back, hopping atop each person before bouncing to the door, shouting “The name’s Voss, and you guys do know the cafeteria is now opening for dinner?”

--- Several months Later, room 701---

“C’mon Legoshi, it will be fun, the invitation mentions the technical and costume aspects, plus everyone has joined one!” Bill said from his position lying on his front across his bunk, legs kicked up and swinging randomly, an invitation to the school drama club in front of him. Across from him, nestled in his bunk, Legoshi looked up from a similar invite. “Why invite me though? Not like I have done anything like this before, and most people don’t want to see a wolf on stage.” He said quietly, before tilting his head in thought. “Also, Jack isn’t in any? He said he was going to focus on lessons this year, we could just stay with him”.

Pressing his head into the duvet, the tiger cub muttered far quietly then his normal bombastic cheer “Please… I don’t want to go on my own but also really want to try this…” he admitted with a blush.

“I’ll help you find bugs, bet you I can climb to places even a great wolf like you can’t get to and grab them for you!” Bill continued as the door to the dorm room opened, and Jack came in, the pup carrying a stack of books the same size as his chest.

“I got the books for history from the library for you guys, plus some cool ones on wolves and tigers!” Jack’s enthusiasm was clear in his voice and the frantic wagging of his tail. The young Labrador has already started a growth spurt, the six inches he had gained since term had started leaving him the tallest of the 701 boys. He set them down on the table above Bil’s bunk before flopping down on Legoshi’s bunk, leaning against the wolf cub before glancing around the dorm room “Where is everyone?” he asked.

 “Durry’s at the swim club meeting, Mig’s at band practice, Collot went to the painting one I think?..” Legoshi grew quieter as he grew increasingly unsure which club Collot was trying out, the sheepdog had tried dozens in the last week.

“Wasn’t that yesterday? I’m going to the Warhammer and Wrestling ones tomorrow with him, maybe it was baking today?” Bill was just as confused as his lupine friend.

“I thought it was trampolining today?  Or gymnastics.. one of the two..  pretty sure Voss was going to the school paper club so maybe Collot went with him?” For once, Jack was as confused about a situation as his dormmates.

“It was pottery club guys, I didn’t go as I’d go flying off the wheel with clay guys” said Fennec spoke from his own bed, causing the three others to all jump, Legoshi and Jack both falling back in surprise.

“Rex dammit Voss when did you get back? I swear your part ghost!” the tiger cub roared out, though it came out as more a squeak towards the end.

Chuckling, Voss jumped down be grinning at the tiger. “What can I say? You goofballs don’t pay enough attention.” Turning to Legoshi and Jack he continued. “It cant hurt to try Legoshi, plus it does look good to the teachers. Speaking of Jack you should at least try some, my sister said the workloads gets intense after first year so now be your only chance, got to be something you’d like to try.” Voss pulled a flier that listed all the clubs from where it had been discarded on the floor and shoved it into Jack’s hands.

Pouting, Jack gave in, closing his eyes. “Fine, I’m blaming you if I fail exams because of this” the Labrador stated, as he randomly spun his left hand before jabbing one claw into the paper.

“Huh, gardening, that could be nice”.

Gardening did indeed, turn out to be nice, so much so each of the inhabitants of room 701 would get dragged to the gardens at least once a month by Jack. Legoshi was the second most frequent, wanting to stay close to Jack but also amazed at the variety of bugs he could find there, Bill and Collen both enjoyed trying to show off strength wise, competing with each other as to who could lift the most compost, heaviest wheelbarrows ect. Durnham and Voss didn’t especially like it, but found it hard to resist when Jack asked them. Miguno fell in love with the gardens, more as a place to practice his music but also enjoyed the digging so ended up joining the society as well.

 --- Two weeks later, night-time in room 701—

The storm outside raged, the sound of pouring rain and thunder constant, with flashes of lightning frequently blasting through the curtains. All of the dormmates were asleep, though for one it was certainly not peaceful. Bill tossed and turned in his sleep, murmuring unintelligibly in his sleep, whining in fear, his fur puffed up as the nightmare wracked him.

After a particularly loud sorrowful yowl from the tiger, Jack blinked awake, looking up from where he had been nuzzled in Legoshi’s bed. “Bill? You okay buddy?” Hearing no reply other then continued distress, Jack frowned before clambering over the grey wolf and out of the bed, waking Legoshi up.

“Jack, what’s going on? It’s not time to get up yet is it?” he groggily asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Bill’s having a nightmare, we got to help him!” Jack excitedly whispered, grabbing Legoshi’s hand pulling him out of the bed, over to Bill’s.

“Huh, er, okay then Jack”. He said as the Labrador huddle up to one side of the shaking feline, whispering reassurances and childish boasts of safety.

“Er you got this buddy, we got your back, it’s what friends do” the grey wolf cub said as he slumped into nightmare ridden tiger’s other side, sandwiching the scared feline between him and the cheerful Labrador, who’s tail started to wag slightly as Bill started to settle and calm into a more restful sleep.

“See Legoshi, we helped! I told you wolves are great for helping people to sleep! He exclaimed, having not realised said wolf had fallen asleep almost as soon as he had settled in. Grinning, proud he had helped a friend, Jack slumbered off as well.

---Rexmas eve—

 Legoshi was gazing at the snow drifting down outside, lost in thought sat against the window. He had thought of going home, he honestly hadn’t meant to mislead Jack, but it was .. he couldn’t go back. Rexmas had been the one time his mother would come out of his room, and the idea of going back now.. he just couldn’t. Legoshi felt tears rolling down his face, and found himself unable to stop himself thinking about that night. He was startled out of thoughts by the room door slamming open, causing the young wolf to yelp and fall onto the floor. Getting to his feet, he saw Bill had come back, but was shocked by his face. The tiger cub’s lips were burst, he had two black eyes and faint scratches could be seen on his face. His expression turned to shock as he processed Legoshi was there.

“W,what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home for Rexmas?” Legoshi didn’t think he had heard Bill sound so shocked and .. on edge? He certainly smelt it.

“I could ask you the same, what happened to you?” the wolf quietly responded.

Bill seemed to deflate, slumping his satchel off and trudged to his bed. “My aunt.. doesn’t approve of me being in here you guys, my cousin told her I was friends with you guys and enjoying living with you .. and she didn’t like me saying no..  I didn’t want to stay home after that.”  The normally loud tiger half murmured, seeming to be second guessing himself and unsure what to say.

Legoshi threw himself at Bill, wrapping the tiger in a hug as he started to cry. “She can’t get you here, look your safe, you don’t need to cry” the short wolf gently said, desperate to help his friend. “I’m sure we can have a great time here, Tem is here as well so we could do something.” The tiger’s sniffles gradually stopped as he reached around Legoshi returning it, murmuring a thanks his lupine friend.

----New Year’s Eve, midday---

It was a slightly odd group that was walking across the snow covered school grounds, a Alpaca, a wolf, a tiger and a dog, all laughing and wrapped in winter coats and scarves.

“Really? Wow having siblings sure sounds weird but fun” the Alpaca said to Jack, smiling.

Thoughtful for a moment, Bill spoke up “Do you think that’s why we all got invited to the drama club? It’s a thing for kids with no siblings?”

Tilting his head in thought, Legoshi replied “possibly? Hmm, weird for you to think on something that much Bill, are you sure you are okay?” the wolf finished with a shy smirk.

 “Hey take that back! I got a 70 on the last mathematics exam before the holidays!” Bill shouted, jostling into the wolf.

“Only because Jack helped you study for it! Would you have even passed if he hadn’t helped you?” Legoshi retorted, grinning and shovelling back at Bill. Whilst the tiger’s initial declaration of being kindred “alpha predators” hadn’t gone well, and even he himself admitted it was a stupid idea, between his good natured boisterous playing with the wolf and Collot, and Jack’s gushing enthusiasm for wolves had helped to bring Legoshi out of his shell when around those he considered friends.

“I could have passed on my own! Jack just gave me a boost as he is cool like that! Bill grumbled. The wolf and tiger continued to push and shove each other, bickering over how much Jack had helped, who was having the most help from Jack, who smelled worse and several other trivial things which seemed to be important to them before they ended up pulling each other to the ground, rolling about wrestling in the snow laughing.

Jack and Tem both stopped to watch their friend’s antics, the wrestling and the increasing bizarre and silly arguments and insults making the two laugh, their breath misting the winter air.

“Is all carni bonding like this Jack? Should I prepare to defend my exam performance from your accusations?” Tem asked Jack jokingly.

Grinning, Jack responded “Nah, I have a better idea” and whispered into the alpaca’s ear.

A few minutes later, Legoshi and Bill broke off each other and got up and both looked around for their friends.

“Over here guys, took your time” Jack called out, causing Bill and Legohsi to look over to where he and Tem were stood. Each next to a pile of snowballs, and each smirking in a way that told the two that they were now very, well and truly screwed.

 So the premise is Bill ends up in room 701, his cannon behaviour reminding me of myself when I was in the closet, and massively overcompensating to a ridiculous degree, so figured him in the wholesome environment that is the canine squad could lead to a Bill who isn’t quite as much of a walking pile of toxic masculinity? Plus as he is another large predator and quite boisterous, he is more likely to encourage and engage in the physical play that would possibly help Legoshi with his self confidence/hatred of his body.

[dinmadness]

Request (from ao3): After saving The Child and leaving him the safe care of the Jedi. Mando and Migs continue to travel together. Din is incredibly depressed about having to leave his son behind and Migs doesn't know how to help. Migs thankfully remember the name of a a man Mando once told him about, an old lover on Tatooine, Cobb Vanth. Can Mando's two boyfriends manage to get him out of his depressed state?

Pairing: Migs Mayfeld/Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth

Tags: slight cursing, three fella cuddling, Sad Din Djarin, hints at depression.

I hope you enjoy!

You can also read it here along with all of the prompts I have written.

Fic under the cut!

Migs is starting to worry about his partner. It’s been one week since Din watched that Jedi douchebag walk away with his kid. Migs doesn’t take kindly to pretty boys who separate families. The ex-imperial officer is not as oblivious to what these, so-called peacekeepers, actually do.

It isn’t Mayfelds place to say what is right or wrong in this situation. Din knew what he had to do and he kept his promise to the child. Mayfeld can’t remember the last time he’s felt so sick to his stomach, watching the pure devastation overtake the Mandalorians face. Once the doors closed Din bent down and placed his helmet back on. The physical representation of building a wall around himself. He turned to the rest of the group and had Fennec radio for Fett. When the others tried to comfort him he turned the other way, a crisp “I’m fine.” is his only response. Once Fett shows up, Din request that he takes him to Nevarro, he wants to find a new ship.

Now, Mayfeld and Din have long said their goodbyes and are now traveling through the black abyss of space. The ship has been quiet. Din has barely said two words to Mayfeld since they’ve left Nevarro. Mayfeld understands, and he’s not selfish enough to think he deserves to be spoken too. He is, however, selfless enough to know that it isn’t healthy for the Mandalorian. He’s not eating and occasionally Mayfeld can hear soft cries coming from his sleeping bunk. His whole persona has shifted into something broken. It’s gut wrenching.

He’s got to think of something to help ease the pain. Mayfeld stews on it for a little while and finally remembers Din talking about someone he left on Tatooine. A Marshall of a small sandy village, Cobb Vanth.

Once Din retired to his bunk, Mayfeld sends a transmission to Vanth explaining the situation and prays that the other will get the message and help.

—

It takes a day for the Marshall to get back but when he does he plays it well. No sooner than Din sat in the pilot seat a hologram plays, it’s Vanth. Migs watches as his helmet tilts to the side slightly as the other talks, explaining that he is having some issues with raiders and he needs the Mandalorians help. Din nods and charts the course.

—

They ended up being close to Tatooine so it only took a few hours to get there in hyperdrive. Once they were on the planet Din borrowed some land speeders and they headed out. Migs only asked vague question so he didn’t give away the plan. The Mandalorian answered briefly.

Once they made it to the small town, Din heads straight to a cantina, no doubt where they will find the Marshall. Mayfeld scans the beige interior of the cantina and searches until he finds Din coming to a stop in front of a tall, skinny man. The complete opposite of the Mandalorian.

“Hey Mando, good to see you again.” Vanth said standing to greet Din. Mayfeld watches his hunched shoulders fall as the taller one places a hand on the bend of his neck, this thumb ghosting under his helmet.

After a moment, Din finally speaks and his voice is dry from being unused. “The raiders?” He asks. Vanth looks past Dins head and into the eyes of Mayfeld before he looks back the Mandalorian.

“Let’s just catch up,” he motions towards the door.

“Introduce me to your friend here.” Din turns to look at Mayfeld.

“‘M not really-“

Vanth cut him off, turning him toward the door and urging him out into the hot sun. The pair followed the Marshall into a small home just past the cantina. Inside was simple, the basic needs of man. A large soft looking bed, a small kitchen and dining and a fresher.

“When did the raiders start attacking?” Din asks as he sits down at the small two seater dining table. His whole demeanor bleeds tired.

Vanth looks at Migs again and they both nod at each other. The Marshall turns back to Din. “There are actually no raiders. I needed a reason to get you here.” He goes to squat in front of the Mandalorian.

“You’re friend here is worried about you,” he jerks a thumb in Mayfelds direction before he continues. “He told me what happened.”

Din looks at Mayfeld and if he could see his face he knows it’s full of hurt that Mayfeld would go behind his back. Mayfeld flushes pink with embarrassment and shame.

“I am fine.” He bites as he stands abruptly. Vanth has to grab the table leg to keep his balance. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

He makes like he is asking the pair but he doesn’t look at either of them at any point.

“It isn’t like the one thing- the only thing -that I have ever truly cared about, I just gave up.” His whole stance shifts as he back away from the dining table. Mayfeld and Vanth stand on edge. “As if, every fucking day I don’t remind myself that it was my mission from the start. That I knew what I was doing-“ his voice breaks and Mayfeld knows what that means.

“Hey, Mando, you know you can’t beat yourself up.” Migs takes a step closer, he wants to reach out but he’s afraid. “You’ll see the little guy again.”

Din looks to Mayfeld. “What if I don’t?” He backs away further until he meets the bed and he sits heavily. He rips his helmet off without care and digs his the gloves heel of his palms into his eyes. Sobs overtake him and he cries harder than he has in a long time. All the emotions he has been withholding in the week since their separation spills out of him like a storm, tearing away at the structure.

Mayfeld watches as Vanth walks over and unclips his chest and shoulder plates and stacks them on the table along with his helmet. He goes back and places a kiss on his bent head before he pushes him back so he is laying down further up on the bed, Din giving no resistance. The Marshall crawls into the bed with him, wrapping the distraught man into his arms as he cries silently, Vanth cards his fingers through his dark waves.

Mayfeld feels like he is intruding so he goes to leave but he is stopped by a soft voice. He looks back and Vanth is waving him over, holding his hand out. Mayfeld takes his hand and slots himself behind the Mandalorian and wraps his arms around his waist and up, placing his hand over Dins heart.

They lay like that until Din finally sleeps. The other two eventually fall asleep also. It isn’t a cure for the heavy sadness but when Din wakes in the morning surrounded by two people that love him, he knows he will get through this until he can be reunited with his son.

[snippychicke]

Beast with Two Backs

So, if you don’t get the title, this is NSFW. Just smut. No plot. Based on a Discord piece 400-million-years-old started. (I-I don’t know your tumblr. I am so sorry!)

Pairing: Otto/Reader (Reader has female parts, but no pronouns are used)

Rating: NSFW! I have to legally say this is not for minors. 

Warnings beneath cut; but mostly fluffy smut. 

Warnings: Slight mention of choking. Having to be quiet because people in the room next door. 

By the time you and Otto returned from your night out, the house was already dark. It had been a wonderful night stroll through the nearby woods to stargaze and just enjoy each other's company. 

And a bottle or two of wine between you. It warmed your bones and cheeks as you helped Otto set things from your picnic away before tugging him quietly up the stairs. The doors to Axel's and Oscar's rooms were closed, leaving just the door open to the room you shared with Otto.

Watching Otto get ready for bed was always an enjoyment, even by the dim table lamp by the bedside. You bit your lip as you eyed his muscles after  he stripped his shirt off, letting it fall on the bed as he searched through the drawers for a clean white undershirt. 

Impishly, you quickly stripped your own clothes and pulled on his discarded shirt, barely pulling it over your head before you heard a slight choked noise. You grinned as Otto stared at you from across the room, color flooding his face as you toyed with the hem that fell nearly mid thigh. 

"You like?" You teased softly, though you knew your answer by the tent forming in his boxers. Especially as you bit and teased your lip, giving him your best come-hither look. 

"Älskade," he warned; a faint smile forming as he stalked towards you, using his girth and height to tower over you. You grinned yourself; you loved the soft man you knew, but yet it excited you to be reminded just how dangerous he could be.

Only for the moment to be ruined as Otto tripped on his own discarded boot and stumbled. You choked back a laugh as he flailed before catching himself with the bed, which knocked into the wall. You both froze as Axel knocked back on the wall, eyes wide before holding back your laughter. 

"Quiet," you whispered as you approached him. He was more or less sitting on the foot of the bed, giving you an idea as you carefully got to your knees before him. Considering the look he gave you, he knew exactly what you were thinking as you fingered where the band of his pants met skin on either side of his hips, tracing along the elastic before reaching the fine blond hair that trailed up his abdomen. His head slipped back as you trailed along the muscles of his stomach, pushing up his shirt. He mindlessly helped you remove his shirt, allowing you to brush and tease his nipples before your fingers ghosted down his sides, making him twitch as he tried not to laugh. 

Pulling down sharply on the band of his boxers changed the huff of laughter to a gasp. His cock met your lips, hard and ready, though you did nothing but slowly kiss and run your tongue along his head.

"Älskade," he groaned, fingers threading carefully in your hair as you gently played with him. You met his gaze as you took him into your mouth, chasing away the last of the chilly night from his skin. He clenched his teeth, though you could hear his faint groan. You gave a purposeful deep moan as you slowly took him further in, enjoying the salty earth taste of him. 

Your fingers teased the skin of his hips as his grip tightened and he tried not to thrust into your mouth. Not because he didn't think you could handle him, you knew he loved allowing himself to freely fuck your face. Knew that he understood you loved it almost as much, being at his mercy and feeling him tug your hair as you tried to keep pace. It was only because he knew the bed knocking into the wall would disturb his brothers if he allowed himself the pleasure. 

However, his careful thrusts became a bit more forceful as you continued your attentions, the bed starting to creak quietly as his breaths became sharper, tinged with the occasional grunt and moan. You wondered if you could make him break his silence. Your hand drifted down his thigh, skating along the firm muscle to that stretch of skin between his balls and ass. Just teasing along the flesh with your finger tips, and he was gripping your hair almost painfully, threatening to gag you with his cock in a single thrust before suddenly pulling out. 

You tried not to grin and  pouted instead, but figured it wasn't working from his expression. He pulled you to your feet and then all but threw you onto the bed. You bounced on the mattress with a laugh, making the bed knock into the wall. Otto didn't even pause as Axel once more pounded on the wall, instead he crawled in between your legs, making short work of your own underwear. 

You barely had time to grab the pillow from beneath your head to muffle a cry as he took one long languid lick between your wet folds. The man's tongue was about as thick and muscular as you would expect of a man his size, and he knew just how to use it. You gripped the pillow tight to muffle your moans as Otto ate you out, his hands cupping your ass and pulling you as close as possible as his lips and tongue worked against you, sucking and teasing your clit before shifting and his tongue penetrating you, curling to rub against that spot inside you. He would occasionally  give a moan, making you arch into him as it passed from his mouth into your sex. His movements were mostly languid and slow intermixed with a sharp forcefulness that would make you cry out.  Like a wonderfully horrible ebb and flow, slowly bring you closer and closer to the edge 

Just as you were close to coming, he pulled away. You panted against the pillow, trying to catch your breath for whatever was going to happen next. 

Except you weren't prepared for him to pull the pillow from your face, his eyes dangerous and he looked down at your flushed face, hair dangling around his face until he did that careless little hair flip that always made you weak in the knees. Your stomach twisted as he smirked and captured your lips, his taste mixed with your own moisture. 

You greedily wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling your hips to his as you twisted your fingers in his hair. You could feel him rub against you, his cock easily coating itself in you before a particularly hard grind against him and he snapped his hips. You barely bit back a cry of pleasure as he penetrated you, but there was no way to stop the whole bed from slamming into the wall, making you both freeze. 

And again, Axel rapped his knuckles on the wall.

"Guess you won't be railing me tonight," you teased as Otto hid his face in your shoulder. "Shame, I was kinda like the roughness for a change." 

Otto shifted, his eyes meeting yours in the gloom before he gripped your thigh with one hand, pulling it close to his hip, while his other hand curled around the headboard of the bed, preventing it from hitting the wall as he slammed into you. You bit your lip, eyes screwed shut as you tried to hold back a scream as he mercilessly drove into you in an unforgiving pace. 

"Nej," he swore harshly, quiet but commanding. You opened his eyes to see him looking down at you, a smirk on his face. "Don't close your eyes. I wanna watch you."

You tried hard to hold his gaze as he rocked into you, harder than before. But oh, did it feel good. You didn't even care you were clawing his back as he thrusted into you, your breaths becoming more like gasps. Every time your eyes fluttered close, he would growl your name, giving a sharper thrust that hit deep. 

"Quiet, älskade," he teased as your moans and whimpers became louder, making you choke them back. Yet you see him biting back his own beautiful noises, the muscles of his neck and jaw tense. And knew, knew he was close as his own eyes screwed shut, his pattern becoming erratic as his head dropped to your shoulder. 

"Come for me, sötnos," he grunted into your ear. "I want...I need you...snälla älskling."

It wasn't hard to obey his command. Especially as his nipped your ear. You didn't even think before pressing your mouth against the muscle of his shoulder to muffle your scream. You were only half aware as he shifted to cradle you in his arms, the headboard knocking a few times as he came as well before falling still. 

You both laid there in a daze, feeling completely sated, as well as feeling warmed and loved being held by him, his hand gently combing your hair carelessly as he whispered sweet nothings into you in his native tongue. 

A knock on the door shattered the moment. "Are you two finished in there? Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Döda mig snälla," Otto muttered, and you had no idea what he said, but.you could empathize with his tone as you tried to hide beneath him.

--*--

"What happened to your knuckles?" Oscar asked the next morning. It was hard enough determinedly not meeting Axel's gaze at breakfast, keeping your eyes on your bowl of oatmeal. 

You glanced at Otto's bruised fingers, to his eyes, then across to Oscar's concerned look. 

Oscar choked on his milk, Otto turned beet red, and you wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole when Axel broke the silence with an amused chuckle. "He was fighting the beast with two backs last night."

[flipsideds]

But also do the meme for Mig and nour pls ☺️

LEAVE A BROTP/PLATONIC SHIP IN MY ASK AND I’LL TELL YOU:

who steals french fries off the other’s plate:  drunk fries are always a good idea. and while nour isn’t one too big on salt and sweet, mig’s always sure to convince him a little –– or a lot –– of indulgence is good for the soul. it’s post-gig, past midnight. ryder and teddy have since gone home, but here they sit on the curb, paper cup of steak fries held upright by opposing thighs. chicago’s skies squint through settling fog, curious to see who might score the last of their street-vendor prize. nour’s quick to swipe for the kill ––  aha !  –– then offers it up anyway.

who jokingly moves in for the kiss when someone asks if they’re a couple: how to accidentally kiss one of your best friends –– go in for the same joke. stood in costco, cart full of nothing but carefully selected craft brews and a heft fruit tray, nour and mig fall victim to an older woman’s “ awww ” from beside the checkout line.  her “ look at you, what a fine couple ”  is met with nour’s suave, “ yes, he most certainly is. ”  he turns his cheek and leans in at precisely the moment mig does the same. so they kiss, over a cart stocked with alcohol and fresh fruit. the automatic doors across the way unfurl for pedestrian feet –– summer wind caresses their cheeks. nour does nothing but grin as he and mig begin to transfer their loot to the waiting conveyor belt.their cashier throws in two chapsticks, no charge. “ for later. ” she hands back nour’s card with a wink.

who has to bust or bail the other out of jail: hopeless. hopeless. hopeless. trespassing. but really, how were they to know the padlock on that fence wasn’t meant to be broken ?  with so many beautiful flowers on the other side ?  the gardens of eden wouldn’t have a security alarm, now, would they ? ( maybe they smoked too much weed. )nour’s explanation didn’t help things :  now, you see, officers... existence is but a mild prison and we were just trying to relish in its simple joys.they managed to reach ryder and micah through their single phone calls, respectively. they won’t be charged –– turns out police sergeant castillo is a fan of one night stand and his daughter subscribes to nour’s ‘gram.  “ shame if that groovy stuff were to end. i like your sound. ”  and his daughter likes his jawline, too.( that’s how nour goes on his first and only date with an engineer. ) 

who gives the other advice/comfort about dating issues: nour’s embarrassed to ask. but a few drinks in, he can’t help it, and he knows mig would never tell. “ how do you... ”  he pauses. rewrites the script. “ do you think you’ve ever seen charlie. uhm... flirt. with somebody ? ”   nervous fingertips dance against the sides of his glass. condensation kisses skin. cool. damp. petrified. “ i don’t think i have, i just...  they... i was... wondering. ”  a breath. a glance down at his feet. “ just out of, like. curiosity, mate. of course. ”

who shamelessly cheats at games by reaching over to cover the other’s eyes: nour will never get over losing their last mario kart tournament. rainbow road. mig planked on him and pinned his arms down with his ass so he couldn’t steer.

who immediately calls dibs on the top bunk: likely mig, so he can hang down like a bat. nour doesn’t know why he knows this, and why he so wholeheartedly believes it. but if they ever encounter a bunkbed situation, he’s almost positive that’s how it’ll unfold.

who starts and who wins the pillow fights: prior to meeting mig, nour never believed in ties. now, most of their pillow fights end in breathless truces. they’ve split open their fair share of throw pillows. alex and vi were not impressed.

who says “your pants would look better on their floor” to the other’s potential crush: mig. and oh, lord have bloody mercy, it flusters nour every time.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 10

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Chapter title suggested by @theprairienerd​: The Miracle of Bread and Padre Ernesto’s Sausage. Art in this chapter is by @senoraluna​. Extra art at the end is by Dara, who’s a gift that keeps on giving.

***

“We were hoping for more food, Sister.”

As the remark she’d half-expected came, Imelda sighed and glanced down at the sack she had just handed to the man who’d asked to be called ‘José’. It was only half-filled with canned food, dried beans, hard cheese and salted beef. She nodded, her mouth pulled in a thin line. “It’s all we can spare.”

“I see more food in that cupboard,” one of the men muttered, glancing towards the end of the room. He seemed about to step towards it, but Imelda got in the way.

“Food that we cannot spare,” she said, her voice firm. The man faltered, and stepped back, but another seemed less impressed.

“We can’t fight Federales on an empty stomach.”

“We have children to feed. The ones in our care, and families in poverty. There isn’t much to go around for anybody in town.”

“We’re fighting for the future of Mexico!” Someone protested, and Imelda lifted her chin, glaring at him. She was acutely aware of the fact she was outnumbered - several men, all of them armed, in a dark cellar - but she didn’t allow herself to be afraid. She could not.

“They are the future of Mexico! If the people starve, what will be left to fight for?”

A few stepped back, but one still snorted, and glared back. “Well, I am hungry. I’ve been fighting for a year. I risk my hide every damn day. Get out of my--”

Several things happened in quick succession: the man put a hand on her shoulder to push her away; there was a sudden smacking sound, a cry of pain, and the man staggered back before Imelda could even raise her hand to strike him herself. He knelt, hands to the side of his face, blood running through his fingers.

“The next one who even thinks of laying a hand on a nun will lose it,” José was saying, riding crop still raised. There was a hunting knife at his belt, and his free hand went to its handle. “Objections?”

His question was met with mumbling, shaking heads, and even a few men crossing themselves. With a satisfied nod, José turned back to her. “I understand, Sister. Our man did warn me the supplies were growing scarce - we’ll take no more food out of your mouths. Do you think you can provide medical supplies, if needed?”

Imelda nodded. “That I can do,” she said, getting a nod right back.

“Thank you, sister.”

They left the cellar with what she was able to give them, but Imelda didn’t move for a good while, trying to think of something - anything - that she could do now. They needed more food, too, before their supplies ran out; hardly anything was growing in the piece of land the parish owned, and it looked like things were about to get even harder for everyone. Something had to be done.

She had a duty to support the fight against Huerta's regime, but wouldn’t let a single child go hungry under her watch.

***

It wasn’t often that John stood before a mirror to look at himself. His body mattered not, a husk of flesh he would discard when he passed on to the next life, and his looks mattered even less. He’d long since stopped paying any mind to the marks that criss-crossed his back - old scars and new ones, half-healed welts and some still scabbed over.

The vast majority, he had inflicted over himself - but not the very first ones, those that hurt the most. Those were a parting gift, the very last lesson Reverend David Johnson had ever taught him, he who’d taught him everything he’d know up to that moment. A lesson in pain while he begged for forgiveness and guidance he would not receive.

The beating had been brutal but, after that first attempt at shielding himself with one arm - the only attempt - he’d only covered his face and endured. Even the pain was a relief compared to the horror of seeing his shameful secret uncovered, the disgust on his parents’ face.

Honor your Father and Mother, the Bible said, and oh God, had he failed; the punishment his father was visiting upon him, bringing the rod down on him without a word until his fine Sunday clothes were torn and bloodied, was well-deserved. He was a man of God; certainly he would know best of to handle it, how to cure him. If the salvation of his soul came at the price of his flesh, he would still count himself blessed.

The anger of the head of a family is never without reason, he’d tell Fernanda Rodríguez thirteen years later; he’d believed it, then. His father sought to correct him, as a father should. Once this was done, he’d thought, he’d extend his hand to help him up… but he never did.

Suddenly the blows were over and, as he lay on the ground in a ball of pain - it hurt to breathe, something was wrong, and his left hand throbbed - his father dropped the rod. “Leave.”

That one word cut deeper than any blow, filled him with more horror than he thought a human being could withstand. Surely he’d misheard, it couldn’t be, and it was with that thought that he painfully pulled his hand away form his face to peer up, still curled on one side. He couldn't muster the courage to look at his father in the face, but he did glance at his mother. She sat on the same armchair she’d been on when he’d walked through the door and she was looking away, face turned to the fireplace, entirely expressionless.

No, John thought in stunned disbelief. That wasn’t possible-- God please, no. It couldn’t be happening. It was his father, his mama. They had taught him all he knew, guided him, watched him grow with pride. They held his hands as he learned how to walk, stayed at his bedside when he was sick, kissed him when he’d cried over a scraped knee or a bad dream.

“Ma-- mama,” John called out, his voice so thin and childish. She didn’t even blink, didn’t turn, and John knew no one would wake him from that nightmare. No one was going to kiss it better.

No, no, no. Please. I’m sorry. I’m trying.

“Mama,” he pleaded again, voice breaking up and eyes filling with tears, wanting more than anything for her to come comfort him - and suddenly, she stood… still without looking at him.

There were only a few steps from the armchair to the fireplace; she paused before it and let his journal drop, the journal they had so solemnly given him when he'd turned ten; it smoked on the embers for a few moments before it caught fire in a bright flare, so bright John could believe was gazing into Hell itself.

No, this is good. My sins are burning away. They can help me. They will help me.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper. “Please, I did nothing. It was only thoughts, I prayed God to cleans me, I never acted on-- please, don’t--”

“Stand up.” His father’s voice was cold as ice, and John, still stunned, did stand up; slowly and painfully, but he obeyed, as always. He always would if only they gave him a chance, if they--

That frail hope was dashed away the instant he met his father’s gaze, so cold and unyielding. He had the same look of disgust he reserved to the worst sort of sins, as he preached to the congregation of fire and brimstone and eternal damnation. It made John feel so filthy, so unworthy, so small. “If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable act,” he quoted, eyes blazing. “They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them. Who have you lain with, John?”

“N-no one!” he sobbed. “It was-- thoughts. Sinful thoughts, but I didn't-- I wouldn’t--”

“Answer one question, and truthfully,” his father spat. “Have you done anything to your brother?”

The idea alone was enough to chill John to the bone. “No!” he cried out. Something in his chest burned as he did, but he hardly felt it. The mere idea of defiling his little brother, little Michael who’d sit on his knee and listen to stories, made him feel ill. “No, I-- I never-- I would never!”

“Your sisters?”

“No!” John choked out a sob.

A scoff. “Not yet.”

“N-never! Please, dad-- father-- I could never--!”

“Silence,” Reverend David Johnson almost snarled and oh God, John had never seen him so furious. “You will, if given a chance. There’s no depravity a sodomite would not commit. But I won’t allow it. It is my duty to protect this community-- to protect my children!”

“I-I am--” John shook his head, his vision blurry with tears. A sob wracked his chest, causing such intense pain he felt he might faint. He wiped the tears and snot from his face with a sleeve that was quickly turning red, but it seemed so unimportant; it was for his soul that he feared and if his own father and mother found him beyond salvation, then he was truly lost. “I am your--”

“No. Not anymore,” he cut him off, and turned away from him, like he couldn’t even stand the sight. He raised an arm to point at the door. “We'll tell you decided to join the army, to save your honor and that of our family. Then we'll say you died. But if your next step is not towards that door, God help us both."

And John had left, without the strength to argue and carrying nothing with him, so stunned he felt he might be drunk. Just like that, his life was over; his family, his home, his friends and community, everything he’d ever worked for - all he was meant to be since birth - had crumbled to ashes before his eyes, like the notebook in the fireplace. He’d been cast out like Adam from the Garden of Eden, left with nothing but the torn clothes on him and the knowledge the fires of hell were at his heels as he limped out of his home, through the fields, and into the night.

He met no one in his slow, painful trek; it was one more blow - I couldn’t even say goodbye - but also a relief. They would ask for explanations he could never bring himself to give.

His father was right; he was dangerous. For everyone’s safety, he had to go.

Under the cover of darkness, numb to all pain but not to the cold, he walked through dirt paths across the countryside for God knew how long until exhaustion caught up with him. There was a small patch of dried grass by a crossroad, and he didn’t lean down on it as much as he collapsed. Everything hurt, he didn’t know how much blood he had soaking his clothes and cooling against his skin. He no longer cared. He no longer cared about anything. Had suicide not been yet another detestable act in the eyes of God, he would have ended his life and freed the world of the blight of his presence.

John Johnson closed his eyes, and let himself fall into unconsciousness. The numbness overcoming even his terror of Hell, in his last moment of awareness he found himself praying to God not to let him wake up again.

But he had; he’d awakened to a stranger asking him if he’d been robbed, offering to let him on his cart as he headed towards El Paso. He’d accepted, because he had nowhere else to go, and once arrived he’d limped into the first church he’d seen, where a function was going on. Nobody had noticed him as he entered, sat in the back, knelt as they did… and, soon enough, blacked out.

He’d awakened in a bed, God knew how many hours later, with bandages on his wounds and a heavy blanket on him, an aging man in a cassock and white collar looking down at him with worried eyes. One of his hands cupped his head the moment he opened his eyes, the other bringing a glass to his chapped lips.

“Good God, my child, who has done this to you?”

A good man. A man of God. I deserved this.

John had tried to stand and could not, his body battered, a couple of ribs broken, and in the end he’d broken down, wept, confessed his sin and waited to be thrown out yet again - but no such thing had happened. He’d been comforted, offered more water, offered food; and Father Joseph had even joked that surely he was too old to evoke lust, so what did he have to fear?

John’s reflection in the mirror became distorted, and he blinked away some tears, Very slowly, he sat and stared at the rod in his hands. Father Joseph - his mentor, the man who had given him a smile and hope when all seemed lost - would have disapproved of its use, no doubt. He’d been a good man, soft of heart - too soft. He'd disapproved of the punishment his father had visited upon him, too.

“Do you know the parable of the lost sheep, my boy? A sheep was lost, and the shepherd left the flock in the meadow to look for it. Searched high and low, because the flock was safe, but the lost sheep needed to be found. And once he found it, did he beat it with sticks and stones?”

“N-no.”

“What did he do, my child?”

“He… brought the sheep home. To… rejoin the flock.”

A smile, and he’d quoted the Scripture - a very different passage from the one his father had snarled in his face.

“When he has found it, he carries it on his shoulders, rejoicing. When he comes home, he calls together his friends, his family and his neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!' I tell you that even so there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance."

That had been the moment he’d regained some frail hope, when he’d begun to see a path forward for him, a path to redemption that would go through the Catholic Church. And maybe one day, if he did a good enough job and made a name for himself… then maybe his family - his father, who wouldn’t speak to him even by letter, who told everyone he’d died - would hear of him. Maybe they would forgive him, and let him come home, if for a short while.

Father Ernest could know none of it and yet, in his own way, he'd sounded so much like his mentor, even bringing up the same parable. Or almost.

“I am here to help. Like the shepherd with the, uh, black shee-- Right. Lost. The lost sheep.”

Perhaps… yes, he had misjudged him. He wasn’t proper, sometimes he seemed a downright idiot, and unlike Father Joseph he was most decidedly not too old to evoke lust in him… but he had been kind to him. He was willing to help, God bless him; he'd given him absolution.

And Father John Johnson promised God he would never make him regret it.

***

As la Semana Santa approached, Ernesto didn’t precisely feel blessed.

Things hadn’t been going too badly, really. Everything had settled in a comfortable routine and she found he sort of liked being such a vital part of life in Santa Cecilia. Back home, he’d been a nobody playing for tips in the plaza and dreaming of a big break that simply wouldn’t happen; in the army, he’d been a number, cannon fodder and nothing more.

But there? He was well-liked, listened, sought after; even the gringo had toned down his criticism to a few mutters every now and then, which was a nice change. Yes, things were going well - if not for the small, negligible detail that the entire town seemed to be running out of food.

“What do you expect me to do? Multiply bread and sausages like Christ did?”

“Fish,” Sofía said flatly. “Bread and fish.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Sausage, fish-- the point is, I don’t work miracles.”

A shrug. “Well, Pedro Marques begs to differ,” she said.

… All right, and who was that again? The name was only vaguely familiar, Ernesto thought, bringing the glass of mass wine up to his lips with a questioning look. Sofía gave a sharp smile.

“He’s going around telling high and low what a miracle worker you are. He and his wife had been trying for years to have a child, until you went and blessed their bed.”

Blessed their bed? Odd, he couldn’t remember blessing any be--

Wait.

The mouthful of wine Ernesto had been about to gulp down came back up through his nose in a sudden, foamy stream. “Ack-- gah!” he coughed hard enough to tear up, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. Sofía leaned her hand on her chin, raising an eyebrow.

“Doctor Sanchéz just told her she’s with child. If it’s a boy they want to name him after you, you know?”

“How about-- ack-- no?”

“I am also fairly sure the Martìnez family credit you with curing the infertility that plagued their only daughter, too. Got something to tell me there?”

“No,” Ernesto croaked.

“And about those late evening confessions--”

“All right! All right! I’ll figure something out!” Ernesto coughed again, lifting his hands. “Just keep your mouth shut!”

Sofía shrugged. “I always do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“When it comes to talking, I do,” she retorted, and she seemed about to add something when there was a sudden knock on the door, only for it to open a moment later - what was even the point of knocking if you’re just going to barge in without waiting a single moment? - and reveal Padre Juan in the doorway.

“Father Ernest, I have spoken with Brother Héctor about a matter… we should… discuss.” The gringo blinked at him, eyes shifting to the pool of red wine on the desk Ernesto was sitting at, and his beet red face. Sofía gave him a smile that was nothing short of angelic.

“Padre Ernesto has a bit of a cough,” she said.

Just a few days earlier, Padre Juan would have probably exploded and started rambling something about decor or whatnot - but now, even though he looked like he’d just sucked a lemon, he did no such thing.  “... I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he mumbled, and left, shutting the door under Sofía’s perplexed gaze.

“What is it with him lately?” she wondered aloud. “He hasn’t even talked about pagan fetishes, fire and brimstone since last Sunday.”

Ernesto cleared his throat. “We have reached an understanding,” he said. A practical part of him reminded him it was probably due to fear because he had him under his thumb, knowing his secret… but truth be told, he liked the idea he’d gotten his respect. It felt like a huge win, and he loved winning.  And now, if he wanted to keep his winning streak, there was a miracle to pull o--

“Maybe he can help.”

“... What?” Ernesto blinked up at her. “Him?”

She shrugged. “He might have connections we don’t. Maybe he could get us some food, or money to buy it from somewhere - it’s worth a try.”

That was true, Ernesto knew. They couldn’t will food out of thin air; they’d have to raise money to pay for it, and if food was as scarce throughout the rest of Oaxaca as it was there… well, the price to pay would be high. Charitable donations from parishioners often little above poverty themselves may not get them far enough.

“... Yes,” he finally said. “It’s worth a go.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice - the same that had come up with his very first plan of stealing donation and leaving a few days after his arrival - demanded to know why would he care, since when it was his problem, but he shut it out.

He liked where he was, he liked it how good he had it, and he’d be damned if he let anyone in his parish - any of his people - starve under his watch.

***

“All right. At the moment we have enough to keep everyone - the kids and the poor and whatnot - fed for for… how long?”

“A month.”

“Perhaps a fortnight more if we cut rations now.”

“If we cut any more ration, half the clergy is going to faint. We’re already eating little for Lent.”

“Our Lord fasted forty days.”

"With all due respect, Padre, we’re just human.”

“So was Christ, Mother. He made himself flesh--”

“We can have the lesson later, thanks.”

Father Ernest’s voice caused John to trail off, and shut his mouth. His first instinct was to protest, but he did not; he could tell the situation could get dire if they did not act fast. He was there in the sacristy with Father Ernest, Brother Hector, the sexton - Gustav? - and the Mother Superior to find solutions, rather than argue. Still...

“... What I am saying,” John said slowly, “is that if there will be meals to give up, I am willing to.”

“That’s appreciated,” Father Ernesto conceded, and even smiled before looking back down at the list the sexton had brought in for him to look at. “But it wouldn’t solve much. What we do need is more food.”

“We have plenty of wine,” the sexton spoke up. “It’s the only thing we have in abundance, other than rat poison.”

Father Ernest blinked. “And why do we have an abundance of rat poison?”

“To poison rats,” Gustav said, only to pause when he realized the reply would sound much too sharp towards the parish priest. “We had a serious issue with them a couple of years ago. They got into the granaries - it was a mess. Chicharrón convinced Padre Edmundo to buy a lot of rat poison - said they would eat the offerings on Día de los Muertos - but they were gone before we used much of it. So we have a lot of wine and a lot of poison, stored next to each other. Not a bright idea, but the old gravedigger is not very bright himse-- ”

“We could sell some, or trade it,” Hector suggested, causing Gustav to snort.

“Oh, of course. Who wouldn’t love the idea of trading money or better yet food for poison when times get hard? That’s the dumbest idea--”

“I meant the wine, Gustavo,” Brother Hector replied, his voice dry. “There will always be people willing to buy wine.”

“Sell holy wine?” John protested, but Father Ernest shrugged.

“It’s not holy wine until it’s blessed,” he said lightly. Suddenly reminded of last time he’d told him as much, John shut his mouth and leaned back on his seat. His face was on fire, and he could only hope it wasn’t turning too obviously red.

Thankfully, Father Ernest was speaking again and turning the attention away from him.

“We’re going to need the kind of stuff that lasts - canned food, maybe, but that’s hard to get away from the city and the army has most of it. Flour, dried meat, desiccated beans, flour. Grains for us and for the parish’s hens because God knows we need that supply of eggs. We’ll need to buy it in bulk, and you can bet we’re not the only ones making plans to. I doubt many people in a hundred miles radius are faring better than us. We must to be ready to pay twice the price, if needed.”

“And deprive others of food,” John spoke up. It wasn’t condemnation as much as a statement - he knew how the world worked - but it gained a long look from everyone in the room.

“If that’s what it takes,” Father Ernest said gravely. “I must look after my parish.”

John said nothing, and Brother Hector turned back to Father Ernest.

“That would be a lot of money to raise.”

“I know. We’ll sell some of the wine in San Luz, and push for offerings from parishioners who can part with a few pesos. After all, isn’t Holy Easter the right time to buy yourself paradise?”

All right, that was going too far. “No one can buy paradise,” John pointed out.

A shrug. “Relax, Martin Luther. I’m not saying we’re going to sell indulgences to--”

“What-- to compare me to that heretic --!” John could feel his face burning, and now he was sure to be turning beet red. It wasn’t the worst Father Ernest could say of him, but it still felt like an awful insult. With a shrug, Father Ernest waved a hand.

“I meant no insult. You are a proper man of God,” he said, and stared at him in the eye. He sounded perfectly serious - like he meant it - and oh, it was a relief that he’d think so… even knowing what he knew. “And you can help us a great deal.”

John blinked. “... What? Me?” he asked, and looked around to see everyone’s eyes on him. He was acutely aware, suddenly, of the golden crucifix hanging from his neck. It was worth quite some money, he knew, but he couldn’t bear to part from it and he he found himself hoping none of them had noticed it. He fought an impulse to hide it beneath his collar. “And… and how can I help?” he asked. Certainly they did not expect him to be the one to ask parishioners for offerings; they knew how little the people in that town thought of him.

“You have been travelling with the blessing of a Bishop,” Father Ernest said. “You have good connections, and certainly someone will be able to spare a few donations for a town in need.”

John nodded, finally seeing what he was getting at. “I could write a letter, but I am not sure my plea would hold much weight,” he said. “I won’t be the first nor last missionary to plead for aid. A letter might not cut it, but… if I can find a way to make it stand out…” he paused, and met Father Ernest’s gaze.

Let me have a think, he’d said, unfazed by his confession, but his sin. We’ll work something out.

John clenched his jaw for a moment before he spoke. “Give me a little time. I’ll try to think of something,” he said. “I’ll do all I can to help.”

Another smile. “Thank you, Father John,” Father Ernest said, and John just looked down with another nod, not daring look at him in the eye - hoping that his face had not reddened again and not realizing, lost in thought, that Brother Hector was looking at him with a concerned frown.

***

Miguel could tell something was not right.

No one had come forward and told him - or anyone else in the orphanage, really - but he wasn’t dumb. He noticed the hushed voice of the nuns, the insistence of not letting one bite to wasted at meal times; he noticed the tight line of Imelda’s mouth, and the frown on Héctor face.

“I’m just a bit thoughtful,” Imelda had told him when he’d asked.

“Got a few things in my mind, chamaco, nothing more,” Héctor had replied, ruffling his hair and suggesting he go practice his guitar skills with Cheech.

Miguel hadn’t gone, because he liked Cheech but playing was no fun without Héctor, and they hadn’t played or sang together in weeks. So he’d just nodded and watched him leave, saying something about going house to house to collect donations - another red flag, they had never needed to do it before and come to think of it, Ernesto had insisted a lot on charity at Mass the previous day. Even Padre Juan had begun going around to ask for donations, even if it got him a door slammed shut to his face more often than not.

Sooner or later he’d have to learn not to look outraged when he asked to speak to ‘the head of the family’ and an abuela came out to talk to him, but Miguel wouldn't hold his breath over it, or waste it trying to explain anything to him. Instead, he’d used it to ask what was going on to one person he knew wouldn’t baby him.

“So, what’s happening?”

“Your dog is trying to eat my foot.”

“No he’s no-- oh, he is. Dante, no! Here! I mean, what else is happening?”

Ernesto made a face. “An awful lot at once. You might want to be more specific.”

“With the whole spiel about charity and Héctor and Padre Juan going off to collect donations.”

“Ah. That. We’re facing a food shortage and might all starve.”

“What??”

Ernesto laughed. “All right, things are not that dramatic. We’re working to fix it.”

“By raising money?” Miguel gave him a doubtful look, stroking Dante’s head. The dog seemed to thrive on a few scraps, but what would happen once there would be no more scraps to be spared? “You can’t eat money.”

“You buy food with money.”

“And from who?”

“From people who have enough of it stored to part with some for the right price,” Ernesto said, and shrugged. “That’s how the world goes when things get tough. People hoard, but money is sweeter than any pastry. The war must end, and they’ll be richer once it does.”

It seemed unfair to people with little to nothing to eat, but Miguel wasn’t so naive not to know what was how it went. He nodded, looking down, and Ernesto seemed to notice his frown. He crouched in front of them, stopping Dante from licking his face with one hand.

“Hey, chin up, muchacho. We’ll be fine. But if you’re so worried, why don’t you help? We’ve got to organize the procession for el Domingo de Ramos, but I'm sort of taken - why don’t you and your friends do it? We’ll need a donkey, a Jesus, and a lot of palm branches people will give an offering to get.”

Miguel blinked. “Why would they pay to get those? They can find them anywhere.”

Ernesto grinned. “Not blessed ones, they can’t,” he replied with a wink, causing Miguel to laugh.

“You sure you’re not a real priest?” he asked. Ernesto rolled his eyes, giving him a light shove, but he was laughing as well and Miguel was wonderfully sure all would be well.

***

“... And this is where Jesus will get to the plaza from!”

“I mean, not the actual Jesus.”

“Just our Jesus.”

“Mexican Jesus.”

“Jesús.”

“We know a Jesús.”

“But he’s sixty.”

“And there is also another Jesús.”

“But he’s missing an arm and he curses all the time,” Felipe muttered.

“I would also curse if I were missing an arm,” Óscar added. He looked extremely satisfied with their plan so far as he looked at Ernesto and Padre Juan, both sitting at the desk in the sacristy. Miguel couldn’t help but think the gringo looked uncomfortable, but he had no idea why; nothing of what the twins had suggested so far was too different from your typical procession for el Domingo dos Ramos.

And Ernesto liked it, too, glancing down at the map of Santa Cecilia. The procession was going to begin at the start of the main road, through the plaza, and finally in front of the church; there was plenty of space for everyone to stand along the way to put down their palm branches on the path.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, smiling brightly. The twins smiled back.

“Great! Can we use the donkey in the parish stables, then?”

“That would be my donk--” Padre Juan started, only for Ernesto to shrug.

“He says you can,” he told Felipe, not even turning to look at the priest, who looked distinctly annoyed but did not protest. Both boys grinned widely.

“Yes!”

“Thank you, Padre Juan!”

“It would be Father John, Phil--” the gringo started, only to be entirely ignored.

“You’ll have to choose Jesus, Padre Ernesto!”

“As in, someone to play Jesus. You already choses Jesus. Clearly.”

“Ah. Do I have to?”

“Well, it was Padre Edmundo who picked every year.”

“So now you have to.”

“Then we'll get your Jesus get on the donkey.”

“And people will put down palm leaves.”

“Just like in the Scriptures!”

“And there will be fireworks!”

Ernesto’s face lit up. “Oh, I love firewor--”

“There is definitely no mention on fireworks in the Scriptures,” Padre Juan cut him off, his voice a little tighter. Ernesto frowned and seemed about to protest, but paused when he noticed Miguel, shaking his head frantically behind Óscar and Felipe’s back.

Not that Miguel didn’t like fireworks - he loved them - but he had seen what happened when Óscar and Felipe were allowed to handle them, and it wasn’t worth the risk. Last thing they needed was for someone to have to fetch Doctor Sanchéz because the stand-in for the Son of God had serious burns in addition to being trampled by his own frightened donkey.

Luckily, Ernesto took his input on board.

“... Right. No fireworks anywhere in the Scripture. Sorry, muchachos,” he added at Óscar and Felipe’s obvious disappointment. Padre Juan seemed relieved, but of course he had no idea how dangerous the twins could be while handling anything flammable, so he was probably thinking something boring on how they would all be spared blasphemy. “But you can pick Jesus.”

Just like that, the disappointment faded in wide grins.

“Oh! We need to make a list!”

“We could pick anyone!”

“Like Chicharrón!”

“Or Gustavo!”

“Hey now--” Ernesto began, but neither twin listened: they were out the next moment, still brainstorming names. He blinked. “... I should have reserved the right to veto especially dumb choices.”

“You should have,” Padre Juan agreed, his voice flat. It made Miguel laugh a little, watching them agree on anything.

“I can try to get them to pick someone who’d be… a better Jesus?

Ernesto grinned. “Like me,” he suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Padre Juan interjected, causing him to frown. Ah well, Miguel supposed they just weren’t meant to agree on more than one thing at a time.

“Why not?” Ernesto protested. “At least I’d look good in a loincloth.”

Just like that, Padre Juan’s pale skin turned beet red. It was a change so quick Miguel could hardly believe it. “That-- that is not the point!” he very nearly screeched. “A-and besides, our Lord was fully dressed when he entered Jerusalem!”

“Do the Scriptures say  so specifically?”

“It doesn’t say otherwise!”

“How about I suggest they pick Héctor?” Miguel asked, raising his voice a little to be heard. As Padre Juan looked away, suddenly very interested in the floor, Ernesto shrugged.

“Not as devastatingly handsome as me, but he’d make a good second choice.”

“Pride,” Padre Juan muttered under his breath, but Ernesto entirely ignored him.

“Best to find him and tell him to agree, before those two try to rope in Chicharrón.”

“Or worse yet, Gustavo.”

“Or worse yet, la Madre Superiora.”

“Well, she does have a beard, so--”

“Father Ernest!” Padre Juan protested as they laughed, causing Miguel to shut his mouth - but he still snickered - and Ernesto to turn his laughter into a cough.

"A-hem. Why don't you go find Héctor? He should be back by now,” he told him, and Miguel took the chance to leave. He really wasn’t looking forward to being there for a lecture… even if Padre Juan did tone down, lately, come to think of it. And he’d kept the promise to call him Miguel instead of Michael, too. Maybe he was learning.

But Miguel was still not risking a lecture.

“Sure! I’m bet he’ll agree,” he said, and then, with a quick nod Padre Juan, he turned to run outside, leaving Ernesto to deal with him.

***

“So, uh. Any updates?”

Father Ernest’s voice broke the brief silence, and caused John - who had been looking down at his glass for just a bit too long - to wince.

“Ah, I…” he hesitated. The urges were still there, the thoughts were still there, but he’d been trying to ignore them, push them in the back of his mind instead of letting them linger and then punishing himself for it. But God, if he didn’t stop uttering nonsense about wearing a loincloth only - and leaning in entirely too close, good God, did these people know nothing of personal space? - he didn't know what he'd do. “W-well enough. I have been fighting it.”

Father Ernesto blinked. “What?”

John looked down, his face aflame. Part of him wished he would move away, but he was also grateful for his presence, for the inexplicable fact he did not seem horrified by him. “There have been moments of weakness, but I never defiled myself - not once, I--”

“Ah. Er, that’s… great. But I meant to ask if you thought of anything that could get us funding.”

Oh. John stood quickly, pacing away a few feet and hoping against hope his face wasn’t too red. “I-- of course. I believe I thought of something,” he said, and breathed a little more easily. That was a good thing to talk about, practical, safe. He even found it in himself to look at Father Ernest in the eye. “I heard from the gravedigger… I believe you call him Chicharrón, but he never told me his Christian name.”

Father Ernest shrugged. “I don’t think he told anyone. I’m not even sure he has one.”

“That is simply not possible! He has been christened, has he no--” John began, only to trail off when Father Ernest snapped his fingers.

“Don’t get sidetracked. Priorities, remember?”

“The soul of a sheep of your flock--”

“I’ll concern myself with keeping their bellies full before I move on to their souls. You said you had an idea. What did Chicharrón tell you?”

“I… Yes. Right,” he muttered. “He mentioned the late Father Edmund was a keen photographer. He believes his equipment should still be in the parish. I… as a boy, I was keen on photography as well, and knew my way in a dark room. I was… decent at it.”

“... Congrats?”

“So, I was thinking-- a letter from me might have some leverage, but no more than many others pleas for help they are certainly getting. A few photographs to go with it might make it stand out. I can be persuasive in written word, but a photograph can speak volumes,” John explained. The more he spoke, the surer his voice got. “Perhaps if I write and send some photos taken of the progress toward true Catholicism and civilization-- don’t look at me like that, you said getting funds is the priority!”

Father Ernest rolled his eyes in a way that was decidedly unbecoming of a man of God, but he didn’t protest. “Noted,” he said, and grinned. “So we're supposed to put on the nice Sunday clothes, look good and pose for pictures? I'm good at that."

Oh, of course he is.

Skin flushing once again, John chased away the thought. "Yes, well… you are the parish priest, so I suppose… er. But I think we should photograph the children, show them studying Latin, as I suggested… and dressed well at Mass.” He paused. “They are quite well-behaved when you say Mass,” he added, ignoring the sting to his pride.

Father Ernest seemed… intrigued, if anything, and seemingly unaware of how flustered he’d gotten. “So you think that pictures of kids being good little angels in Church, maybe studying Latin, would help convince… whoever there is to convince?”

"Yes. We need to show them following the true Catholicism and leaving behind the pagan ways a small town like this would-- er,” he hesitated when Father Ernesto narrowed his eyes. “A-anyway. They will understand my efforts here are so impactful the town deserves funding,” he added.

Father Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly truthful. Sounds like I’ll have to absolve you for lying,” he laughed, but John didn’t find it funny. He knew his efforts seemed for naught, the town so entrenched in its pagan traditions, but surely in time… if he kept at it...

“It wouldn’t be complete a lie,” he finally muttered. “After all that's the path I'm leading the town on. It's just... a projection of the future."

“... Sure,” Father Ernest nodded. “All right, it’s worth a try. We’ll look for the equipment right away, and tomorrow we’ll discuss how to organize this. The sooner we get that letter and the photos through, the better.”

If they do go through, John thought. The letter he had sent to la arquidiócesis de Antequera on his concerns over the new parish priest hadn’t received a reply yet, and John was beginning to think - hope, really, maybe he’d misjudged - that it had gone lost on the way. It was not unusual for that to happen, after all, much less in a country in turmoil. Nothing he could do about that but to take the photographs, write the letter, and pray to God it would reach its destination as swiftly as possible.

“All right. I’ll ask Brother Héctor if he knows where the equipment is, as he was here for--”

“... About that, Padre Ju-- John,” Father Ernesto spoke up, standing. “I think we need to have a talk about Héctor.”

“Oh,” John said, blinking in confusion. What could it be about? “Has there been any issue?”

“Well, he may not be with us for long.”

The words hit him like a blow. “Oh! Oh my God, is he that ill?”

“... What?”

“I had noticed-- he was paler-- seemed upset over something, like he did not sleep well, but I thought-- is there nothing the doctor can do?” John managed, grasping the crucifix hanging from his neck. He would never argue the will of God, but it seemed such a horrible waste and tragedy - a gifted young man with the makings of a great man, taken from them too soon. In his dread, he didn’t even take notice of how close Father Ernest was - close enough he could see the confusion etched in his features.

“Wait, what? No, no!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands. “He’s not dying! I mean-- he might not be in the Church for long.”

“Oh.” John breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God-- wait, what? He means to leave the Church?"

"Well, possibly. It depends on--"

“We must talk him out of it!” John exclaimed. “He shows so much promise, it would be a downright shame--” he trailed off when Father Ernest raised a hand.

“He’s questioning his calling and we won’t talk him out of anything. That’s exactly what I meant to talk about.”

John gaped. “But--”

“You wouldn’t want him to take the vows only to regret it ten years down the line, would you?”

The thought made John pause, and whatever he was about to retort died in his throat. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone could regret taking the vows but then again, unlike him, Héctor had a choice. He could lead a normal life, marry a woman, have children and be blessed. John… could never. The Church, his mission, was all that there was; outside it there was only perdition. Things would be different for Héctor, should he choose not to take the vows.  

“I…” he sighed, and looked away. “... No, I would not. You are right. He must act according to conscience.”

“It’s good to see we’re on the same page,” Father Ernest said, a smile in his voice, and put a hand on John’s shoulder. It made him tense, the hair on his neck standing on end - oh God while did he keep touching him - but he didn’t seem to realize it at all. “I appreciate it. I know it can’t be easy, just letting him go.”

“W-well, he is a good pupil, and I would miss teaching him--”

“And he’s good looking too, I guess, so I could understand the attraction, but he doesn’t swing that way, at least as far as I know,” Father Ernest added, and suddenly the tension turned to confusion. John blinked up at him.

“What… what are you talking about?”

Father Ernest rolled his eyes. “Come on, no need to keep up the act. I know your, er, affliction, remember? I know you want Héctor, I can tell - can’t hide a thing from me,” he laughed, clearly unaware of the horrified look spreading on John’s features. “No worries, he won’t know--”

“What-- when-- no!” John screeched, tearing himself out of his grasp and taking a few steps back. He clutched even harder at the crucifix. “I-- I would never! He’s like-- a pupil, a younger brother-- to abuse my position and authority to sway him--!” he felt disgusted at the mere thought, and his knees wobbled.

Have you done anything to your brother? Your sisters!

Never!

You will, if given the chance! There’s no depravity a sodomite would not commit.

“Hey hey-- all right, my bad!” Father Ernest was saying, holding up his hands. He seemed confused. “I assumed, since you spent so much time-- huh. It wasn’t Héctor you, er. Lusted for?”

“No,” John croaked. “It was never him! Please-- oh God, please, believe me!”

“Fine, fine,” the other man said quickly. “I believe you. Lo siento. Calm down. I just-- who is it, then? I can’t think of anyone else you’re around usually that doesn’t want to kick in your teeth every hour of the--oh. Oh.”

The look on Father Ernest’s face - the realization - filled John with dread, shame, and an odd sort of relief in equal parts. Now that he knew, oh God he knew, there was no way he could keep standing there in his presence. He would fall apart if he had to stay another moment, and he’d crumble if he had to talk about it.

“I… I’m sorry, I need… need to find the camera. And equipment. Excuse me,” he added, and almost ran past him, to the door. Part of him feared he’d grab his shoulder again, but he didn’t, and he did not call out.

Father John Johnson burst out of the sacristy, heart beating somewhere on his throat and mind reeling, and left with quick steps before anybody could walk by to see him in that sorry state - leaving a very confused, and certainly disgusted, Father Ernesto behind.

***

Well, now that was a surprising turn of events.

Ernesto had been so sure it was Héctor that Padre Juan had the hots for, he hadn’t considered any other possibility. It seemed so obvious, with the time he spent playing his mentor… but then again, maybe it was not.

With poor Juan horrified as he was by his inclinations, it actually made more sense for him to avoid the true object of his desire… who, luckily for him, tended to stay out of the way most of the time, muttering about errands no one knew a thing about.

“Gustavo, of all people. Would have never guessed,” he muttered to no one in particular, leaving the sacristy. The guy seemed awfully dour, and as far as Ernesto was concerned he had the physical appeal of a raw potato. Not that Juan, pudgy as he was, looked much better. With that pale skin, straw-like hair and watery eyes, he looked odd. Not necessary ugly, just… odd. Exotic, in a way, but nowhere near good-looking, that was for sure. Just peculiar.

With a shrug, Ernesto pushed the thought out of his mind. Padre Juan was nowhere to be seen as he walked through the chapel and into the yard, but he did find Miguel and the twins, talking to Héctor and - well, look at that - Imelda. Sister Gisela. Whichever.

With some luck, she wouldn’t be keeping her name in Christ for much longer.

“Oh! Padre Ernesto!” Miguel called out suddenly, waving his arm. “Héctor is gonna be Jesus! Óscar and Felipe agreed and are looking for a fake beard!”

With a laugh, Ernesto clapped a hand on Héctor’s shoulder. “Perfect! I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“As long as I don’t fall off the donkey,” Héctor smiled. “I did, once.”

“Because it had been stung by a wasp and panicked,” Imelda pointed out, and smiled. It was a fond smile, and it made her all the more beautiful. It wasn’t hard to see why Héctor had fallen so hopelessly for her. She turned to Ernesto. “My sisters and I will help pick palm branches for you to bless.”

He nodded. “Perfect. Hopefully, donations will be enough to ensure a steady supply of food. Padre Juan has a plan, too, and it’s not too bad. We’ll talk about it as soon as we can get--”

“What if the army comes to take the food?” Miguel asked suddenly, looking up. It was a very real risk, they knew it. The smile on Imelda’s face froze, and Héctor’s expression turned grave.

“We’ll keep it hidden. We won’t let them starve any of us for feed their ranks,” Imelda spoke, her voice tight. She spoke like she was stating the tenets of the universe, and Ernesto had to admire that; if how she’d behaved in the Ramírez household was anything to go by, she might just decide to really try and stop them.

And get herself killed, of course. When the Federales came demanding anything, you had to give them what they wanted... and count yourself lucky they just demanded supplies and not men. He would know: he’d been one of them, raiding town after town to keep himself fed, so he could keep marching and fighting a war he didn’t give a damn about.

But not here, they won’t. This is my town, my parish, my people. Mine. They can’t have them.

Ernesto looked back, towards the edge of the town - the desert he’d come from - before glancing back at them. Miguel had turned to look at him; of course everyone would think he was looking for reassurance from the parish priest, but that was only because they didn’t know what Miguel did. He knew he was not a priest. He knew he had been one of them… and told no one.

Ernesto made an effort to smile, and ruffled Miguel’s hair. “If Federales come,” he said slowly, thinking back of what Gustavo had said about the wine and rat poison, “let them take what they will, and reap the rewards.”

***

[Back to Part 9]

[On to Part 11]

***

Ernesto's amazing deductive skills at work:

[marril96]

Mommy Issues

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Mary disapproves of Rowena’s relationship with reader.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

A/N: This story is inspired by the lovely stories written by @oswinthestrange: Caught in a Compromising Position, Conflict Rises, and Hollow Apologies.

Read on AO3.

Mary Winchester was livid.

Not only was her only daughter leaving only a day after Mary had returned from an alternate world — a world she'd spent nearly a year in — but she was also in a relationship with a witch. And not just any witch — out of all people, you had the audacity to fall for one of the most powerful witches alive, mother of former King of Hell himself.

You could have spat on her as well while you were at it. In Mary's mind, there was nothing worse for a hunter than to get involved with a monster they were supposed to kill. The fact that Rowena, in her current state, was the furthest thing from a monster meant very little to her. She was a witch, a wicked one at that, with enough blood on her hands to drown a city the size of New York. She was a thing, an it, an animal who needed to be put down.

Right.

Let someone try. You dared them. Let them try to lay a hand on Rowena. Let them even look at her wrong. You'd killed for her before. Doing so again wouldn't faze you. In fact, you'd sleep better knowing a threat had been eliminated.

Much to your mother's annoyance, you didn't give a damn what she thought. You were an adult, a grown woman who'd lived her whole life without her. You could make your own decisions.

Hell, even if you were a teenager, the woman before you would have had no right to order you around.

"You can't just leave!" Mary argued, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

"Watch me," you said. A few more shirts and pieces of underwear, and you were done; done with the stale air of this bunker, suffocating you with every breath you took, done with Dean criticizing your relationship every single day and Sam playing the mediator to keep the peace, done with hunting and death and disappointment. Done with your mother.

All you wanted was some peace. You weren't a bad hunter, but the life was never something you'd have chosen for yourself. Sam was okay with John practically disowning him. You weren't. Solitude would have killed you; with your less than stellar social skills, you never would have found friends to replace your family. So you stayed. Year after year, you kept telling yourself you'd quit, but you were never brave enough to actually do it. Where would you go? Who would you turn to? Having graduated high school with barely passing grades and so many absences you had to bullshit your way into justifying, and with no working experience (hunting monsters didn't count in the eyes of the law) or friends to help you with employment, you didn't have that many prospects. You never would have made it alone.

You had Rowena now. You had someone you loved, someone you trusted at your side; someone you knew would never turn her back on you no matter what obstacle you stumbled across. The first person you weren't blood-related to that you considered family.

You'd always had a love for magic. Witchcraft, though, was frowned upon in hunting communities, in hunting families. Witches were evil, everyone had said. Right. Of course. There was never any point in arguing, lest you wanted to be accused of being a traitor. Meeting Rowena had changed that. You'd finally gotten a chance to do something you loved, to be something you loved. Witch Y/N Winchester had quite a nice ring to it.

"What about your brothers?" Mary asked.

"Sam and Dean are big boys. They're more than capable to hunt without me." As they'd done a hundred times. You frowned at the empty drawer. "Rowena, did you see my scarf?"

"It's in my bag," Rowena answered from the other corner of the room, packing her own bag. Another thing mother dearest hadn't been the happiest about; her daughter, sharing a room a with a witch? Unacceptable! "You lent it to me last week, remember?"

"Right," you said.

Mary ignored the interaction. "And what about me?"

Four simple words, and they were enough to ignite a spark deep inside you. A wildfire of anger burned through you, spreading through your body like poison in your veins. Fingers balling into tight fists and teeth clenching, you whirled around to face your mother.

"What about you?" Some nerve she had to even ask that. "Are you serious?"

She had been the one to leave last year. She had been the one to join the British Men of Letters behind your and your brothers' backs. Had Sam and Dean not talked her into returning, she would have remained in the alternate world with her new family, sealed away from you for good.

"You almost stayed in that shithole world, and you're giving me grief for going on a road trip?!"

Mary had the decency to look ashamed. Just a tad, barely noticeable, but shame was shame. 'That's different."

Of course. Favorite line of parents all over the world. It was always different when they did it. "Why? Because I'm dating a witch?"

Rowena, having kept her head down throughout the argument to give the two of you some space, looked up at the mention of her. Her eyes traveled from you to Mary back and forth, curious, a tiny bit worried. You'd warned her about your mother not approving of the relationship; if Dean still had a hard time accepting it, Mary would be a hundred times worse.

Your mother sighed. "She's not good for you, Y/N."

"You don't know her," you argued. People always seemed ready to judge Rowena without bothering to get to know her. It was easier to hate her than to give her a chance to prove herself.

"I've heard about the things she's done."

"But you don't know her!"

"I know she's a witch, and she's got blood on her hands," Mary said.

"And I don't? You, Sam, Dean; none of you have any blood on yours?" If she wanted to judge Rowena, she had to judge herself and her children just as harshly. There wasn't a thing Rowena had done that one of you hadn't. All of you were killers. All of you had spilled innocent blood. Let he or she who was without sin cast the first stone.

"None of us have done half the things she has," Mary argued.

"Bullshit!"

At the very least, Rowena had never attempted to participate in genocide. Something that couldn't be said for your brothers and mother.

"She's leading you down a dangerous path!" Mary said.

"She's changed!" you said. Rowena had redeemed herself, and you would never tire of saying it out loud. Not until people got it in their thick heads. Your girl wasn't a wicked witch anymore.

Mary gave you a dirty look. "If that was true, she wouldn't have tried to drag you into her… practices." She spat the word 'practices' as if it was dirty, as if the mere thought of witchcraft made her stomach churn with disgust.

Rowena shot her a glare as deadly and sharp as a knife, the kind that had to have killed before. "If you knew your daughter at all, you would know she's always had a fondness for magic." She'd promised to be on her best behavior, but enough was enough. You'd asked her to be nice, to not start anything, and she'd done a splendid job. Whatever followed, Mary had brought on herself.

Keeping the peace was important, but you'd never ask your girlfriend to bow her head like a dog in the face of insults — even if those insults were thrown by the members of your family. She deserved respect, as a person, as a woman, as your girlfriend. Dean had learned that, sort of, and so would Mary. And if she refused… Well, it wouldn't be the first time that you'd cut a toxic person out of your life.

"This doesn't involve you!" Mary said.

"It does when you bash me and my craft!" Rowena shot back.

"Your craft?" Mary scoffed. "You make it sound like an art."

"It is an art. A beautiful, fine one not many have natural talent for." She gave you a look of pride, of admiration. No one had ever given you that look before. "Y/N was born for it."

Marty's features twisted into a look one made when they smelled something disgusting. "My daughter was born human!" she insisted, and looked ready to fight to prove her words.

"What are witches, if not human?" Rowena asked, though she knew what the answer would be. Nothing else could be expected from a bigot.

"Monsters! You're monsters!" Mary said. "I'm not letting you turn my daughter into one!"

"Don't talk to her like that!" you barked. Rowena was a lot of things, but she wasn't a monster. Not anymore.

Your mother turned to you. "Can't you see she's manipulating you, Y/N? Maybe she even cast a spell on you!"

You shook her head. "She didn't do anything." You took a deep breath. "I want this. I've always wanted it."

"You didn't!"

How would she know? She'd been dead for over thirty years, and when she'd come back to life, the first thing she did was run away. She didn't know you. Rowena did. Rowena knew you to your core, to the bottom of your soul. She never judged you, never looked at you wrong. Even when you were enemies, not once had she said a bad thing about you. She respected your decisions. She loved you as you were, and didn't try — or want, for that matter — to change a thing about you.

Something that couldn't be said for your mother.

She may have given birth to you, but she wasn't your family. Not really. Rowena, on the other hand, was.

The realization made your stomach twist with unease. Your own mother, and she knew you — wanted to know you — less than the woman who used to be your enemy.

"How would you know? You were dead!" you said. The reminder hurt; your entire life all you wished for was your mother. If only you'd known what she was really like. Your father had made her out to be a saint. Maybe she was, once upon a time. Or maybe John had fed you lies. It wouldn't have been the worst thing he'd done as a parent. You took a deep breath. "And when you came back, you ran away! Not once did you try to get to know me!"

Mary sighed, a look of hurt passing over her face. From a certain angle it might have looked like guilt. Might have.

Tears pickled at your eyes, but you held them back. You wouldn't break in front of her. You wouldn't let her see you at your weakest, at your most vulnerable. You could be strong for just a little more, until you and Rowena were safe and, most important of all, alone in your tiny car, ready to start the next chapter of your lives.

"I want this, mom," you said after a few moments of silence, giving her time for your words to sink in. "I want to be a witch."

"How can you want that?" Mary asked, tone as anguished as the look that settled on her face. She didn't understand. She didn't want to understand.

You shrugged. "I just do. It's my decision. Respect it."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

The words stung. "If you really loved me, you would." A real mother would.

"I love you and your brothers more than anything in the world."

"As long as we're obedient little soldiers, right?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she said, stare pointed, expression firm.

"Right." A slight chuckle escaped you, memories of your childhood flooding your mind. "You're just like dad. I thought you were different, but turns out, you're just like him."

He, too, put his wishes above yours. His love, just like Mary's, it seemed, was conditional. You either lived by his rules, or not at all. His word was law. He knew best. He knew you better than you knew yourself. He knew what you wanted, what you needed and dreamed and aspired to. He knew it all.

Right.

Sam had made the right decision when he'd decided to get out.

And so had you.

"John made mistakes—" Mary tried, but you cut her off.

"I don't give a damn about him and his 'mistakes!'" you exclaimed, forming quotation marks with your fingers to emphasize the last word. "And…" You took a large, deep breath for courage. Your eyes trailed downwards, then met hers once more, strong, determined. "If you can't accept this, then I don't give a damn about you, either."

Mary gulped. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I love Rowena, and I want to be a witch." Rowena gave you a proud, encouraging smile. You responded with a small smile of your own. "I love you, mom, but… I love her more. I love me more. I'm done letting other people make decisions for me. This is my life."

"You can't be serious," Mary said, startled by your words.

"Deadly," you said. It was honesty hour. You were done playing good, obedient little girl.

"I'm your family!"

"Rowena is my family, as well." A more loving, supporting family than your blood one.

"She'll stab you in the back the first chance she gets!"

That wasn't her anymore. Rowena had changed. She still had a long way to go, but she was working on her redemption.

"She won't," you said. "She's changed."

"You're willing to bet your life on that?"

"I am." Because you knew there was no threat. Your life was safe in Rowena's hands. Safer than it would have been in Mary's.

"Despite everything she's done?"

"Despite everything." Checking to make sure you packed everything, you zipped up your bag, then took hold of Rowena's hand and squeezed tightly.

"You're a fool," Mary said.

You shrugged. "Says you."

"You're throwing your life away."

"Quite the contrary; my life is only just beginning."

"And what about our lives? Are we just supposed to accept losing one of our own?"

"You're not losing me, mom. We can talk on the phone every day, if you want."

"But it won't be you." A tear slid down Mary's cheek. "It-it will be a witch."

"Witch or not, I'll still be me," you pointed out. It wasn't like your soul would disappear and a demon would take its place in your body. You would be you; with a few magical abilities and an allergy to iron added to the mix, but still you. You would still be that baby your mother held when you were little, still that little girl she used to dance with in the kitchen while preparing dinner.

Mary shook her head, adamant, defiant. "You won't. Once you dabble in magic, there's no going back."

"Maybe I don't want to go back," you told her.

"You have to make a choice, then." She looked at you, eyes wounded, hurt, as if the entire world's grief and sorrow settled in them. She looked to be on the verge of falling apart. "Us or her."

Your eyes widened, shock spreading over your face like a splash of paint. "What?"

Mary swallowed, then cleared her throat. "Your family or the witch. You can't have it both ways, Y/N."

Your family or the witch.

Your family or the witch.

Your family or the witch.

She wanted you to choose.

Your own mother, who supposedly loved you more than life itself, had given you an ultimatum.

You knew it was a possibility, but never, in your wildest dreams, have you thought she would actually do it.

Rowena loved you as you were.

Mary loved the idea of you.

Rowena accepted your flaws.

Mary made up flaws where there weren't any.

Rowena encouraged you to follow your dreams.

Mary wanted you to suppress your dreams if they happened to not align with hers.

Rowena knew your favorite songs, books, movies, and TV shows by heart, even though your interests greatly differed from hers.

Mary could list two cartoons and one song you liked when you were a child.

Rowena answered when you called in need, and held you when you cried, and did everything in her power to get you back on your feet.

Mary had been too busy planning genocide with the British Men of Letters to even answer a text message.

Rowena, despite centuries of building walls and hiding her emotions, had opened up and allowed you to see her as she was. She was terrified; terrified of betrayal, of being taken advantage of, for that was all she'd ever known. And still, she let you in, let you get to know her, let herself love you even though it went against all the principles she'd held for centuries.

Mary had wanted to stay in a war-torn world with a bunch of strangers, principles over family.

With Rowena you had a future.

Mary, on the other hand, brought nothing but pain and disappointment into your life.

Mary may have brought you into this world, but she didn't understand you. Rowena did. And when she didn't understand, she did her best to try. Because she loved you. She wanted to know everything about you, about your life, about you most beautiful dreams and worst fears. She wanted to know it all.

Mary didn't even pretend to try. She was convinced she knew better, convinced she knew you despite never even bothering to get to know you.

Your grip on Rowena's hand tightened, half instinct and half intent. Ignoring the hammer-like pounding of your heart and steadying your breathing to get the words out without stumbling, you said. "That's an easy choice to make."

You and Rowena grabbed your bags and, looking around the room one last time to make sure you packed everything of importance, you left.

You left the bunker.

You left the memories, good and bad, behind, hoping to never revisit them again.

You left your life.

You left your family.

You left your mother.

As soon as you were in your car, far away from nosy eyes and ears, you collapsed into Rowena's arms and cried. You cried and wailed and sobbed, let everything aching and bad out, emptied your heart of all the pain that had gathered inside it. Rowena held you to her, hands gently tapping your back, words of comfort slipping from her lips in tender, soothing whispers.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked when you calmed down.

Pulling away from the embrace, you straightened up in your seat. Tears had finally stopped flowing, their remnants drying on your puffed up cheeks. You looked at Rowena, and the truth of the words you were about to say pooled in your eyes before you managed to utter a single one. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Rowena beamed. You smiled, bright as a sunshine. Starting the car, you drove out of the garage, onto the open road, on your way to a brand new life. The life you'd always wanted, with the woman you loved the most in the whole wide world.

Tags: Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @darktweet @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @royalrowena @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @dropsofpetrichor @fromflametofire @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @elaspn @cas-loves-dean-and-i-love-him @faeyla @hotdiggitydammit @1-800multifandom @darkhumorsblog

[relbyshock]

Amy Winehouse, Princess Diana, Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Aileen Wuornos, Angelina Jolie, Adolf Hitler, Darrell Hammond, Pete Davidson, Winona Ryder, Vincent Van Gogh, Tommy Tiernan….

What do they all have in common? Apart from being famous figures, they all suffer(ed) or were rumored to have suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder.

Hey, me too.

I’m over the moon to have something in common with Princess Di (apart from our shared plight with bulimia), but I have to say, I’d rather not have anything in common with Aileen or Adolf…..

Borderline Personality Disorder is a confusing term to say the least. On the borderline of what and what? Well, in the ‘30s, it meant you fell somewhere between psychosis (untreatable) and neurosis (treatable).

Great, that’s reassuring.

Come the ‘70s, BPD sufferers were described as being very emotional, needy, difficult, at risk for suicide, and to have an “overall unstable level of functioning”.

Check. *sings “Welcome to My Life” by Simple Plan*

We also have rapidly fluctuating mood swings, unstable self-image, and a fear of abandonment. This disorder wasn’t even recognized by the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) until 1980.

Today, we know far more about BPD – “neurosis” is no longer used in the diagnosis, and BPD is no longer considered a psychotic disorder.

 So what are we then?

Crazy?

Hormonal?

According to my family, yes. But in reality, the problem lies within our brains. Let me nerd out here for a minute:

The Amygdala (Ah-mig-dah-lah) is composed of two almond-shaped parts of the brain, deep in the medial temporal lobe, that regulate fear and aggression. People with BPD have amygdala’s that are noticeably smaller than that of a healthy person. The smaller the amygdala, the more overactive it is.

Like short guys with bad attitudes, or what I like to refer to as “little man syndrome”.

And then we have the Hippocampus – no, not pachyderm college. The hippocampus is responsible for spatial orientation (not falling over), long and short-term memory, and emotional regulation. Put simply, the hippocampus chooses the correct response to environmental events: Fight or flight.

You may be wondering if I was dropped on my head as a child. The answer is yes – frequently – but the chances of minor brain trauma causing BPD are slim.

The causes of Borderline Personality Disorder are unclear. It seems to involve genetic, brain, environmental and social factors. There are rumours that people with BPD have issues with serotonin production, which has been linked to depression, aggression and having a hard time controlling “destructive urges”.

As for environmental factors, those who have been a victim of emotional/physical/sexual abuse, as well as being exposed to chronic fear or distress as a child have a high likelihood of developing BPD. This is because our relationship with our parents and family has a HUGE influence on how we see the world, and how we feel about other people.

Gals are also diagnosed 3 times as often as guys. You’ve gotta wonder if that’s due to the fact that men tend to be more weary of the doctor, therefore avoiding a diagnosis altogether. This is pure speculation.

Shall we take a dive into the “Signs and Symptoms” as listed by Wikipedia?

-Markedly disturbed sense of identity

-Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment and extreme reactions

-Splitting (black and white thinking)

-Impulsivity

-Intense and uncontrollable emotional reactions that often seem disproportionate to the event or situation

-Unstable and chaotic interpersonal relationships

-Self-damaging behavior (ie, substance abuse)

-Distorted self-image

-Dissociation

-Frequently accompanied by depression, anxiety, anger, substance abuse or rage

We are also aware of the intensity of our negative emotional reactions, and since we can’t regulate them, we shut them down completely. What my doctor and I refer to as feeling “flat”.

BPD sufferers are also extremely sensitive to real or perceived rejection. Let’s explain with a meme, shall we:

*looking at an unanswered text from 12 minutes ago*

You: They must be in the shower or just busy, they’ll respond when they have a chance.

Me: Ok well they were active on Instagram 6 minutes ago and they just posted a snap story….they’re ignoring me, why do they hate me? What did I do? Are they mad at me? Should I send another text to get their attention or is that too needy?

If you’re annoyed just reading that, TRY LIVING IN MY BRAIN.

I annoy myself.

I feel grief, overwhelming shame and humiliation where others would feel mildly embarrassed. A minor inconvenience such as cancelled plans takes me from excited to absolutely miserable.

In the past, an unflattering photo on Facebook has caused me to reevaluate my self-worth, and even my life.

The Sickboy podcast explained it beautifully: Borderline Personality Disorder is like having a third degree burn on your emotions. I feel that. Everything hurts me just a little bit more than the average bear (or human).

Why am I telling you this? Because boys and girls, today is Bell Let’s Talk Day here in Canada. I’ll include the link at the bottom. Basically, in 2010, Bell began a new conversation about Canada’s mental health. They’ve enlisted such figures as Howie Mandel, Michael Landsberg, and Clara Hughes to share their stories of struggle and strength in the face of mental health.

I thought today was as good as any other to address the stigma surrounding mental health, but more specifically, the stigma around BPD.

I can’t pretend to know all the answers – I’m not and won’t pretend to be a psychiatrist. But this is what the world looks like through my lens.

If someone honks at me while I’m driving to work, I’m upset ALL DAY. I never want to drive again, I want to pull over and cry, or turn around and go home.

If I get a moderately rude email, my brain fills with cutting, angry, and just plain mean remarks to respond with. “I’m sorry your father never hugged you as a child” is not a suitable response to a professional email, but that’s where my brain goes.

When I make plans with friends weeks in advance and they bail 10 minutes before, I am a heap of inconsolable sobs for the rest of the evening, and even into the next day. This plays into the fear of “real or imagined abandonment”. My BPD brain does not care that something came up or you’re feeling under the weather. BPD tells me that you hate me and you never want to see me again and you were just pretending to like me this whole time and you’ve finally made your escape. My logical brain tries to tell me that it’s ok, and we’ll plan something for another time, but usually, my BPD brain wins the fight.

When I get nervous and start to ramble trying to tell a story and my mom cuts me off with “Anyways.” I want to crawl in a hole and die, but I also sort of want to throw a plate at her face. My mother is a saint, so why do I feel this way about her sometimes?

Let’s get back to the causes of Borderline Personality Disorder. Dad, Mom, maybe stop reading here…or don’t…but here’s your warning. You aren’t going to like this next part.

I was severely neglected as a child. Not physically – I had food to eat, clothes to wear, a roof over my head – but emotionally and mentally. The minor relationship I did have with my father was marked by him coming home from a long shift (as a firefighter) and starting a fight with me about my weight, my shoes at the front door, my marks in school, and more often than not, “why are you always crying?!”. My mom also worked full time at a stressful sales job. So by the time she got home, she didn’t want to have to deal with anyone else’s issues.

So when I would have issues with anything from being bullied at school to just having a ‘bad mental health day’, I had nowhere to turn.

See, my brother and I were latch-key kids. We got home from school at least an hour before my parents got home from work. He and I never got along, so some sort of fight would ensue, and by the time our parents got home, he had made me cry. I was deemed dramatic and sent away to my bedroom, while the 3 of them would eat dinner together (usually something I refused to eat – like meat – which would be another reason to fight).

I’ve voiced this to my mom before, and she remembers my childhood very differently than I do.

As long as I have been alive, I have come second to my brother.

No, honey, we can’t go to (insert activity I wanted to do) because Maxx has hockey/a book report due/needs a ride to the bike track, etc.

Every dinner or event we went to was with HIS friends and THEIR parents, who ended up becoming my parents’ best friends (still to this day). I was always the only girl; so naturally, I stayed with the adults, because the boys wouldn’t have me.

But the adults didn’t want me there either. I felt like a constant annoyance.

Thinking back on it, I realize that I may not have been as unwanted as I perceived myself to be. Remember, BPD brains are sensitive to even slight facial expressions and tones of voice. But, when I voiced this to my parents, that I felt unwanted, and why couldn’t we do things with my friends and their parents, etc. I was told that I was being ridiculous.

Enter: Invalidation

Invalidation is the number one cause of BPD, according to my psychiatrist. Growing up in an environment where nothing you do is good enough will cause you to internalize everything.

I have no memories or examples of healthy emotional behaviour or relationships. In our house, we got the point across by screaming at or just plain ignoring each other. So when I get hurt, or I feel let down, I have absolutely no idea how to deal with my feelings. Further reinforcing my belief that the world is full of bad people who are out to ruin your day and be unkind, because that’s all I’ve ever known.

Research shows that if you already experience these difficulties as a child, experiencing trauma as an adult could make things worse.

Dad - now is really the time to stop reading.

(Sometimes I feel like I live inside the DSM definition of BPD)

At the age of 21 – fresh out of college and trying to start my career in the fashion world – I was sexually assaulted. Cue the downward spiral.

I didn’t report. I didn’t seek help. I confided in a close friend, and was called a liar. But that’s a story for another time.

So I buried that part of me so deep, that sometimes I could convince myself that it never happened. Sometimes.

I reached the end of my rope in 2016. I knew that if I didn’t seek help, I would not survive. I finally went to my doctor and spent hours with her, just sobbing and telling her everything.

She hooked me up with a psychiatrist, and put me in Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, and started me on an SSRI (anti-depressant) immediately.

As of today, it has been 1172 days since the assault. I only told my mother this past summer.

Since reaching out for help, I have begun to repair the relationship with my parents. My mom and I are closer than ever, and my dad and I are working on it.

As I write this, I feel the judgements pouring in. But I have decided that this year, I don’t care. I am not ashamed of my story. I will no longer hide the things I have been through in order to make others more comfortable. I will not keep my pain to myself because it’s easier for others if I stay silent. If bearing my soul can help even one person seek the help they need, then I have succeeded, and all this pain has been worth it.

The long and short of it is SPEAK UP! There is nothing embarrassing about mental illness. If you aren’t feeling right, there are people who care and are here to help you, including me. The first step is to tell someone.

The best advice I can give is to find your people. People who trust you, who lift you up, who validate your feelings, who listen and take you seriously when you say you’re having a bad day. I have spent the past year painstakingly building my support system, because the truth of the matter is, I can’t do this alone. And that’s ok.

Today and every single day, be kind to each other – it’s the only thing that matters.

https://letstalk.bell.ca/en/bell-lets-talk-day

[charlion-em]

@hayley566 bugged me to post this one :P I can’t remember if I fixed everything or not?? Let me know if I missed anything <3 

Kiggy, 1.7k, Friends with Benefits 

Kaine was gone when Miguel woke up in the middle of the night, the covers were still warm where he’d been probably just moments before. If he followed, it would be easy enough to catch him, to force him back to bed- to spend one whole night together after losing themselves to passion in the calm after a battle. It would be easy. But easy wasn't always right.

So, Miguel stayed under his sheets, head on his pillow as he listened to the sound of his bathroom window clicking shut. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until warm air rushed past his lips.

Kaine never stayed the night. It was part of his 'hook-up’ routine. While Miguel had previous hook-ups who would stay the night and even for breakfast, Kaine preferred clean cut boundaries. Which was fine at the beginning, back when Miguel still thought of Kaine as 'just’ a hook-up. And that discovery took a whole new level of introspection, and a nosy boss.

This was their third night together since Miguel figured out his yearning for Kaine to linger afterwards wasn't  nostalgia for flings long past, nor was it simply a need for the comfort of a warm body next to his. It wasn't his loneliness and homesickness which made him reach for Kaine’s fleeting form one night months ago, begging him to stay just a few more minutes until he fell asleep. It wasn't just his selfishness which sent thrills down his spine and warmed his heart when Kaine crawled into bed and enveloped him in his strong arms. It wasn't his libido which dug a hole in his chest when he continued to wake to an empty bed morning after morning.

“Friends-with-benefits” was how Miguel addressed their arraignment at first- and he still did when talking to Kaine lest he figure out something had changed. But 'hook-up’, Kaine's preferred term, didn't weigh as heavy on his heart.

Miguel closed his eyes and forced all thoughts of Kaine out of his mind until sleep claimed him again.

“Anything new?” Peter didn't look up from the menu, predicting Miguel's answer would be the same as every morning.

Maybe it was the change of restaurant, the new atmosphere giving Miguel a boost of courage, or maybe he was just done being dishonest with the only person in New York who was always honest with him. Instead of 'nothing, you?’ and then listening to Peter prattle on about some new experiment.

Instead, he said, “Actually…”. The single word stretched between them as Peter gently lowered his menu to the table and stared across at Miguel with an arched eyebrow. “I think,” Miguel paused again, unsure where he was going with this. “I think I'm going to tell Kaine I can't keep hooking up.”

Peter's other eyebrow joined the first. “I thought you both liked the… uh… arrangement.”

“I do like it. But I need something more now. A hookup was good, but I'm settled into the city now and I need something… more.”

“More what?” Peter lazily put an elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand. A smile spread across his face, and Miguel couldn't shake the feeling he was walking into a trap.

“Emotion,” he said flatly.

Peter hummed. “And dates, and lazy mornings, and shopping for furniture, and cooking-”

“Yes. All of that.”

They paused their conversation when the server came for their brunch orders, Peter hurrying to figure out what he wanted while Miguel placed his first.

After the server walked away, Peter fixed Miguel with the same unnerving smile. “What about Kai-”

“So, anything new with you?”

Peter didn't continue to press, allowing Miguel to change the subject without fuss. Miguel knew it wasn't the end of the discussion, Peter would find a way to bring it back up later- and probably try to catch him off guard when he did. He would be ready.

Going out for drinks was just what Miguel needed. He was wary when Peter suggested it, but relaxed after learning Peter had already planned to go to this bar with some of his friends.

“I don't want to intrude.” Miguel paused with Peter outside the door to the bar.

“Nonsense. You could probably use a drink, and if you're serious about meeting someone a bar is as good a place as any to work on your flirting.”

“Work on my flirting? Are you calling my game rusty?” He followed Peter into the bar. It was classier than the ones he frequented.

“Rustier than Stark’s-”

“Petey!” A blonde man waved from a booth near the pool table.

“You don't have to hang with us if you don't want.”

Miguel shrugged and followed Peter at first, but changed his mind as they neared the booth and veered towards the bar instead. He ordered a neat whiskey and made himself comfortable on a stool.

As the bartender sat his glass in front of him, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Miguel muttered he’d like to start a tab, figuring he’d settle in for a few drinks and enjoy the live music. After taking a sip of his drink, Miguel reached for his phone.

A single text message. Just ‘?’

Kaine.

Miguel took a longer drink from his glass before responding. His heart fluttered. ‘Not tonight.’

'mission?’

'Bar.’. Then, 'talk later’.

'talk?’

Miguel silenced his phone and put it back in his pocket. He would need to end it with Kaine. Even if he didn't find someone else, he couldn't continue to sleep with Kaine and have unrequited feelings. He would slip up eventually, and Kaine made it clear on several occasions he wasn't interested in anything more than sex.

“Peter dragged you here then left you to your own devices?” The blonde from before slid up to the bar next to Miguel, he flashed him a warm smile before flagging down the bartender.

“My decision. Just need to unwind alone.”

“Johnny,” He held out a hand.

“Miguel.” The man's hand was soft.

“Feel free to join us.” He flashed Miguel another warm smile as the bartender sat two pitchers of beer in front of him. Then he was gone, walking back to Peter and the rest of their group.

Miguel sighed, downed the rest of his drink and motioned for another. His hand itched to reach for his phone and check for new messages from Kaine. There was no doubt Kaine would be upset at him blowing off a hookup, but Miguel didn't care. He remembered how cold and empty his bed was when he woke up that morning and the itch to check his phone was gone. “Shock him.”

He downed his drink in one motion and nodded at the bartender’s gesture for another. This third drink lasted longer, he sipped it as he looked around the bar. The band played covers of various songs, filling the bar with good vibes and energy. He turned his focus to the pool table. Johnny and Peter were currently playing while the other two lingered waiting to play the winner.

Peter won, dancing in Johnny's shame. As Peter began to reset for the next game, Johnny turned towards the bar and caught Miguel's eyes. He set this pool cue back on the rack and walked over with a smirk.

“So, something is bothering me.” Johnny leaned against the bar. “Where you checking Peter out… or me?”

Miguel blinked. “I wasn't checking anyone out.”

Johnny deflated into to stool next to Miguel. “For real?”

“Why,” Miguel leaned closer to the handsome man, “do you want me to check you out?”

Johnny snorted. “I don't think I've ever had to ask someone to check me out.” He reached towards Miguel's leg and danced two fingers a few inches above his knee. “But it's been awhile since I wanted someone to be checking me out.”

Miguel opened his mouth, but a familiar voice had him snapping it shut.

“Migs?” Kaine was standing just out of reach.

“Jammit.” Miguel turned back to Johnny. “Uh, this is my friend Kaine.”

Johnny removed his hand from Miguel's leg. “Friend?”

“Yea, just a frie-” Miguel cut himself off at Kaine's growl and turned to see him storming out of the bar. He sighed and turned back to Johnny. “Sorry. I blew him of earlier. I'll, uh, I'll be right back.”

Miguel tossed a hundred on the bar, way more than his tab but he didn't want to wait for change. His heart beat against his chest as he left the bar, looking for Kaine in every direction. He spotted him rounding a corner a block away and took off.

It was easy enough to catch up to him, Kaine hadn't expected to be followed.

“Wait. You fucking bithead.” Miguel grabbed Kaine's sleeve. “What the shock was that about? How did you know what bar I was at?”

Kaine pulled his sleeve from Miguel's grip. “It's Peter's favorite. Figured I would start there. If I knew you'd blown me off because you wanted another guy to feel you up I wouldn't have bothered.” Kaine kicked the brick building he stood in front of.

“What do you care if someone flirts with me? We're just friends with benefits, you set the rules. A hookup. Jammit, you can't just act like that!” Miguel crowded Kaine until his back was against the brick wall.

Kaine growled. “Because! You'll realize you can do better than me! I don't want to lose you.”

“What?” Miguel took a step back.

“I-I don't want to be friends with benefits! I...I love you, Miguel.”

“Bitcrap.” Miguel shook his head. “You don't. You just don't want to lose your fuck buddy. I've tried to deepen this,” he motioned between them, “but you even fought me on staying a few minutes after…” He swallowed. “So don't you dare say that word. Don't.”

“Miggy, I'm- I- I do love you.” Kaine reached out, but Miguel brushed him away. “I didn't want to stay because I didn't want you to know. But- but seeing you with someone else? I can't. I can't.”

Miguel deflated. “You really do love me too.”

“Too?”

Miguel pulled Kaine into a crushing embrace. They were both fools. And Kaine suffered his feelings longer than Miguel. He kissed Kaine with all the passion he’d wanted to, no longer afraid to pour his heart into it.

“So, no more friends with benefits?” Kaine nuzzled his ear.

Miguel hummed. “Let's go back to my place.”

Kaine held him when he went to step away. “We’ll talk about this over breakfast tomorrow?”

Miguel kissed him, feeling lighter than he had in awhile. “Sounds lovely, love.”

Thank you for reading!

[angstbotfic]

Fic: Ak’tephari Prophecy Ch 67

Read at AO3

February 9th

“I confess I’m finding it strange to sleep alone after all those months with the two of you,” Maleficent said.

Emma, staring off the side of the ship, started. Then guilt rushed through her. “I’m sorry. I- I don’t know how to handle all this. They didn’t even want to let me share my cabin with Regina, and-”

“And the two of you are betrothed,” Maleficent finished for her. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said again.

Maleficent blinked, confused. “Why?”

“I feel like I’ve abandoned you.” Emma stared at her boots.

“Have you?”

Emma looked up, because now she was confused. “What?”

“Have you abandoned me?” Maleficent clarified.

“No!” Emma insisted, immediately. “I just- this is all so complicated.”

Maleficent smirked. “Being royal is very constricted.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying.” Emma sighed and shuffled her feet. At least as a soldier she knew what to do, and if she didn’t somebody would give her orders. They were about half way back to Silben now, according to the captain, and she was starting to dread their arrival.

“But,” Maleficent added, “It does have some freedom, if you can figure out the loopholes.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Emma said, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“While I concede that things have gotten much more interesting lately, I had a whole long interesting life before I ever met you,” Maleficent pointed out.

“That’s fair,” Emma chuckled. Then she grew serious, looking at the water again, hoping the answer had appeared there in the meantime. “I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t want to abandon you. But I don’t think I have much choice.”

“Why not?”

Emma shifted uncomfortably. “People expect me to only be with Regina now.”

“People?” Maleficent prodded.

Emma had the distinct sense she was being played with, but she couldn’t figure out the game. “The court,” she said. “And- Regina.”

“What’s this about me?” Regina asked from behind her, and she winced.

“Emma here was just telling me that you will insist on not sharing her with me,” Maleficent said, and she was definitely playing with her, somehow.

“No, I- um-” Emma stammered, looking frantically between them.

“And it’s truly a shame that she is abandoning me in such ways.”

“Mal, she’s gone all pale. Don’t tease,” Regina said. Then she slid her arms around Emma. “Emma, my love, Maleficent is a dear friend to us both. Do you think I would make you give her up?”

“No, but,” she began, then looked around to see who was within earshot and whispered, “sex.”

Regina’s chuckle in her ear was positively dirty. “As long as I get to play, too.”

“Really?!” Emma’s startled squeak drew the eyes of the sailors. “Like, at the same time?” she asked, almost inaudible.

“Oh yes,” Regina purred. “She has promised me magical toys.”

“You know, Regina, after our last conversation I was thinking, and if we each wear one-”

She was going to die. They were going to kill her. She was going to die. It was going to be wonderful.

**

February 17th

“Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?!” Cora demanded the instant the doors to the private meeting room had closed behind them. Emma had suspected that something like this was coming, based on the stiffness of Mig—who was the acting captain in David’s absence—when he came to escort them, but she hadn’t expected the ferocity and simply froze with her head half-bowed.

“Mother, I-” Regina began.

“Don’t interrupt me!” Cora snapped. “We had no idea where you were, and then it turns out you were off with your street rat lover on some grand vacation!”

Emma winced, but didn’t look up.

“Don’t you dare call her that, Mother,” Regina shot back. “That’s not what happened and I know David told you.”

“Yes, David sent a messenger to pass on what you told him,” Cora conceded, waving her hand dismissively, “but I don’t believe a word of it. You left here of your own free will to secure the wellbeing of our nation and then you just ran off and left us to be attacked!”

“And Leopold’s messengers pleading for peace will have told you the same thing, and I know they arrived before us,” Regina said, advancing toward her mother, gesturing vigorously. When the Marnan Coast Guard had stopped the Rowan ship for questioning outside the bay, they’d had lots of information once they recognized Regina. The war was over, but it hadn’t been for long and the army was still making its way back from the field.

“Yes, but that’s not-”

Regina cut her off. “So you know perfectly well that Emma saved me from being a blood sacrifice to the Xan. And you know perfectly well that the Xan were going to destroy the entire world if she and I had not intervened to save it. So what is your problem?”

Emma took a chance and glanced up now that Regina seemed to be turning the tide of the argument. She caught King Henry’s eye without meaning to, and he gave her a tiny shrug. She suddenly remembered that he was the born royal here, and that Cora had a humbler beginning. You wouldn’t know it to hear her raging.

“We will never be able to marry you to anyone reputable now that everyone knows you have been running around fucking a commoner!” Cora hissed.

Regina’s voice dropped into its lowest, most dangerous register. “Oh, fuck you.”

“How dare you-” Cora began

“No, you listen,” Regina demanded, getting into her mother’s personal space now in a way that had Emma both terrified and admiring. “That’s what you care about? Not my wellbeing or anyone else’s? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You have to think about your future!”

Emma remembered now what Regina had said about her mother being very invested in maintaining her royal status since it had been so hard for her to get it.

“I wouldn’t even have a future without that so-called commoner, Mother,” Regina pointed out. “Not to mention, did you even notice that we came back on the Rowan flagship?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Cora snapped back.

“Did it occur to you to wonder why the king of Rowa gave us the use of his navy?” Regina’s tone was cutting.

Cora was caught and she knew it, so she tried to change the subject. “And what have you done with your hair?”

Regina ignored it and just went on, “King Ryain sent us home in style to prove to you that his daughter,” and she whirled and pointed at Emma, “was fully royal enough for me, and I’m grateful that he did, with this greeting!”

“His daughter-” Cora murmured, shocked.

“This is Emma Swan Rowan,” Regina said, coming to stand next to Emma, who tried to straighten up and look appropriately noble. “Born of Ryain and Ingrid, she is the rightful heir to the Rowan throne but was stripped of her birthright by the political machinations of her stepmother. During our journey, Emma retrieved the Sword of Mairin in the Water Citadel and she is prepared to present it to me as a wedding gift. Exactly as it was foretold.”

“A wedding gift?” King Henry asked softly, startling them all.  

“Yes, Daddy,” Regina said, her tone and expression soft. “We’re going to be married.” She shot Cora a defiant look, but Cora was still staring at Emma.

There was a long silence as Cora seemed to size Emma up. Finally, she said. “The princess of Rowa, and a hero who saved our princess, and who saved the world with her. That I can work with.”

“Mother,” Regina sighed, exasperated.

“And she’s also clearly crazy about you to risk her fool neck.” Cora shrugged. “It’s a good match.”

[grimgersnaps]

“I’ve had enough hurt already in my life. More than enough. Now I want to be happy.”

5 september 1979 ; falun, sweden

charity skirmish match between canadian & swedish quidditch teams

All was well. Billie repeated those words to zirself like a mantra as ze walked up the stairs to the commentator’s booth, zir shoes making little tap tap taps as ze walked. All was well, and would continue to be well, until ze finally left Sweden and went back home. Charlie had drawn a dragon on zir arm with red marker-- markers were, by far, the best thing muggles had ever invented, in Billie’s opinion, and ze would use them for everything it was possible to use them for from the moment ze first saw them until zir last-- for bravery, and ze kept zir sleeve rolled up high so that ze got a glance of it every time ze let zir gaze drop. 

There were thousands of people in Sweden. He hated Quidditch. Ze wouldn’t see him here. 

Ze opened the door to the commentator’s booth and stepped inside, scanning the room in spite of zirself before ze fully entered. Ze only relaxed fully when ze saw that zir fellow commentator was a woman, and zir shoes clicked along the floor with a little more zeal as ze approached.

The woman was quite beautiful, petite but loud in her presence. She smiled widely when she saw Billie, and extended her hand for zir to shake. Billie noted that her lipstick matched her nail polish, and her shoes. One glance at her chair told zir that she matched her purse to her ensemble as well. Billie’s smile widened. 

“You must be Bilius,” the woman said happily. “I’m so honored to meet you. I’m Linnea, I’m going to be commentating with you. Please, please.” She shook Billie’s hand enthusiastically before she motioned for Billie to sit in the vacant seat beside her. Billie sat, and glanced down at the dragon on zir arm hastily before ze met Linnea’s gaze again. 

“Those stairs are a bloody marathon and a half, ain’t they?” ze said, and fanned zirself with zir hand. “Halfway up I thought maybe I’d bumped myself back down to the bottom to start all over again. This place is nice, though, it’s great. Haven’t been here before, actually. The other English commentator-- Larry, totally boring bloke, you won’t miss him. He doesn’t even swear. It’s a crime-- comes to all the Swedish games and lets me go to all the ones in Egypt because he hates the heat. Something about the humidity making his hair piece fall off, or something--” Linnea concealed a laugh behind her hand, and Billie grinned at her before plowing on with zir rapidfire story. “--but he’s actually retired, and the new little kid they’ve got doing commentary isn’t ready for a game like this. Plus no one would donate listening to his tiny little voice, he sounds like a cartoon character.”

Linnea was still laughing. “What is a cartoon?” she asked, voice rising at the word cartoon questioningly. “Is this an English thing?”

Billie shook zir head. “Nah, it’s a muggle thing. They’re like little moving pictures that muggles make and show on boxes. I know, it’s mental, right? I can’t make sense of it either, but there you have it.”

Linnea laughed, reaching her manicured hand up to tuck a few of her golden curls behind her ear. “I think I am starting to understand why you became a commentator,” she told Billie, who grinned back at her and winked. 

“Linnie, you haven’t even seen the half of it yet.”

Linnie’s smile widened, and she raised her eyebrows at zir. “I look forward to seeing the rest.”

Billie liked the commentator that was working with zir, thought that she was funny. Pretty. Pretty enough to ask for a drink once they’d finished, confident enough that ze offered to pay for said drink. Linnie agreed happily, and, slinging zir arm around the woman’s shoulders, Billie led the way down and out.

Billie felt lighter with each step. Ze wasn’t thinking about him anymore. Ze wasn’t thinking about anything except for having fun, and enjoying zirself. It’s how ze liked to live the most, free to be unashamed. Free to smile when ze wanted to, and be zirself. There was no guilt in this, there was no shame. Ze was free and wild and ze didn’t have to pretend otherwise.

Linnie was giggling when they reached the gates to the field, tilting slightly on her heels as she pulled Billie to a reluctant stop. “Hang on, hang on, I just have to tell my family I’m going, do you mind–?”

Billie shook zir head. “No, go ahead,” ze said, waving Linnie off. Linnie kept giggling and straightened her hat on her head, tucking her wispy golden curls back behind her ears before she turned around to look back at the stadium.

She was saved having to go more than three paces by a three-year-old rocketing towards her at top wiggle velocity to cling to her legs with a loud exclamation of “Mama!” Billie watched with appreciation as Linnie lifted her son into the air, smiling as he screamed with delight at being so high up before she peppered his face with kisses and spoke to him in rapid-fire Swedish between kisses. Billie was laughing and smiling until ze heard a familiar voice from where Linnie’s son had just rushed from. 

“Tyvärr fick han ifrån mig.”

Magnus was walking right towards zir, oblivious to zir standing there, apologetic smile on his face.

Nearly four years had passed. They were barely a month shy of four years. And he looked the same, tall and broad-shouldered and muscled. He towered over zir easily, looking every bit the same as he had on the day ze’d left him. 

Zir smile vanished.

“Billie, this is my husband, Magnus,” Linnie said, completely unaware of Billie’s change in behavior as she bounced her son on her hip. “And this is my son Angus. Boys, this is Billie Weasley, she-- ze? I’m sorry, ze-- was up in the booth with me today.”

Magnus’ expression was caught between worried and happy as he took a step towards Billie, putting an arm out to pull zir close. “We know each other,” he said to Linnie, and pulled Billie close to him. The hug was strangling, and Billie froze against him, and remained frozen, half squished, even after he’d released zir. He looked down at zir expectantly, eyebrows raised. “How’ve you been? It’s been--”

“Four years,” Billie cut him off, looking up to meet his gaze. “Yeah. I know.” Ze looked over at Linnie, who was looking between her husband and her new friend with confusion. “Sorry, I have to skip drinks after all. This-- this was a bad idea. It was nice meeting you.”

“Bills--” Magnus cut in, reaching out to touch zir arm. Billie batted his hand away from zir. 

“Don’t you even look at me,” ze snapped. Magnus pulled his hand back from zir. Ze didn’t have zir speech ready, ze didn’t know what ze wanted to say to him. Ze wasn’t ready for this. Ze wasn’t ready to handle it. 

So ze didn’t. Ze took one last look between Linnie and Magnus, and with a pop, ze was gone. 

Ze didn’t know where ze was going, didn’t care. All that mattered was that ze was gone.