#on one hand. gray really reminds me of the book. on the other hand ill probs read a decent amount of mystery

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

It's 4am and I cannot go to sleep because I have half an hour left in my book, and it's a murder mystery, and I need answers

[romantichopelessly]

Talking to the Moon

This fic is somehow my favorite thing that I’ve ever written. It started out as a Halloween fic, and then I wanted it to be my longest one shot and aimed for 8k. Now it is so much longer and so much more and I really really hope that you guys like it.

Words: 15,400+

AO3

Summary: Logan is a man of routine. Routines are sensible. It's perfectly sensible that his routine revolves around his roommate. Virgil. Even though his roommate doesn't know that he's a vampire. Even though his roommate doesn't know that he is in love with him. (Or: Virgil and Logan are vampires. And neither of them know about the other. And they were roommates.)

Pairings: Analogical, Background Roceit and Intruality

Warnings: Blood, blood drinking mentions, kidnapping, non-graphic violence 

----

Bright fall leaves littered the cracked sidewalk as Logan made his way home from work. The satisfying crunch of them underneath his loafers was something that he would never admit to enjoying as much as he did. Past the buildings lining the city street, a soft orange hue was beginning to light up the dark sky, encapsulating what most would see as the perfect morning.

Logan glanced down at his watch. 6:53 A.M. He picked up his pace. The stop at the early morning coffee shop had been on an ill-advised whim, and though the warmth that the cup of earl gray tea radiated into the chilled skin of his palm was welcome, Logan did not want to end up regretting the indulgence by arriving at his apartment after sunrise.

An early morning breeze stirred Logan’s scarf and nipped at his nose with a bite that would cause most to shudder and hunch back into their coat. Logan, however, maintained perfect posture, completely unaffected by the temperature as he rounded the corner of the block with purpose, the door to the apartment complex that he lived in now in sight.

Long fingers fished in his pocket for a moment before hooking through his keyring. The black fuzzy keychain that his roommate had gifted him weeks ago brushed against his palm as he climbed the concrete steps and pushed open the door with force, anticipating the way that it stuck, just as it had every morning for the past year and a half.

Logan stepped inside, an unvocalized sigh of relief smothered in his chest. Behind him, the door fell shut, locking out the cold breeze and rising sun.

Logan picked his way across the lobby, keys still in hand. He paused for a moment at the mailboxes, glancing over boxes 221A and 221B. Nothing new. He hummed softly to himself and continued up to his apartment.

His keys turned with a satisfying click in the lock and Logan finally let himself breathe, a habit of relief more than a need.

A deep inhale. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Was that tomato soup that he smelled?

Thirst burned at the back of Logan’s throat. He swallowed it down as he toed off his shoes and deposited his keys in the bowl by the front door, the jingle alerting anyone listening to his whereabouts.

“L?”

Which, of course, was exactly what Logan wanted. A completely artificial warmth bloomed in Logan’s chest.

“Virgil.” Logan called back, an inexplicable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Padding down the hallway, Logan rounded the corner to the community room to see his roommate curled up on the far corner of the couch--a position that Logan had found Virgil in more times than he could possibly count.

Though he supposed that he would have had to count them had he been asked.

“Hey.” Virgil’s voice was as gruff as it always was. His legs were curled beneath him, cushioning his laptop on his lap, and his hands were curled around a mug of something deep red. Likely the soup that Logan had smelled when he entered. It reminded Logan of the cup of tea that he was still holding. He turned and headed for the connected kitchen for his add-ins before he could drink it. “How was work?” Virgil called after him.

“Satisfactory.” Logan replied, depositing the paper cup containing his earl gray on the counter before opening the fridge. “There were not many visitors at the planetarium tonight. Just the couples.” Logan wrapped his fingers around the jam jar that he was searching for. He pulled the top off of the to-go cup with one hand and rooted around in a drawer for a spoon with the other. He shoveled two or three (most definitely three) spoonfuls of the red gelled substance into his tea and stirred it quickly before closing the cup and jar both, putting the jar back in their shared refrigerator and finally turning to fully face his roommate.

“That’s good.” Virgil watched him with pensive eyes, eyes that made Logan’s mind do funny things, like imagine that Virgil’s look was a bit more fond than it really was. Logan crossed the room again and sat on the middle cushion of the couch, taking a slow sip of his tea. Virgil immediately stretched out his legs and nestled them underneath Logan’s thighs.

“What about you? How was your day?” Logan asked, politely.

Virgil shrugged with a single shoulder. “Same old, same old. Do a bit of work, read a ton of emails, get bored and listen to music and stare at the ceiling on the company dime.”

“You are self employed, Virgil.” Logan felt the need to point out.

Virgil shrugged again, this time with a coy smile on his face. “What can I say? I’m a tough boss. Sometimes you just have to stick it to the man. And by the man, I mean me. And by you, I also mean me.”

Logan watched, emotions that he could not name despite all of his years welling in his chest as Virgil leaned forward and took a long sip from his mug of soup. To suppress the sudden insatiable urge to say something stupid like ‘you look like a dream, sitting on this musty old couch with tomato soup on your upper lip’, Logan took a long sip of his own drink, hiding his wry smile at Virgil’s antics.

Despite the emotions rolling and bubbling within Logan, the silence that followed was not uncomfortable. Rather, the quiet felt full in a way. Virgil’s feet wiggled underneath Logan’s thigh, searching for a warmth that Logan wished he could provide more of. Virgil let out a quiet sigh as he leaned back against the corner of the couch that he was nestled into. Logan let the coppery twinged tea in his throat warm him for a moment, as the stresses of the day rolled off of his shoulders and evaporated, as they were wont to do when Virgil was around.

“Want to watch some Cosmos?”

Logan perked up, a slight smile on his lips. Not so wide that he would show his fangs, which had, of course, descended due to his thirst, but a small quirk of the lips that never could be pulled back in Virgil’s presence. “I’d love nothing more.”

----

P&J’s Coffee Shop was never truly busy. It was a nice coffee shop, to be sure. Virgil’s favorite, in fact. Where else in the world could he get a perfectly brewed O negative espresso?

Of course, the secret menu being absolutely sublime had nothing to do with the reception of the café, as most of the daytime customers would be appalled by the contents of the midnight drinks. Which was quite a shame for the general public, but the lack of popularity was quite the plus in Virgil’s book, especially on nights like this, when he came to the café specifically to whine to his two best friends.

“Patton isn’t going to let me give you another espresso if you finish that one too soon. I’m already on their list for allowing you four shots in the first place.” Janus was leaning against the back counter, decidedly not restocking the refrigerator like Patton had asked him to.

Virgil grumbled in response, taking another long swig of his drink out of spite.

Janus rolled his two-toned eyes. “You’re a piece of work, Noir.”

On the very rare occasions that Virgil left his apartment, P&J’s was usually his destination. The small, soft gothic inspired coffee shop fit his aesthetic perfectly. P&J’s was one of the few creature-of-the-night-friendly spots in the city that wasn’t completely overrun. This lesser-known energy was exactly what kept it from being a target of hunters as well, which was quite the blessing, even though there were less and less incidences of slayings being reported as time went on.

And while Virgil was glad to be living in such a progressive time, he still was not about to put a target on his back by heading out to the more popular vampire and werewolf bars, clubs, restaurants and coffee shops around town.

“Shut up, Janus. I’m your best customer and you know it.” Virgil paused, thinking. A sly grin formed on his face. “Except for that fae you’re always talking about, of course. But I know that you’re biased towards him.”

Were Janus a vampire, Virgil was positive that he would have hissed at that moment. As it was, Virgil could tell that Janus was just suppressing a growl. “Untrue. Shut up and drink your coffee, I no longer wish to speak with you.” Janus sniffed, turning his nose up at Virgil’s words. Despite the dramatics of the gesture, Janus somehow managed to look poised. He always did.

In Virgil’s--albeit limited--experience, it was very difficult for a werewolf to look so poised all of the time. However, Janus constantly defied those expectations. Even the three long scars that crossed the otherwise blemishless medium brown skin on the left side of his face and his left, caramel colored eye didn’t stop Janus from looking aloof at all times. Even on days like this, working in the café, with his long, dark and curly hair twisted into a loose knot at the base of his neck and a pastel yellow work apron on, Janus could make anything look as sophisticated as if he were about to attend a grand ball, and honestly, Virgil was a bit jealous.

Logan would probably be into Virgil if he took his appearance more seriously.

Janus was watching Virgil with a knowing look now, and the vampire scowled back.

“You know, Virgil.” Virgil hissed, pulling his cup closer to his chest defensively. He knew that tone. “I wouldn’t really be throwing around accusations like that. Glass houses, and all.”

Virgil’s shoulders rose up to his ears. An onlooker would say that he looked remarkably similar to an angry black cat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh you don’t? Must be hard being so old-”

“I’m 38.”

“Let me jog your memory.”

“Physically I’m only 24.”

“Cobwebs in your head aside,” Janus plowed on, “Logan Doyle? Your current roommate who you’ve been obnoxiously pining for for the past few months? The one that you come into my café to bemoan about at least once a week? You know, the studious, oblivious, wonderful, handsome-”

“Okay! I get it!” Virgil snapped, interrupting Janus’s infuriatingly accurate imitation of his voice. “All things unholy, why do I never come in when Pat is on the clock?”

Janus shrugged, a shit eating grin on his face that almost made Virgil want to take his drink and leave. Almost. “It likely has something to do with the fact that you only come out here during Doyle’s working hours. Suspiciously sentimental, wanting to spend every moment you can with your roommate, don’t you think?”

Virgil bristled. “Stop saying stuff like that, Janus.” He knew that the barista was joking. Hell, Janus had teased Virgil about this exact subject far too many times. He really should not be so touchy about it. It was very likely that the only reason that Janus’s ribbing was rubbing him the wrong way today was the events of the night--dawn?--previous.

Logan had looked so… fetching coming home that particular early morning. The soft wool of his sweater vest looked almost irresistibly touchable. The contented look on his face as he took slow sips from his tea. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as he fought away laughter at Virgil’s not-actually-that-funny quips while they watched Cosmos.

“Ugh, are you reminiscing? Didn’t you see him less than an hour ago?” Virgil curled in on himself, glaring up at Janus’s feigned disgusted look. “Keep that out of my coffee shop.”

Virgil was about to retort when a light, melodic voice piped up from the front door. “Your coffee shop? Well darn! You should have told me that you were taking over, Jan! I wouldn’t have come in.”

Virgil turned on his stool to look at Patton, who was smiling widely, unabashedly showing their fangs for all the world to see. Behind him, Virgil could hear Janus’s amused snort.

Patton Darling was an older vampire than Virgil was, though by all other standards they were still rather young at 49. They looked younger than Virgil, and although their physical appearances only differed by three years, Virgil couldn’t help but feel like he paled in comparison to Patton. Patton had that ethereal beauty about them that all vampires were supposed to have, but on them it looked effortless and… simply put, right. Their smooth, deep brown skin and sapphire blue eyes glowed in an inhuman sort of way that could enchant any mortal, and most immortals that Patton happened to meet. This week, their hair was a pastel purple. The previous week it had been a sunflower yellow. It was like Patton wanted to call attention to themself, something that Virgil and most other vampires avoided.

Between them and Janus, Virgil wasn’t sure who was more mysteriously stunning. Had Logan been in the room, the sheer amount of beauty in the café probably would have knocked him unconscious.

“Hey, Pat.” Virgil couldn’t help but smile back at the older vampire.

“Hi, Virgil! How are you today?” Patton pat Virgil’s shoulder genially as they slipped past him to get behind the counter with Janus.

“He’s pining again.” Janus answered before Virgil could. “Also he snuck four shots of espresso when I wasn’t looking.”

Virgil glared at Janus with a renewed vigor as Patton gasped. “Virgil! You know that that isn’t good for you!” Janus nodded from behind Patton, a smug grin on his face.

“I don’t really digest it.” Virgil pointed out. He certainly was not pouting under Patton’s stern gaze.

“Hmph.” Patton looked dissatisfied with that answer, but they didn’t push it, thankfully. “Well, what did Logan do this time?”

Then again, maybe Virgil would rather they continued to chew him out for his coffee choices.

“He just-” Virgil sighed. If he had a beating heart or blood running through his veins, Virgil just knew that he would have been blushing by now. “You know.” He gestured helplessly.

“Existed in your presence?” Janus quipped.

“Exactly!”

Patton hummed sympathetically. Virgil knew that they could relate to hopeless crushes. For all the time that Virgil had known them, they had been in love with some man or another. “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Virgil grumbled. “I look older than you.”

Patton paid no attention, but dropped the pet name. “You should really just tell him. Be honest about your feelings! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Janus and Virgil glanced at one another before leveling Patton with their best ‘are-you-actually-serious’ look.

“So many things.” Virgil could almost name them by heart by now. He had run them over in his mind so many times. “For one, he doesn’t even know that I’m a vampire. I’d have to drop that bombshell on him, and you know that he’d just be scared off. At least now I have him as a friend.”

Suddenly, Janus had turned his dubious stare away from Patton, and Virgil had both of his friends staring at him with matching looks of… amusement? Surprise? Sympathy? Virgil couldn’t tell, but he very much felt like Janus was not on his side in this conversation any longer.

“Are you kidding?” Janus’s voice held a note of high pitched incredulity that only confused Virgil further. Janus turned to Patton, unhidden laughter in his tone now. “Is he kidding? Does he not know-”

From the way that the werewolf winced, Virgil got the distinct impression that Patton had just stomped on his foot. Bewildered, Virgil turned to Patton. “Know what? Pat, what is he talking about?”

Janus looked like he was about to break into a laughing fit. “You-”

“Shh!” Patton nudged Janus, sending him a very severe pointed look. They turned back to Virgil, who felt extremely lost. “It’s nothing, V. He’s just being stupid.”

“Hey!”

“What Janus means to say is that you can’t be sure how he’ll react. You really should tell him, Virgil.” Their eyes were kind, but Virgil could not shake the distinct feeling that he was being made fun of.

Knowing that he would definitely not be following that advice, and that Janus was about two seconds away from laughing in his face for some reason, Virgil pushed away from the coffee bar and stood up, clutching his O negative espresso.

“Yeah, alright. Look, I’ve got to be going.” He gestured lamely over his shoulder.

“Oh! Okay, Virgil. Well, good night!” Patton waved as Virgil backed away from the bar towards the door. Janus looked like he was in a lot of pain. Probably because Patton was standing on his foot. “Sucks to see you go!”

Virgil turned and dashed out of the store. As the door to the café swung shut behind him, he could hear Janus break into a deafening cackle.

Weird.

----

The view of the night sky from the planetarium never ceased to amaze Logan.

Despite the fact that he had worked at the planetarium as a lecturer for approximately two years now, the sight from the observation deck would always be a sight to behold. Logan had spent many, many years under the same stars, and he had never once beheld anything as beautiful as them.

Well, perhaps there were one or two things that rivaled starshine from the heavens.

Like his roommate’s crooked smile. Or his alluring violet eyes, and how they lit up with a fond twinkle that Logan used to think could never be aimed at him. Virgil’s laugh also rivaled the constellations that Logan knew by heart--the way it dipped and fell, how it was low and gravely sometimes, stirring something deep in Logan’s stomach.

Even now, Logan was staring up at the sky--his one true love for over a century and a half--Logan found himself wishing that he were at home, sitting with Virgil on the couch, watching a sitcom.

Logan was startled out of his musings by the clearing of a throat.

Blinking, Logan tore his eyes away from the open sky. A man--a customer--stood before Logan. The first thing that Logan noticed were the sunglasses that the man was wearing. They were perched on top of his curly black hair, almost unnoticeable in the dark of the planetarium. Why on earth would anyone be wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night? Judging by the rest of the man’s outfit, a black leather jacket, a nondescript gray t-shirt and ripped jeans, Logan presumed that it was simply part of this man’s aesthetic.

Virgil would probably have approved. Or called him a try-hard. It was hard to predict Virgil’s opinions.

“Yes, sir?” Logan finally got around to responding, his polite customer service voice on.

The man smiled charmingly. It was quite unlike Virgil’s unsure smile, which often left Logan feeling as though he were the only one in the world who got to see it. This man looked like he handed out smiles to any and everyone.

There was something… familiar about him. It nagged on the back of Logan’s mind.

“I was wondering when the next lecture was.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of a question. Again, Logan explained it away. Many customers were entitled and downright rude to him. This certainly was not out of the norm, or even noteworthy.

Logan glanced at his watch, as if he didn’t know the planetarium’s schedule by heart. It was nearly 5:30 A.M. “I’m sorry, sir.”  Logan answered as he looked back up. The man was a bit closer than he had been before. Logan took a step back. “We are actually about to close for a couple of hours before morning tours of the museum can begin.”

That was another odd thing. Not many customers stayed around the planetarium as morning was arriving. Logan usually had the last hour or so of his shift free of customers on weekdays.

“Bummer.” The man did not sound too put out by this information. “I was really looking forward to hearing your lecture, Mr. Doyle.”

Logan felt distinctly uncomfortable now. He knew, logically, that the man could know his name for any number of reasons. It was all over the pamphlets set out around the room. It was on the badge stuck to Logan’s turtleneck. However, the way that the man said it…

“It is Doctor, but thank you.” Logan said, stiffly. “If you return another night, I’m sure that you can make it to a show.” Logan very much did not want this man to return another night.

“Do you work any day shifts?”

Logan hadn’t seen the man move, but he was closer once again. Logan took another step back, hoping that his distancing himself was not too obvious. “Sadly, no. I am here most nights, however. There are schedules on our free pamphlets.” He wished that there were not schedules on their free pamphlets.

The man was just opening his mouth to speak again when the doors to the planetarium burst open, and a young man in a pale pink sweater tumbled through.

“Came in early, Doc! Couldn’t get much sleep last night, so I thought I’d come in a few hours early and let you go! I can do the cleaning before my shift starts, and you can get home to- Oh. Hello.”

Logan held back a sigh of relief. It helped greatly that he did not need to breathe. “Hello, Dr. Picani. I was just telling this customer-”

“Nate. Nate Miller.” The man, Nate, had looked very disgruntled to be interrupted, Logan had not failed to notice. Now, however, he was smiling charmingly once again as he crossed the couple of steps between Logan and the door to shake Dr. Emile Picani’s hand.

“Nice to meet ’cha!” Emile exclaimed, sending a slightly confused look over Nate’s shoulder to Logan. Logan shook his head. No. He did not know this man. Emile, the saint that he was, stepped in gracefully, making up for his clumsiness at the door before. “Well, I can answer any questions that you have now! My friend, Logan, here is going to be going home early. You can stick around while I clean up before we close for a bit.”

Nate looked very much disgruntled with this turn of events, but Logan did not give him a chance to respond, grabbing his messenger bag as quickly as a human possibly could.

Nodding his thanks to Emile, Logan tried to maintain a neutral stature and pace as he left the planetarium, scanning out at the buzzer by the door and grabbing his keys.

He felt eyes on him all the way out.

----

When Virgil got back from P&J’s it was only 4 A.M.

Which meant that he had about three hours before Logan got back from work.

Was it odd for one to measure time by their roommate’s whereabouts? Virgil wasn’t quite sure. To be fair, he had never had a roommate that he was so attached to. Logan was… special.

Virgil shook that thought away. Logan wasn’t even home yet, and all Virgil could seem to think about was him. It was Janus and Patton’s fault. What they had said was sitting in the back of his mind and making him think all kinds of crazy things.

Like that he should possibly… maybe consider telling Logan his feelings.

Virgil bit the inside of his cheek harshly, shoving that thought as far away as he possibly could. No. Not an option. Logan was just a human who was unluckily living with a vampire. Virgil could never ruin his life like that.

Determined to distract himself, Virgil placed his phone face up on the kitchen counter and turned on some music.

Usually, around the apartment, Virgil would only listen to his music with his headphones on. Music was a very personal thing. Not to mention that blasting music that other people may not like was too much of a risk for is anxiety ridden self.

However, tonight--that morning?--Virgil needed to blast the traitorous thoughts out of his mind, and he didn’t feel like dealing with the headache that would surely come with wearing headphones on full blast. So, Virgil queued up his favorite distraction playlist of early 2000s punk songs and played it for all the empty kitchen to hear.

For the next hour or so, Virgil bobbed his head along to bands that reminded him of when he was still alive and worked on his computer. Being a web developer and consultant had its perks, the greatest among them being the lack of strict hours and the absence of human interaction.

Just after half past five, Virgil was bored. Not that his job was particularly thrilling most nights, but what Janus had said earlier was still bothering him.

What had the werewolf been insinuating? He had acted like he knew something that Virgil didn’t. And Patton hadn’t exactly proved Virgil’s suspicions wrong. In fact, they had seemed just as amused by whatever secret Janus was keeping from Virgil.

It was infuriating. His two best friends, and he couldn’t for the undead life of him figure out their angle.

Why did they want Virgil to out himself as a vampire to Logan? If it were just Patton, Virgil would simply assume that they wanted him to be happy, but Janus… Janus knew a bit more about what could happen if their secrets were outed. And yet he had still acted like Virgil keeping his blood drinking habits a secret from Logan was some sort of joke.

Virgil groaned, burying his head in his hands and pushing his computer aside.

Looked like he was going to get that headache whether he liked it or not.

Just as he was lamenting his choices in friends, the song changed and Virgil reached for his phone without thinking. With only a few taps on the screen, Virgil closed out of his current playlist and pulled up one that he had clocked many an hour listening to in the early hours of dawn, shut up in his room, curled up on his bed and hugging a pillow.

It was simply titled “Logan” with a blue heart emoji.

He never had been very creative.

Before he could think about the ramifications of his decision, Virgil had pressed the shuffle button and set his phone back down.

“Now that she’s back in the atmosphere

With drops of Jupiter in her hair

She acts like summer and walks like rain

Reminds me that there’s a time to change”

Virgil closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. It was silly. It was really, really, really silly, and Virgil knew for a fact that if Janus were here to see what Virgil was doing, Virgil would probably die for the second time.

That knowledge didn’t stop him from getting up and sliding slowly around his own dark kitchen in his socks, though.

For a good couple of songs, Virgil danced alone in the kitchen. Not really danced, just sort of swayed in place and slid around, but that didn’t matter. All the while, he thought of Logan. His roommate who wore hideously outdated, probably thrifted, sweater vests like they were the height of fashion. His roommate who watched bad documentaries with him and ate terribly sugary jelly right from the jar in the fridge. His roommate who still used that ugly black fluffy keychain that Virgil had given him as a joke weeks ago.

Maybe he should tell Logan. About his feelings or about his nature, he wasn’t quite sure. He hadn’t decided when a pair of smooth, comfortably chilled hands slipped into his and a soft voice spoke.

“Can’t say I’ve ever come home to this before.”

Virgil’s eyes flew open. He had been so deep in his own mind that he hadn’t even heard the door unlock. For the tiniest of moments, he tensed, all too aware of the type of music that was currently pouring from his phone, but he quickly relaxed.

Logan tended to have that effect on him.

Maybe he should have been more wary of that. He wasn’t.

“You’re home early.” He responded, trying to hide his burning embarrassment. It was quickly overshadowed by the sudden, all too visceral knowledge that Logan had placed one of his hands on Virgil’s waist and was now leading the two of them in a real dance.

In the middle of their dark kitchen, illuminated only by the light of the refrigerator clock and the glow from Virgil’s abandoned laptop, while the jazzy notes of Fly Me to the Moon played in the background.

He could die again happy.

Logan was nodding. “Yes. My coworker, Emile, showed up early and let me take the hour off. Something about being unable to sleep. I probably should have been more worried for him.”

Virgil couldn’t stop his lips from quirking up in a small smile. He didn’t even try to. “Lucky me. And- I mean, lucky you, of course. An hour off. That must be nice.”

Logan hummed. “It’s turning out to be, yes.”

The two of them turned slowly as the song faded out. Logan didn’t let go, so Virgil didn’t either. Feeling uncharacteristically brave, or perhaps just a bit too comfortable, Virgil leaned forward and rested his head on Logan’s shoulder.

His turtleneck was soft against Virgil’s cheek.

“I know you're somewhere out there

Somewhere far away

I want you back, I want you back

My neighbors think I'm crazy

But they don't understand

You're all I have, you're all I have

At night, when the stars light up my room

I sit by myself

Talking to the moon

Trying to get to you

In hopes you're on the other side, talking to me too

Or am I a fool, who sits alone, talking to the moon?”

They were silent as the music played. They swayed slowly. Logan led them in circles effortlessly. Distantly, Virgil wondered whether Logan had some professional training on his front. At one point, during the chorus of their second song, Logan pushed Virgil back slightly. Just as he was about to apologize for taking liberties and invading Logan’s space, though, Logan lifted their joined hands.

Virgil spun underneath, an incredulous laugh floating easily from his chest.

His fangs flashed in the laptop’s glow just as he was facing away from his roommate.

Logan caught Virgil back in his arms easily, pulling him back to their original position and rubbing his thumb along Virgil’s waist in a way that gave him goosebumps.

It dawned on Virgil as the sun dawned on the city streets.

He was desperately, irrevocably in love with Logan Doyle.

----

“I’m in love with him.”

Remus choked on his thai food, noodles still half out of his mouth. “What the fuck?”

“I am in love with him.” Logan repeated. “What did you think that I said?”

Remus spat out his noodles in a frankly disgusting display that Logan was sadly used to. “No! I heard you, I’m just flabbergasted!”

“Nice word.” Logan commented.

“You’re in- I can’t even say it! You sound like Roman! I knew that you had the hots for Virgey, but in love-” Remus fake retched.

Logan bristled, but before he could make a sarcastic remark about how much less disgusting his feelings were than Remus’s… everything, Roman stepped out from the back room.

“You know that I can hear you, right?”

Roman rounded the counter, his knee length skirt swaying against his legs. Roman and Remus were starkly different. Where Roman wore flowy, soft and stylish clothing, Remus was all hard lines and punk outfits. However, both had plenty of tattoos. Roman’s right arm was nearly covered with brightly colored tattoos that looked like a watercolor project. Remus had a similar, monochrome sleeve on his left arm.

Roman and Remus were co-owners of the tattoo parlor known as King’s Inks, named for their own last names. Logan never came in for an actual tattoo, they weren’t really his style, but the brothers were always welcoming to him. It wasn’t hard, even when living in a big city, for the creatures unknown to most humans to find one another. People like Logan… and people like Roman they stuck together. No matter if they both enjoyed tattoos or not.

Roman King and Remus King looked like normal, human twins to most. Other than Roman’s slightly pointed ears, of course. If someone was not in the know about fae or changelings, then they may just assume that it was just a part of Roman’s unique style.

“I don’t care! Lolo’s lost his mind!”

Logan scoffed. “I assure you, my mind is very much intact and in my head, thank you. Do not insert me into your arguments with your sibling.”

“Please, Rem.” Roman rolled his eyes, completely ignoring Logan, as if the conversation were not completely about him and his emotions. “Stop acting like you’re so disgusted by displays of emotion, already.”

“Acting? Bold of you to assume that I can act. You’re the acting one. Your entire existence is based on acting like me.”

Roman huffed, dramatically. “As if you weren’t waxing poetic about Patton last Thursday! Logan remembers! Don’t you, Logan?”

“I was under the impression that we were talking about me this week.”

Roman waved his hand dismissively. “He means he remembers. So cut the bull, Remus.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but did not defend himself. His mouth was full of thai food again anyway.

Roman glared at his brother for just a second longer before returning his attention to Logan. Instantly, his expression was brighter, almost giddy. “In love?! Finally you got around to admitting it! What happened? Did something happen? Was it cute?”

“We danced.” Logan answered, simply. He had long surpassed any feelings of embarrassment around the King twins.

Roman squealed. Quite literally, squealed. Logan winced and leaned away. Remus fake retched again.

“You’re not going to just say that and not tell us everything, are you?” Roman hopped up to sit on the counter across from where Logan and Remus were sitting at the small table in the waiting room.

And so Logan did. Not because Roman King was particularly good at convincing, but because, not so secretly, Logan really had just come to the tattoo shop to tell his friends everything. That was what these weekly meetings were for, after all. It wasn’t official, or anything, but it had become expected for Logan to turn up at the tattoo parlor every Thursday to chat with Roman and Remus about all manners of things.

Most particularly, their individual romantic endeavors.

As Logan recounted the events of the previous night, Roman looked more and more excited. Usually, Logan would be frightened by such a level of sheer giddy enjoyment on the fae’s face, but today Logan could feel nothing less than happy. Content.

He still didn’t really know where his own courage had come from the night before. What exactly had possessed him upon entering their apartment to find Virgil swaying alone in the kitchen to music? Why had he suddenly acquired the romantic prowess it took to lead his roommate in an impromptu dance around the linoleum floor? Was it simply love?

Did it really matter?

Apparently not, according to the twins. Even Remus looked begrudgingly moved at the end of Logan’s tale.

“So when are you going to tell him?” The human twin asked.

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, confused. He had only just discovered these feelings, why on earth did Remus believe that he should instantly confess them? Honestly, Logan was much more comfortable enjoying this discovery in private, thank you very much.

“You should tell him!” Roman nearly shouted. “Don’t tell me that you’re just… not going to.”

“That was the plan, yes.”

“Wh- Men.” Roman exclaimed, falling back dramatically to lay across the bar that he was still sitting on.

Logan huffed. “This has nothing to do with my gender, Roman.” He wasn’t really offended by the comment, of course, he was just deflecting. Roman himself was genderfluid and was quite liberal with his comments about men, whether he was using he/him pronouns at the moment or not. “I just do not plan on telling Virgil about this right now. I see no reason to.”

“The reason is that you can be happy, Logan.”

Logan blinked, turning to face Remus. The moustached twin looked shockingly somber. Serious. It was like spotting a unicorn, seeing Remus like this. “I-”

“Logan, just listen and don’t talk for once.” Logan desperately wanted to point out that coming from Remus, such a statement was frankly laughable, but he bit his tongue. “You’ve been alive for nearly two centuries.” Logan barely held back a wince at the reminder of his age. Remus continued, completely carelessly. “And how many times have you really, and I mean really let yourself fall in love and stick with it?”

Logan could feel a lump of shame forming in his throat. He swallowed around it.

Roman picked up this time. His voice was much more soothing than his brother’s, but no less stern. “You’re always working, Logan. You’re always going, and we get it. You’ve been stuck at twenty-six years old for over a hundred and fifty years. You keep moving because the world keeps moving around you.” There was something sad in Roman’s golden-green eyes for a split second, but it was quickly masked. “You have to take a chance every once in a while. You should tell Virgil about your feelings. You know that you would be saying the same thing were it either of us.”

Remus continued. “Listen to your besties for once, Logan. You’ve been coming in here and going on and on about Virgil for weeks. Months. I don’t even know, it’s been so long. But the point is that you need to tell him. It’s been long enough, even Roman is tired of it. Not to mention, I’d bet my ass he feels the same.”

There was a moment of silence. Those were few and far between in King’s Inks.

Remus broke it after a few seconds, as though continuing his thought from earlier. “And you desperately need to get laid.”

Logan wrinkled his nose, distastefully. “Honestly, Remus, can you resist being vile for longer than ten minutes?”

Remus grinned, proudly digging back into his thai food. “Nope! It’s what I’m here for.” There was a momentary pause. “No, literally. It’s why the fair folk brought me back after switching me with Ro.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “It is not. Stop talking bad about yourself, or I’m going across the street and telling Patton.”

Logan may have been mistaken, or too caught up in his own issues, but for a moment there, it looked as though Remus’s cheeks were brushed with a light shade of pink.

As the brother’s began to bicker, Logan pulled back into his own thoughts. Perhaps… Should he tell Virgil? Despite the raging swarm of butterflies that attacked the pit of Logan’s stomach at the very thought, he had to admit that letting his emotions out in the open would feel a lot better than continuing living with Virgil for however much longer, pretending that he felt nothing more than friendship for him. It was already agony just in his mind’s eye.

There were so many possible downsides, though. Logically, Logan knew that Virgil would not become angry if Logan were to confess. It was highly unlikely that Virgil would cut off all contact with Logan or kick him out of the apartment, either. In fact, after the previous night’s display…

Logan, holding Virgil against his chest as though he were something precious--because he was, of course--the two of them twirling around their tiny kitchen, as though they were the only two people in the world. Soft music playing from Virgil’s phone, the perfect songs for them luckily playing back to back, as if hand picked. Logan had had the lyrics swirling in his mind on repeat ever since. It had been… magical. Lovely. Wonderful. Everything that Logan had never known he needed.

And it was well worth the risk of mortification that he could forget in fifty years if Logan had even the slightest of chances to hold onto Virgil like that again.

“I’m going to do it.” Logan’s voice rang out, perfectly clear, over the twins’ quickly heating argument.

Roman gasped. “Really? I didn’t think we would be able to talk you into it!”

“You didn’t. I simply decided that it was a low risk, high reward situation. Statistically, I have more to lose by not attempting to tell Virgil my… discovery than I do by telling him.”

“Cut the bull, nerd.” Remus was grinning again, in a way that would have appeared almost… menacing, were Logan not so used to Remus’s odd expressions. “We all know that you did not actually calculate the statistical risk of telling Virgil you’re in-” Remus caught up to his own words and dramatically retched again, as though the very word he was about to say was an allergen.

“In love,” Roman finished for his brother, “I can’t believe you’re going to do it! Oh- You should get some flowers for him from the shop down the street! The warlock who owns it is always so perceptive about what to get for which occasion. Oh, this will be so romantic-”

Logan cleared his throat. “You do know that if- when I tell Virgil, you will not be in attendance, correct?”

Roman waved a hand dismissively. “Details.”

Remus stood and stretched, his back cracking loudly. “Alright, well if you two are about to plan the most boring pre-fuck in the world, I’m going down to the café. You two want anything?”

The vampire and the fae both shook their hands, and Remus left the tattoo parlor, the bell above the door jingling jovially over the quick chatter from Roman as the door swung shut behind him.

----

Virgil couldn’t focus on his work.

To be fair, Virgil had never been good at focusing on his job. When he wasn’t actually consulting, Virgil was a developer. Which meant that he essentially made his own schedule. Which also meant that he had no accountability for any sort of timeline.

It became especially hard when Virgil’s mind was completely occupied by Logan Doyle.

Virgil, lately, had spent quite a bit of every day thinking about Logan. But after the night before… Virgil couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every time he closed his eyes, he was there again, in the middle of the kitchen, breathing in Logan’s vanilla scented cologne. Every time he paused between keystrokes, the notes from the music that had played that night floated through his mind.

It was unbearably distracting.

Patton had texted Virgil at about 1 A.M., asking whether he would be at the café that night. At first, Virgil had considered sending back a snarky text telling them that he would not be returning to P&J’s until Janus stopped being a little shit and avoiding telling him what his little laughing fit during his last visit had been about.

Instead, however, out of his own gracious nature, Virgil held back his sarcasm.

It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he had spent the past 20 hours feeling as though his chest were full of bubbles, imagining Logan’s hand on his waist.

Virgil: not tonight. I’ve got work to do.

What happened? Patton texted back immediately.

Virgil cursed his friend’s intuition.

Virgil: nothing! I just don’t feel like coffee.

Pat: And you do feel like work?

Virgil: no, I feel like being at home.

There was a pause. Virgil watched as a bubble indicating that Patton was typing appeared and disappeared about three times in quick succession.

Pat: Hold on. I’m moving this to the group chat.

Virgil cursed. If Janus got wind of what was happening, Virgil would never hear the end of it. Janus could sniff out Virgil’s emotional turmoil like no one else. No pun intended.

Before he could respond and tell them to not tell Janus under any circumstances, Patton had sent a text in the trio’s group chat.

Pat: What’s going on, Virgil?

Janus: Something’s up with Virgil?

Virgil: no. I just said I wasn’t coming in today.

Janus: Why not?

Virgil: I have work to do!

Pat: We’re just worried about you, honey.

Virgil groaned, but didn’t correct the pet name. Even though he didn’t like being coddled, sometimes the affection Patton put into their words wasn’t so bad. It certainly wasn’t a decision ruled by Virgil’s current good mood.

Virgil: I just wanted to stay home today. I’m fine.

Janus: That means you’re either mid depression spiral or-

Virgil softened a bit. His friends really did get him. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Virgil had fallen into a spiral since he met the two, and Janus and Patton were sadly well acquainted with Virgil’s moods. He knew that if he really were in the middle of an episode that Patton and Janus wouldn’t hesitate to close the coffee shop for the night and come keep him company.

Pat: Are you? V?

Virgil shook his head and texted back quickly.

Virgil: I’m not. Really.

Janus: Oh fuck.

Pat: ???

Janus: Are you in bed with Logan right now?

Pat: !!!

Virgil: NO.

Janus: Are you about to be?

Pat: !!!!!!!!!!!

Virgil: no.

Janus: What happened, then?

Virgil: none of your business. I just answered Pat’s text. I do not deserve to be interrogated.

Janus: This is not an interrogation. It is a series of educated guesses and negations.

Virgil: I plead the fifth, then.

Janus: Not an interrogation. You have no rights.

Virgil: didn’t you drop out of law school?

Janus: After my girlfriend nearly killed me, actually.

Pat: Boys, let’s not fight. Are you sure you’re alright, Virgil?

Virgil: yeah, I promise.

Oddly enough, Virgil was considering expanding on what was actually going on--Patton tended to have that effect on him. They were amazingly good at pulling Virgil’s deepest thoughts from him. Something about their trust and gentle concern was surprisingly convincing. Just as he was about to respond, there was a knock at the door.

Virgil instantly tensed. It was only 1 in the morning. Even on Logan’s off nights, like Virgil knew tonight was, Logan never got home before 2 or 3.

And even when he was early or late, Logan had his own key. Of course he did. With that stupid fluffy black keychain that Virgil had clipped onto his key ring weeks ago.

Had something happened?

Virgil glanced back down at his phone and sent a quick dismissal text to his two friends.

Virgil: I’ll see you guys later. Gotta go.

Janus: Chicken.

Pat: Alright! Have a good night, Virgil!

Virgil couldn’t stop the way his lips quirked up at the texts. He was still looking down at his phone as he took his first few steps towards the apartment door. There was another, slightly less polite sounding knock on the door.

“Coming!” Virgil called, clicking his phone off and sliding it into the pocket of his hoodie.

The light from the hallway outside cast a shadow that Virgil could see in the crack underneath the door. Whoever was on the other side was standing rather close to the door. Virgil couldn’t quite shake the sense that there was something off. He tried not to focus on it too much. He was in a good mood. Whoever the hell it was knocking on his door at one in the morning was probably just at the wrong door.

Any other night, Virgil would have been more cautious.

Any other night, when Virgil was in any other mood than completely besotted, Virgil may not have answered the knock at all.

As it was, Virgil opened the apartment door with little to no hesitation.

On the other side, standing in the dimly lit hallway stood a man with a nest of curly black hair and a form-fitting leather jacket, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck of his plain black t-shirt. If Virgil didn’t feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up with some sort of instinctual unease, he may have thought that the man in front of him was handsome.

“Can I help you?” Anxiety seeped into Virgil’s tone. He looked the man up and down. The large boots. The perfectly straight posture. The tense shoulders. He suddenly wished very much that he had not opened the door.

The man smiled. There was something distinctly menacing about it. “Is Logan here?”

Virgil’s stomach twisted. He knew, suddenly, that he should not, under any circumstances, tell this man where Logan was. He felt his fangs poking at his lower lip, descending involuntarily. “Who are you?” His voice was gruffer than intended. The question was polite enough, but Virgil’s tone was nearly a hiss.

“I’m Nate Miller.” The man put a hand on the outside of the door. He didn’t push it open any wider than Virgil held it, but Virgil got the distinct impression that he would if Virgil made any sort of move to shut the door in his face.

“And you’re Virgil Noir, aren’t you?”

----

The warlock from the flower shop suggested that Logan go with a traditional bouquet of a dozen red roses.

Logan, however, while a traditional man of 182 years old, wanted something a bit more creative.

Roman had hovered over his shoulder for the entire exchange, offering his two cents with each choice that Logan attempted to make. His helpfulness was suffocating, but Logan didn’t let it deter him.

By the time that they were done, Logan had a beautiful, and rather pricey, bouquet picked out.

It was beautiful. It was wholly unnecessary, of course, but Logan didn’t mind getting caught up in Roman’s dramatics from time to time too much.

Virgil deserved as much.

The walk back to the apartment passed by Logan in a blur of cracked sidewalk and brisk air.

Logan had made this walk plenty of times before, but that time it felt… different. The air was full of promise, and though he was hesitant to admit it, even to himself, a sort of… hope that Logan hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

It was a breath of fresh air. Possibility.

Probability, if Logan allowed himself to make a couple of more hopeful assumptions based on that look in Virgil’s eyes the night before.

It wasn’t until he got to the door of the apartment complex that any sort of anxiety started to catch up with him. Seeing Virgil usually brought a calm over Logan. Coming back to the apartment to see his roommate was in itself like unwinding after a long day. Virgil had an uncanny ability of loosening every ward that Logan set up around himself.

But as Logan ascended the stairs--the elevator would definitely take too long right then, especially since Logan had noticed that it was descending right as he walked into the building--he took note of the fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.

The bats taking nest in his gut quickly fell into a pit as Logan saw the door to their apartment.

The open door to their apartment.

The bouquet fell from Logan’s hands, tumbling to the carpeted floor of the hallway.

Logan was at the door in less than a second, much faster than any human could move.

The bolt on the door was scratched, as if it had been forced open. If Logan’s heart hadn’t already stopped beating, this would have put a halt to it. He pushed the door open lightly, slowly, as though the seconds that it took to do so would stop this from happening--stop what he was seeing from being true.

Carefully, residual training from his years of being a detective when he was alive kicking in, Logan picked his way into the room so as not to disturb what was inside.

The apartment, for the most part, was exactly as he had left it. Further in, Logan could see that the living room was undisturbed.

Whatever had happened hadn’t made it past the entryway.

The entryway itself was a mess. The corkboard that Logan had hung up on the wall was crooked, the miscellaneous take-out menus and schedules were either barely hanging on by their push pins or scattered across the floor. The umbrella stand was knocked completely to the ground, as was the dish that usually held their keys. It was laying on the wood floor, shattered. Virgil’s keys underneath.

The knot in Logan’s throat that had nothing to do with thirst tightened. Finally, emotion overtook care. “Virgil?!” Logan called out into the empty apartment. His voice echoed off of the walls.

Dashing forward, past the wreckage of their entryway, Logan entered the living room. He glanced around quickly, desperately, but it was empty. “Virgil?!” He turned on his heel. So was the kitchen. Fast as he possibly could, Logan was at the door to Virgil’s bedroom, throwing it open and finding it silent and desolate. Desperate, Logan shot to the door to his own bedroom and flung it open, only to find the same thing.

Shaking, Logan was back at the kitchen in a blink. Virgil’s laptop was sitting, untouched on the counter. Just as he was about to give up, something caught the corner of Logan’s eye.

A flash of white. Instantly, Logan was back at the front door, pushing it closed.

There, pinned to the door of his and Virgil’s apartment with a silver knife was a slip of paper.

Logan felt sick. It was paper from a pad that they kept in the kitchen. Paper that he usually wrote notes for Virgil on before he left for the night.

Doyle,

I believe I have something you want. You know where to find me.

-NM

The shaking stopped. The paper nearly tore with the force that Logan was gripping it. Clutching the note in one hand, Logan reached into the side pocket of his messenger bag for his cell phone. By the time that he had dialed Remus’s number, he was already out the front door of the apartment building.

----

It was barely fifteen minutes later when they all made it to King’s Inks.

Fifteen minutes too long, in Logan’s opinion.

Roman had just barely been able to talk Logan down from taking off after Virgil.

Rationally, Logan knew that he would have done the same thing if he were in Roman’s place. If he had snatched Remus's phone from his hand and heard himself, desperate and earth shakingly angry, raving about going off alone after a hunter of unknown ability, he would have talked himself down too.

That didn’t mean that he was any less angry about it.

When Logan had reached the tattoo parlor, only one twin had been waiting for him. When Roman told Logan that Remus had gone down the street to get the owners of the local coffee shop, Logan had nearly gone off on him. Thankfully, Roman’s bullshit detector and friendship was stronger than Logan’s ferocity.

The bell above the door had jingled not too long later, and Logan had stopped his pacing to look at the new arrivals.

Remus entered the tattoo parlor followed by two rather eclectic characters that Logan could only assume were the owners of the café down the street. He barely listened through introductions, just gathering the essentials--that Patton and Janus were friends of Virgil’s and here to help.

Roman then had to pry the--for lack of any other possible description, though it made Logan sick to the stomach to think it--ransom note from Logan’s hand to pass it around to the other three.

“Who is NM?” Janus’s voice was gruff, enough so that Logan didn’t even need to register the wet dog smell to know that he was a werewolf.

“Nate Miller.” Logan hissed out. His foot tapped impatiently against the polished concrete floor of the tattoo parlor. “He approached me at my work earlier this week.”

Janus raised a single eyebrow but didn’t challenge it. If Logan were in a better state, he would have noticed the worried tilt to Janus’s mouth, or the way that his back was ramrod straight. He would have noticed that Janus was just as worried for Virgil as he was.

To Janus’s left, holding the ransom note and staring unblinkingly at it, was Patton. They were trembling, their eyes glassy. Remus was leaning over their shoulder to read the note as well. Logan barely noticed the supportive hand that the human twin had placed on the new vampire’s back.

“And there was no sign of Virgil?” Logan swallowed back the urge to snap in his reply, only because of the waver in Patton’s voice. “How long ago do you think-”

“I don’t know.” Logan clipped. “Not long before I arrived back at the apartment. It still reeked of him.” Old Spice and gunpowder. Logan could still smell the phantom of it. “I need to find him.”

Roman placed a calming hand on Logan’s shoulder. “That’s what we’re trying to do, hothead. We’re trying to get your boyfriend back, but you shouldn’t go running off after a hunter alone. Especially not one that is obviously targeting you.”

Janus nodded along. “For once, Roman is speaking sense.” Roman’s cheeks flushed a soft pink at the low-bar praise. “I thought that you were supposed to be smart?”

Logan leveled a glare at the wolf. “I’m sorry, do you know me?”

Janus shrugged. “Might as well. Virgil talks about you enough.”

“What does it mean?” Patton interrupted before Logan could respond. “‘You know where to find me.’ Do you, Logan?”

Logan nodded curtly. “The observatory. There’s nothing else that it could mean. That’s where he confronted me before.” Just thinking about it stirred up Logan’s anger again. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging on it at the ends. “I just don’t understand! Why would he take Virgil if he wants me? He’s a human! He has nothing to do with this!”

The whole room froze and went suddenly, unbearably silent.

“What?” Logan snapped. He should probably feel worse about being so harsh with his friends--and, apparently, Virgil’s friends--but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Are you kidding me? Still?” Remus’s voice was shrill. More shrill than usual, even.

All four of the others were staring directly at Logan, with varying looks of disbelief and resignation.

“Logan, honey.” Patton’s voice was unbearably fond, despite the fact that Logan had only really known them for a couple of minutes. “Virgil is a vampire too.”

Logan blinked. Then blinked again. For a moment, just a moment, he forgot all about where they were and what was going on. And suddenly, everything made sense. “Shit.”

The others watched him, concerned, for just a moment before Janus spoke again, redirecting them all back to the matter at hand. Logan, however, felt as though his head was spinning. Everything that he had known was suddenly turned on its head. He took a deep breath.

There would be time to deal with his revelation later. For now, he needed to focus. Virgil needed him. Virgil needed all of them.

Logan looked up, refocusing back on the others. They were talking quietly amongst themselves. Logan cleared his throat.

“We need to make a plan.”

----

The planetarium was silent when Logan arrived. Anyone would have assumed that it was deserted.

The planetarium was closed for the night, which is why it was Logan’s day off. Usually the planetarium and, specifically, the observatory was a place of comfort for him. Tonight, however, he wanted nothing more than to not have to be here.

Well, that was untrue. He did want one thing more, and Nate Miller knew it.

His footsteps echoed through the empty halls. Spinning diagrams of planets and moons that would normally have been mesmerizing hung from the ceiling. During the day, the planetarium was beautiful.

Logan had the path to the observatory memorized. He walked down the halls quickly but with caution, not using his vampire speed. There was no way of telling what Nate had been prepared for when he demanded that Logan meet him here. There could be any number of traps and Logan needed to keep his head on his shoulders, as Janus had not so politely warned before they had split up.

Despite his admirable restraint, Logan still moved more recklessly than he probably should have on his way there.

The door was cracked when Logan reached the observatory, propped open with a stopper. Logan didn’t hesitate before crossing the threshold and entering. It was just as quiet inside the observatory as the rest of the planetarium had been. The aisles of plush, fold theatre-style seats innocently lined the rounded walls and radiated inwards, completely empty. The ceiling was rolled back and open to the heavens. A clear night sky shown down on Logan and the empty rows of seats. It was beautiful, but Logan knew the implications of the sight.

It was nearing dawn now. The sun would be rising within the hour.

Behind him, the door slammed shut. Thankfully, Logan had just enough dignity and composure not to flinch at the sound, although he did turn to see that the door had in fact been closed behind him.

“Well, well, well.” The voice--Nate’s voice--seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The intercom system. Logan scanned the room for movement, quickly and imperceptibly. To the human eye, he would have simply appeared unmoving. Almost bored. “You actually came. Took you long enough.”

Logan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had never hated anything more than he hated that voice. “I got caught up.” He responded through clenched teeth. Logan wasn’t thrilled with the concept of conversing with Nate at all, but he needed the time. “Next time you should call.”

The laugh that followed sounded like nails scraping against a chalkboard to Logan.

“Oh, but darling, you never gave me your number.”

Logan’s fingernails were digging crescent moon shaped wounds into his palm. “Enough small talk. Where is he?”

“Who?” There was laughter still in Nate’s tone. Even though Logan couldn’t see him, his stomach was boiling with rage at the audacity.

“Enough of the games!” Logan hissed, striding a few purposeful steps further into the circular room. “Where is he? Where is Virgil?”

There was a despondent sigh from above, and suddenly, Logan could hear the stage in the center of the room rising.

Logan had been on that platform many times before, giving lectures and presentations to excited audience members. He was always filled with a warm sense of anticipation and excitement before those speeches, no matter the fact that he had given them countless times before.

Now, he felt nothing but dread as he watched the stage rise up from under the floor to eye level.

The figure in the center of the stage was strapped to a chair. Logan’s heart lurched to see Virgil, slumped over and limp, but his worry was rapidly overcome by venomous fury when he saw Nate Miller, standing just behind his unconscious roommate, a wooden stake in one hand.

“The monster is alive. For now. You and I have business to attend to, Doyle. It should be coming around any moment now.”

----

Virgil’s head was pounding. The world was spinning, and he hadn’t even opened his eyes yet.

It was worse than any hangover that he had ever endured as a human. His vision was blurred as his eyes cracked open, spots of brilliant color dancing at the edges of his vision. He felt his fangs poking against his bottom lip.

Virgil twitched, raising--or at least, trying to raise--his hand to rub at his temples. His eyes shot open as he realized that he couldn’t move his hands. Chest rising and falling rapidly with breaths spurred by increasingly rising anxiety rather than an actual need to breathe, Virgil jerked against the shackles on his wrists. Matching shackles, he realized, locked his feet to the legs of the chair that he was in.

He couldn’t move at all.

“I’d stop that if I were you.” An almost bored voice spoke in Virgil’s ear. Jerking away, Virgil turned his neck to face his captor. Distantly, Virgil recognized the face.

His mind was still swimming, but he remembered it. Opening the door, half expecting Logan to be on the other side, and being met with this man. Knowing almost immediately that something was off, being forced back into his own home, barely having a chance to fight back, barely getting to call out before a sharp pain was radiating through his skull and everything was fading to black.

Virgil hissed, desperately leaning away from the man and the wooden stake that he was gripping with obvious intent.

The man’s eyes flashed, the patient facade disintegrating before Virgil’s eyes, revealing a manic sort of rage that terrified Virgil to the core.

“Virgil.”

The voice snapped Virgil out of his terror. Virgil’s eyes flew across the room, down to where Logan was standing, in the middle of an aisle--where were they?--worry and--Virgil’s heart panged with hurt--fear in his eyes.

Logan took a single step forward, but before he could move any more, the man behind Virgil was pressing the tip of the stake right against the spot where his unbeating heart was.

“Not another step, Doyle. You even try and move and this monster is dust.” The man growled the words in a way that reminded Virgil of someone barely hanging on to sanity. Virgil kept his eyes trained on Logan. The man’s voice smoothened suddenly, as though he were getting himself under thinly spread control. “We can just talk, can’t we? Just the three of us.”

Virgil sent Logan a pleading look. Logan needed to get out of there. He had to leave before this hunter--because he had to be a hunter, there was no other explanation--hurt him. Logan met the look with a determined shake of the head.

“Why don’t you introduce us all, Doyle?”

Virgil swallowed thickly, glancing back at the hunter before returning his eyes to Logan, confused. But Logan wasn’t looking at him any longer. His gaze was trained on the hunter behind him and Virgil felt as though he were missing something distinctly important.

Logan’s eyes narrowed. Virgil knew that face. Logan was biting back what he really wanted to say, and if there weren’t a stake pointed at his heart, Virgil would have wanted Logan to speak his mind and push this arrogant bastard right off of his soapbox.

Logan’s eyes flicked back to Virgil’s, and once again Virgil could see that little flicker of fear. Virgil swallowed down his own hurt.

“Virgil Noir, my roommate and… my friend.” There was something hesitant in the way Logan said it. Virgil tried desperately to focus on his anger. He had every right to be angry right now, and it had everything to do with the hunter threatening to kill him. He had no right to feel so… betrayed by Logan.

Logan, however, had every right to be scared after finding out that his roommate was a monster.

“And you are Nate Miller.” Logan continued. Virgil grimaced. Fuck Nate Miller. Virgil hated even his name. “A hunter who approached me yesterday at my place of work, and who is not targeting me. Why?”

There was a shocked, deranged sounding laugh from behind Virgil, and the hunter placed his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. Disgusted, Virgil shook it off, only to freeze when the sharpened end of the stake pressed threateningly against his chest. “Are you joking?” Nate’s voice was nearly an octave higher than it had been before. He sounded incredulous. “Don’t act like you don’t remember me, Doyle. Stupidity is unflattering for you.”

Logan’s face remained impassive. Virgil curiously looked him up and down. As someone who considered himself very good at reading Logan, Virgil could confidently say that he genuinely looked confused.

Virgil forced a laugh past his monumental anxiety. “Looks like you’re not that memorable, dude, sorry to break it to you.”

Nate grabbed a fistful of Virgil’s hair at the back of his head, tilting it back. “Shut up, bloodsucker! Don’t think I won’t put you down like the monster you are.”

Virgil gritted his teeth to hide the pain. “Do it then! By the time you turn me to dust, Logan will be gone.” Virgil looked down from where his head was still tilted at the uncomfortable angle to meet Logan’s eyes.

Logan shook his head minutely and Virgil’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Nate chuckled, breathlessly, releasing Virgil’s hair from his grasp and stepping around the chair so that Virgil could finally see him fully. Virgil’s first thought was that he was rather short, for a hunter. “Nice try. Goading me into focusing on you. I’m not an amateur. Doyle wouldn’t leave his perfect little boyfriend. That’s why he’s here, you know. For you.”

Virgil ignored the words, though they made something that wasn’t strictly fear squirm in his gut. He wasn’t going to get hope for his relationship with Logan from a hunter who was threatening to kill him. “Sounds like someone’s jealous.” He said instead, taking a vindictive sort of joy from the fury that was clearly written on Nate’s face at the statement.

“Virgil.” Logan warned, taking a single step forward.

Nate held up the stake again, menacingly. “Don’t move, Doyle.” Logan froze. “You want to pretend you don’t remember? Fine, I’ll jog your memory.” Gripping the stake tightly but lowering it, Nate took another step closer, his eyes trained solely on Logan. It made Virgil want to kick him. Luckily for the hunter, his legs were still shackled to his chair.

“We met three years ago, before you moved here. You were working at that bookshop, remember?” Virgil frowned, his eyes lobbying back and forth between Logan and Nate. He was confused. Why was a hunter so obsessed with Logan? “You were always wearing that cute little scarf. For a few weeks there, I came to the shop to see you every day.”

Logan’s eyes were widening in recognition, surprise and confusion warring on his perfectly smooth features. Virgil swallowed thickly. Logan knew this hunter.

“I remember.” Logan’s voice was low, barely there. His hands, which had been tense and balled into white fists since he first arrived at the observatory were relaxing slightly. “But- I don’t understand? If you were a hunter-”

Nate laughed, an odd mixture of pleased--likely at the fact that Logan suddenly remembered their connection--and cruel. “Please. If I had known right away what you were, I wouldn’t have wasted the time. When I found out, it was right before you moved away. I was disgusted. Wasting so much time and energy on a vampire-” Nate spat the word like a curse.

Virgil sucked in a shallow breath. A vampire? Logan? No. That couldn’t possibly be true. The hunter had to be mistaken. There was no way that Virgil would not have known that Logan was also a vampire. Except…

It did sort of make sense. Why Logan was also only ever awake at night, even on his days off. Why he was always just as cold as Virgil was. Why he kept so many jars of jam that Virgil was just realizing were definitely not full of jam. Virgil cursed himself. How had he not known-- How had he not noticed?

He remembered the other day at the café with Janus and Patton. If he got out of this alive, he was so going to kill Janus.

Then, of course, it dawned on Virgil exactly what sort of situation they were still in. If Logan was a vampire, then both of them were in danger right now. Logan had come for him, putting himself in grave danger. A hunter may spare a human, but they saw all creatures of the night as the same. Virgil’s eyes widened and he stared at Logan, trying to convey his urgency with his eyes.

Above all else, Logan had to get out of this observatory okay.

But Logan wasn’t looking at Virgil anymore.

“So you followed me?”

“I had to track you down!” The hunter cried, as if the alternative were impossible. “All you monsters are the same. I couldn’t just let you get away with tricking me-- with seducing me, masquerading as if you could possibly be normal. You’re a killer.”

Logan looked incensed. “If you’ve been watching me for so long, then you know that I haven’t killed anyone recently.”

“But you have before.” Nate spat, his eyes wild. “Don’t deny it. All of you are killers, whether you fancy yourself reformed or not. You need to pay for what you’ve done.” Nate gestured to Virgil, hatred burning in his eyes, despite the fact that he couldn’t even deign to look at him properly. “From the research I’ve done about this one, it took it three years before it managed to stop slaughtering humans. You’re all the same, no matter how much better you think that you are.”

Virgil winced. Guilt clawing at his insides. He barely remembered the three years after he was first turned. It was the darkest period in his past, and having it so gracelessly laid bare in front of Logan made him want to do nothing more than disappear. But when he managed to look back up at Logan there was something… understanding in his eyes.

And that was when Virgil knew that whatever his past, whatever this hunter said and did, Virgil would do anything in his power to get the man that he loved out of this safely.

Even if it meant putting his neck on the line by riling up a deranged hunter.

“And how many lives have you ended in the past year alone?” Virgil hissed, staring defiantly up at his captor.

Nate scoffed. “None that matter, vampire. You dare to compare the lives of you creatures to human life-”

“Say,” Virgil drawled, his voice low, “are we just here to listen to you spew your manifesto about how much more pure than us you are, or are you actually going to do something?”

“Actually, I did have something in mind.” Nate’s face was unnervingly calm again. A pit of dread settled in Virgil’s stomach. Nate nodded up at the ceiling.

The open dome of a ceiling.

Virgil looked up and couldn’t help but notice the tell-tale signs of a sunrise along the edges of the circular opening. The clear implications dawned upon him--Patton would be proud that he could manage to think a pun even in such a dire situation--quickly. His eyes slipped closed in momentary resignation.

The sun is going to rise--likely within the next few minutes--and Virgil was there, shackled to a chair just under the open ceiling. The stake in the hunter’s hand was just for show. He fully intended to burn Virgil alive, and there was nothing that Logan could possibly do about it without risking his own life.

Logan himself just seemed to be putting together the implications of Nate’s thinly-veiled threat.

And suddenly, as though a switch were flipped, Logan’s calm demeanor changed. No longer was he feigning interest in Nate’s monologue or humoring his explanations. His fists were once again balled at his sides, white with tension, and for the first time ever, Virgil could see his fangs.

All at once, Virgil knew that Logan would not be letting this go quietly. He wasn’t completely sure what tipped him off, but he knew that if it came down to it, Logan would not be leaving him to burn alone under any circumstances.

It’s a sobering realization. Logan was going to risk his own life for no reason at all--because, honestly, how would his death help anyone? Virgil was still stuck there. If Logan really was a vampire--and he obviously was--he could have been out of there and safe before Nate could even blink. Virgil could not fathom why he looked so determined to waste his life, but he already knew what he needed to do about it.

Virgil forced a laugh. It was loud in the otherwise silent observatory. “Burning me? Really? That’s the best that you could do?”

Nate looked hilariously offended by the complete lack of shaking in his boots that Virgil was doing.

Virgil continued. “No, honestly, did you sit in your sad little apartment, surrounded by cut out pictures of Logan and red string and come up with this plan? Did you rub your little hands together and laugh maniacally? Did you honestly think that using the sun as your choice of weapon was poetic or something? What are you going to tell your little hunter friends? That you tracked down your old vampire crush and just sat and watched the sun rise with him?”

Nate turned an absolutely alarming shade of red. Really, it would have been funny had it not been immediately followed by his fist colliding with Virgil’s nose.

Virgil barely had time to hold in a grunt of pain before Nate was being pulled off of him and shoved to the ground. Virgil opened his eyes to see Logan on the platform with them, his knees straddling the hunter’s chest, and his hands wrapped around his neck.

“Logan-” Virgil desperately called out, completely ignoring his throbbing nose.

Nate was resisting, thrashing against Logan’s hold, and although Logan had the upper hand with the element of surprise, Virgil could do nothing but watch as the hand that was still clutching the wooden stake rose behind Logan.

“Logan!” The scream tore it’s way out of Virgil’s throat before he could think of the consequences. Logan’s grip on Nate faltered.

Before anything life shattering could happen, the stake was kicked from Nate’s hand by a black combat boot. Virgil’s eyes snapped up to see what--who--the boot was connected to, and his eyes were met with a man dressed in quite a bit of leather that Virgil had never seen before.

His first, terrifying thought is that this was another hunter, but no, this man was very obviously not on Nate’s side.

“Not on my fucking watch.” The man growled, kicking the stake even further away now that it was out of Nate’s grasp. The man looked angry, albeit not as angry as Logan, who was still apparently attempting to choke the life out of the hunter. His wild eyes were matched by a wild nest of shaggy brown hair that had a couple of glinting silver streaks in it, and offset by what appeared to be a very carefully maintained moustache.

He was altogether the strangest looking person that Virgil had ever seen, and he hadn’t even glanced in Virgil’s direction yet.

Virgil’s eyes were pulled away from the struggle by a light touch against one of his wrists, just above the shackle.

“Patton?” Sure enough, Patton was hovering over Virgil now, their eyes kind and concerned.

“Are you okay, V?” Their voice shook a bit. “What am I saying? Of course you aren’t okay. I’m sorry, Virgil.”

“Wh- How did you-?”

Patton smiled kindly, their eyes flicking over to Logan. “Logan called us--or, well, he called Remus,” They nodded in the direction of the punk guy, “and he told Roman, who called me and Janus. We’re going to get you out of here.”

For the first time since he had been texting Janus and Patton earlier, something loosened in Virgil’s chest. Relief.

Before he could say anything to thank Patton or perhaps ask who the hell Remus and Roman were, Patton was gripping the shackle that held Virgil’s left hand in place and tearing it away as though it were nothing.

Sometimes Virgil forgot just how strong they were.

Patton quickly repeated the process with Virgil’s remaining restraints.

“Logan. Get off of him.”

Virgil craned his neck, looking over his shoulder to see what was happening. The scuffle had moved. Logan still had the upper hand, but now there were two more figures standing over him and the hunter. The first was nearly identical to the one in the combat boots, though minus the moustache and with much tidier hair. The second--

“Janus.” Virgil almost felt like smiling at the sight of his friend. Janus looked up, his two-toned eyes flashing in the light.

Right. The light. The sunlight that was quickly approaching.

“Logan.” It was the second unknown one, the one with the perfect hair, that was speaking. Virgil just noticed the pointed ears that were poking out between his curls. “You have to stop. Remus, Jan and I have this. It’s almost sunrise. You have to get out of here, Logan.”

But Logan wasn’t listening. Virgil’s chest constricted. There was something dark--something dangerous--in Logan’s eyes. Nate wasn’t fighting much anymore. Any words that Virgil might have said were stuck in his throat.

Beside him, Patton whimpered.

“Logan!” The one with the moustache snapped, reaching down and grabbing one of Logan’s biceps. “Logan, you need to get Patton and Virgil out of here.”

Something of what the human said must have registered in Logan’s mind, because his grip on Nate loosened until he was no longer strangling him. Luckily, Nate didn’t get a chance to recover, because as soon as Logan was pulling away, Janus had Nate in his grasp, his eyes flashing golden.

Virgil could breathe again. He trusted that Janus, and whoever those other two were, had this.

“Logan.” He called, breathless. His voice was still raw from screaming earlier. His nose was still gushing blood and very likely crooked, but he didn’t care in the slightest. Not when Logan looked up at him.

In an instant, Logan was across the room and pulling Virgil into his arms. And Virgil let him. He didn’t resist for even a second, willingly letting himself melt against Logan like he’s a lifeline.

And in some ways, he was.

“Are you alright?” Logan’s voice was achingly tender. So heartbreakingly tender, given what he had just been doing seconds ago. “Did he- Did he hurt you any more than-”

Virgil cut him off because that dangerous note was coming back into Logan’s tone. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. It shouldn’t have been hot at all. “I’m fine, L. Are you-”

“If you’re safe, I am.”

And it was terrible timing. Just feet away, his best friend and two other people who he could only assume were Logan’s friends were fighting with a hunter. Patton was still right behind him, standing just off the stage, watching. But Virgil found himself leaning just that much closer to Logan. It was as if Logan had his own gravitational pull that tugged only on Virgil. He glanced down at Logan’s lips. One was split, but otherwise they looked just the same as they had the other night, when they were safe in their apartment.

Virgil let out a shaky exhalation. When he looked back up, Logan’s eyes were trained downwards. Towards his own lips. Virgil licked his lips.

Behind him, Patton gently cleared their throat. Virgil whirled around.

“I don’t want to interrupt, kiddos, but the sun is going to rise any minute now. We need to get you home.” They didn’t speak for themselves, but Virgil knew that Patton wouldn’t be leaving without them, and he didn’t want his friend to burn alive either.

He glanced back at Logan, but Logan’s expression was shuttered once again.

“Yes, you’re correct, Patton. We need to leave now.”

Virgil glanced back at the other four one last time. They had Nate under control once again. Swallowing, Virgil turned back to Patton and Logan and nodded once. “Let’s get out of here.”

----

In the end, they did indeed make it back to their apartment before the sun rises, if just barely. Patton left them only once they were sure that Logan and Virgil were okay enough to be left alone at their apartment.

Which was perfectly fair, because they had just had a home invasion only a few hours ago.

When they were back in the apartment building and safe from the approaching dawn, the two of them began to clean the apartment in silence.

It really wasn’t that big of a mess, but both of them seemed to silently agree that they would not be able to rest until the apartment was returned to the state that it had been before. When things were safe.

Virgil’s tongue felt too big in his mouth as he helped right the entryway. Only hours ago he had been trying and failing to fend off Nate in this very spot. And, sure, things were okay now, but somehow it feels suddenly much  more real than it had when they were leaving the observatory.

As for Logan… He looked tense. It was understandable. Because Virgil had gone and got himself kidnapped like some sort of damsel in distress-

His stomach curled in on itself. He couldn’t shake the anxious thought that Logan was… angry with him for it.

And it was stupid. It was so stupid, and Virgil knew it. After everything that Logan just went through to get Virgil back, there was very very little chance that Logan would blame anyone other than Nate for this turn of events. And even if he did blame someone else, Virgil knew Logan, and he knew that if anything, he was likely blaming himself.

Which was even more stupid.

Once the entryway was presentable again, Logan cleared his throat. Virgil paused, halfway through taking his hoodie off. Usually he wore it even when inside their apartment, but right now everything that he was wearing felt… dirty.

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Logan’s voice was soft. Quieter than usual. Almost… unsure. Which was almost unheard of for Logan.

Virgil softened, pulling his jacket the rest of the way off. “I’m… I won’t lie, Logan, I’m pretty shaken but… I’ll be fine. Are you…?”

Logan dodged the question, finally looking over at Virgil with thinly masked guilt in his eyes. “Your nose stopped bleeding.”

Virgil reached up a tentative hand to his face. To be honest, he had forgotten about it. The pain had numbed, but when he prodded it gently with a finger, he could tell that it was definitely broken. Patton would have said something if it had needed to be set, though, so Virgil wasn’t too worried. “I’m sure I’m a sight right now.” He chuckled weakly. It fell flat. There was silence in the apartment for a moment. “Logan-”

“I’m sorry.” Logan exclaimed, before Virgil could continue. “This is my fault. I… If you were hurt, I would… I never would have forgiven myself.”

“Don’t say that.” Virgil tried, stepping closer to Logan.

“It’s true.” Logan insisted. “If he had hurt you, or heaven forbid-” Logan made a little choked noise. “I couldn’t have lived with myself. You did nothing wrong. You didn’t deserve-”

“And neither did you.” Virgil’s voice was firm, pushing back against all denial. “You didn’t call this upon us, Logan. I don’t care if he thought that he knew you, or if he had hurt me any more than he did. None of it was your fault, and none of it would have been your fault. He is a hunter. I’m- We’re vampires. It could have happened at any time with any hunter.”

“But it didn’t! It was him, and he was targeting me. He only hurt you because I-”

Virgil’s mouth felt very dry as Logan cut himself off. “What matters is that we’re safe. We’re okay.” He tried to reassure Logan.

Logan closed his eyes, defeat settling over his features. “You don’t understand. He only hurt you because of how much I love you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy. They certainly weren’t how Virgil had ever imagined that they would be said for the first time. Still, a soft warmth blooms in Virgil’s chest. There were nerves there too, but he found it easy to ignore them. Mostly, he felt an overwhelming sense of rightness. Two days ago it had been impossible to consider that Logan loved him back.

But now… it was like he could see that Logan had been saying it for a long time now. He had said it earlier, when he had been so obviously terrified for Virgil. He had said it the night before, when he held Virgil close and they swayed around the kitchen. He had said it even before that, when he made sure to be quiet every evening when he left for work just after sunset, when Virgil was still holding on to sleep. He said it when he picked ocean documentaries for Virgil, even though he was not-so-secretly terrified of the ocean. He had said it countless times since they had met, even though Virgil was only just now hearing it for the first time.

Virgil took the remaining few steps forward to close the distance between them. Logan looked almost pained. Before Virgil could lose his confidence in himself--in this--he reached out and placed a hand on Logan’s cheek.

When Logan met his eyes, Virgil damn near melted into the ground. Logan’s deep, chocolate brown eyes always were a weakness of his. He wanted to say something. But, then again, Virgil never really had been the one that was good with words. That was definitely more Logan’s department. Instead, Virgil just leaned forward and closed the distance between them completely.

Logan’s lips were soft, just like the rest of him was, although he was loathe to show it. He gasped softly against Virgil’s mouth, but he didn’t even try to pull away.

Logan leaned into the kiss with an insistence that made Virgil’s still heart pirouette in his chest. Virgil exhaled, and it felt as though he had been holding his breath his entire life, despite the fact that he hadn’t needed to breathe in just over fourteen years.

Kissing Logan was like finally coming home. And though it was terribly cliché, Virgil couldn’t bother to imagine another way to describe it. Virgil couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of this sensation. From his head to his toes, he felt warm.

He felt alive.

Slowly, Virgil parted his lips under Logan’s and even though Virgil had been the one to initiate the kiss, he was surprised when Logan took his lower lip between his own. Virgil didn’t bother to hold back the low noise that arose in the back of his throat, thankful once again that he couldn’t blush.

The noise seemed to be appreciated, though, because Logan made a rather audible noise of appreciation. Right before Virgil felt a sting on his lower lip.

Logan pulled back almost immediately after, a startled--no, a shell shocked--expression on his face. His fangs were descended and Virgil knew instantly that that was what he had felt. He bit back a laugh.

Logan looked breathless. He looked breathtaking.

“I love you too.” Virgil confessed, his hand still cradling Logan’s cheek. “Of course I do. I would have done exactly the same thing if it were you.”

And Logan.

Logan laughed.

And it was the tension break that they needed after the completely awful night that they had both just experienced.

It was not a loud laugh. It was not really hysterical, either, though Virgil would have understood if Logan had lost his mind just a bit after the night that they had just had. It was a laugh of disbelief, mostly, and Virgil wholeheartedly agreed.

He couldn’t hold back a smile, and as he often couldn’t when he was with Logan. He didn’t even want to try. So instead he smiled.

Logan’s eyes turned serious. “I love you.” He repeated, this time with more conviction. He brought up a hand to cradle Virgil’s face, just as Virgil was. Virgil ran the pad of his thumb across Logan’s perfect cheekbone.

“I love you too.” Virgil replied. And after everything, that was enough.

[t-h-i-n-g]

💄 I Was Made For Lovin’ You - Kiss: ship, tell me some things about yourself (ex. age, personality, a few facts, ect.) and ill pair you with a character from a fandom (from my list) of your choice

okay so i adoreeeee your account so i had to this and I'm sorry for bad grammar or even not enough information ( or maby even to much information😭 )

okay so my name is ariana ( she/her) I'm gonna go in 16 in october, and I'm a libra. I play guitar and I do some little sketching but not like too good at it so... and honestly just this😭

but like my friends says i have really good humor so yk... omg- anyway, i loveeee hugging other people and just watch netflix while cuddling then >:( and I'm like so energetic?😭 like I break a scooter and sofa in less than one day after arriving so yk😭 and I HATE go shopping dress and such a things, but omg going bookstores with melanie martinez or conan gray or cigarettes after s*x ( should i write it like that?🥲) music in background? literally heaven. and my fav genre In movies and books is murder mystery and slice of life. and another thing about me that I really hope it doesn't sound weird(😭) is like I really like saying ily to anyone randomly, like if my friends are just eating their lunch I just come and say ily and go😭😭 idk I just wanna remind them😭😭 anyway i really hope it's enough 'facts'.

so I really don't know wich fandom should I choose😭 so can you do stranger things or teen wolf or mcu whichever of characters in these fandoms that you felt the most. ( it doesn't matter girl or boy ) so yeah, congratulations for 150 I really really luv your account. 3/>

Omg we're twinning rn I'm also gonna be 16 in October AND IM ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED. And ty:))) I'm glad you like my content. I got two people in mind for you.

First off I ship you with Shuri! The two of your energies will match so we'll. I believe her love language is physical touch or quality time so you being by her side and just loving her up would be an absolute joy to her. Everyday you guys are cracking each other up and just loving each moment with one another. The only thing is is that you might get banned from the lab with your breaking things habit💀 but it's not like she can do that for long. Instead you might occupy yourself with helping her sketch designs for her new projects. She also enjoys your words of affirmation as well. Wether it be if shes feeling a little insecure or just a little down. Shuri always looking forward to ilys she gets from you.

The other person I'm thinking of is Stiles Stilinski! The two of you are absolutely chaos together but in the best way ofc. You are always close to one another, wether it be holding hands, in each other embrace, or him just resting a hand on the small of your back. He would love going book shopping with you. Just the authenticity of going through the maze of shelves while you drag him around with the hold of your hand *chef's kiss* he doesn't know why but he just loves it. As well as when you do settle down to read he wants to be with you. Just to lay on your chest and rest there or you leaning back into his as his skims along the words with you. With the murder mystery movies he's always on the edge of his seat. As well as doing a victory lap around the room when he was right about the killer.

Hope you were happy with my answers!!:)

[secretpajamas]

a different kind of rush;

an ezra x reader fic

pairing: ezra (prospect) x female reader

rating: explicit

genre: romance/smut/and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)

words: 5.6k

part 2 of 2 (read part one HERE)

please scroll to the end to “content” if you would like to know specific smut-related content before reading!

--

When you emerged from the shower, you changed into your long sleep shirt (the thing was far too old and ratty at this point to be considered a ��nightgown”). Even though it wasn’t dark out yet, you figured you might as well go to bed at the rate this day was going.

As you slowly crept through the tent partition, you noticed that Ezra was gone—and so was his gear.

You found a note in Ezra’s barely-legible scrawl placed at the foot of your bed.

“Starstone quality check,” you mumbled, reading the note aloud.

Starstone was so finicky that it was necessary to check up on it in storage to make sure it maintained its stability. But you knew in your gut he was avoiding you. While he was out, you cleaned the filters and checked the tanks like you always did—minus the filter and tank that Ezra was currently using—the methodical work helping soothe your nerves a little.

When Ezra came back in, you were sitting up in bed, reading the book Ezra’s kid Cee had hand-written (“She didn’t come up with the story, but she basically rewrote the whole damn thing herself. Smarter than she knows, that kid.”). It wasn’t your usual kind of story, and not even your usual medium of consumption (you preferred late-night radio dramas, but they broadcast from the Ephrate—the signal was spotty at best in the Fringes and nonexistent here in the Reach), but it was captivating nonetheless.

You didn’t look up from the book as Ezra walked in. Neither of you said a word.

Part of you was relieved that you didn’t talk about it.

The other part of you was desperate to talk about it.

--

The next morning, you woke to Ezra sitting at his makeshift desk—a chair set in front of an old wooden shipping crate—swirling together the starstone enzyme bath. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a gray t-shirt, his hair already matted with perspiration from the heat.

You grumbled and slowly sat up.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Ezra said, not lifting his eyes from his work.

“Mmph,” was your sleepy response.

“Oats are ready if you have a hankering,” he continued, gesturing with his head towards the “kitchen”—another wooden shipping crate, this one with a battery-operated stove placed on top.

You were suddenly very awake at the promise of food. “Please tell me there’s coffee, too.”

“Haven’t made it yet,” he replied. “Go easy on the stuff, you’ve drunk near all my supply.”

“I believe food and board is included in my contract.” You yawned before shuffling your way over to the stove.

“Food and board, sweetheart, not drink.” Ezra held the canister of freshly mixed enzyme solution between his knees as he twisted on the cap with his hand.

Your stomach rumbled and you eagerly grabbed your bowl of oatmeal. After wolfing down your breakfast, you filled Ezra’s rickety kettle with water and set it on the stove, turning the power up to high. You pawed around the mismatched collection of canteens piled next to the stove until you found two clean ones and set them out, along with four packets of powdered coffee (three for you, one for Ezra). It was the instant stuff anyone could grab for cheap at a shuttle station, and it tasted wretched, but it did its job.

As you waited for the water to boil—not long when the water in storage was already warm thanks to this planet’s heat—You heard Ezra stand up and approach you. When you felt his hand brush the small of your back, you shivered.

Ezra huffed. “Are you cold? For cryin’ out loud, woman, it’s hotter’n two channel-rats fuckin’ in a wool sock.”

“Must be caffeine withdrawal,” you lied, knowing full well it was Ezra’s touch.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth and you nearly shivered again. “I suppose it’s high time I replenish our supplies,” he said, “lest you pillage the remainder of my coffee.”

When the kettle began to whistle, you switched off the stove and poured equal amounts of hot water into the cups—and unequal amounts of coffee packets. All the while, Ezra’s hand stayed on your back.

“Speaking of supplies, we could use another full O2 tank,” you said, trying your best to ignore how your stomach did somersaults every time Ezra absentmindedly rubbed his thumb against the material of your sleep shirt, “and coolant for the air circulators.”

“I’m well aware,” Ezra said, “but thank you kindly for the reminder.”

You offered Ezra his canteen of coffee. You mourned the loss of his hand on your back, but feeling the brush of his fingers against yours as you handed him his cup was nearly as electrifying.

“S’posin’ we pull a good haul of starstone today, I can ready the pod for the shuttle station tomorrow,” he said between sips. “Be back within a couple days’ time.”

You swallowed down a lump in your throat along with your coffee. You did need supplies, but it was hardly urgent—was he really that keen on avoiding you? But the way he just touched your back—he’d never been more intimate than friendly pats on the shoulder before—

“The shuttle station gets a clearer radio signal to the Ephrate,” Ezra continued, “I can have a good an’ proper talk with Cee.”

Oh. He wants to talk to his kid, you moron. Why did you make this about yourself and your ill-timed masturbatory ventures?

“I’ll hold down the fort, then,” you said between gulps of your coffee.

“I’m countin’ on it,” Ezra said. “Now let’s score some stone afore this bitch of a planet bakes us alive.”

–

Ezra was gone before you woke, but you had expected it. He told you as much last night. But you still couldn’t shake the notion that he was avoiding you. You sighed deeply before untangling yourself from the bedsheets and crawling over to make your morning coffee.

On the table, the kettle was already set out on the stovetop, along with three coffee packets, a clean canteen, and a note from Ezra.

“Radio at 21:00,” you mumbled. That was tonight—so he was planning to call you as soon as he got in. You couldn’t help but smile as you made your coffee.

You didn’t have to mine today or tomorrow, thanks to working double-time yesterday (and your aching muscles certainly reminded you of that), but there was still plenty to do around the tent. After gulping down your coffee, you started with the pile of laundry in the corner. It was the most urgent order of business, based on how it was beginning to climb up the wall—and how much it stunk. You filled a basin with water and soap and got to work.

While hanging the garments to dry, you noticed a pair of Ezra’s compression pants had a tear in the thigh—thankfully, it was on a side seam, so you could easily sew it shut. You noted to fix it as soon as it was finished drying. You wondered if you could mend anything else, noting Ezra’s ratty assortment of boxers and briefs. If he made any cash in the aurelac rush, he certainly didn’t spend any of it on underwear. You could mend holes, but you couldn’t work miracles.

As you waited for the clothes to dry, you snacked on a ration bar and read more of Cee’s book. You were invested in the characters now, despite your initial skepticism of the subject matter. You had to admit, it was a bit of a page-turner. After a while, you didn’t want to put it down. You moved from sitting at Ezra’s desk to leaning against one of the tent supports to laying on your bed mat, your eyes glued to the page.

When you finally came to a satisfying enough chapter to pause your reading, you looked around for a piece of scrap paper to mark your place. You picked up Ezra’s note and tucked it inside the pages before shutting the book. You noticed the laundry hanging up was dry—had you really been reading that long? Oh well. Time to get mending.

–

You had mended Ezra’s pants, a pair of his socks, and were about to sew a button back on the pocket of your suit when you heard your name crackle from the radio headset in the corner. Startled, you dropped your work, the button skittering across the floor.

“Gimme a minute!” You shouted, hoping your headset would pick it up from across the tent. You quickly found the runaway button and placed it on Ezra’s desk before scrambling to your side of the tent to put on your headset.

“Sorry about that,” you said, “I’m here. You get in okay?”

“All in one piece,” came Ezra’s voice in your ear, “give or take an arm.”

You rolled your eyes at Ezra’s wisecrack. “Talk to Cee yet?”

“Not yet,” Ezra said, “with the time difference between here and the Ephrate, she’s still in class. I shan’t interrupt her studies.”

You looked at the book where it lay on Ezra’s desk and smiled. “Well, when you call her, tell her I said hello.”

“Will do.”

“So, what station did you end up at?” You asked.

“Trinity,” Ezra replied.

“Trinity,” you said, “don’t think I’ve been on Trinity since the rush.”

“Ain’t any different,” Ezra said, “still got egregious docking fees and an abundance of unpleasant company.”

“Already shooed away a pick-pocket busker, haven’t you?”

“Several,” Ezra grumbled, “Damn this stump, they think I’m an easy target.”

“Were any of them good players, at least?” You asked.

“Truthfully, the boy on the panpipes was a talented little devil,” he said, “both in playing his instrument and his victims. I let him pilfer a coin from my pocket—I fancy myself a patron of the arts.”

You snorted. “You keep coin in your pocket? On Trinity?”

“Sweetheart, it’s the decoy cash,” Ezra explained. “You keep a couple low-credit coin in your pocket for the vandals so that they don’t go scroungin’ for the heavy-hittin’ gems in your suit lining.”

“Speaking of your suit lining,” you said, “I’ve been doing some mending.”

You heard Ezra’s raspy laugh through your headset. “Don’t suppose you’ve been sewin’ up my underthings.”

“Those are hopeless,” you remarked, “I meant your spare compression pants.”

“Ah!” Ezra said. “I do recall those had a rip in ’em. I was fixin’ to fix those.”

“Well, I figured I’d do it as long as I had the time,” you said. “Also darned a pair of your socks.”

“Are you anglin’ for a raise?” You could hear the smile in Ezra’s voice.

“Your listing did say ‘compensation negotiable,’” you replied.

“Hmm. That it did,” Ezra said. “Perhaps we shall negotiate upon my return.”

The radio line lay silent for a moment, and you felt a nervous pang in your stomach. Enough small talk. You needed to say something about what happened the other day—even if it was just to apologize.

“Ezra?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” He replied.

“Is everything... Okay? With us?” You asked, trying to suppress the anxiety in your voice.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ezra replied, before quickly adding in lowered tone, “Did somethin’... rub you the wrong way?”

“Kevva help me,” you grumbled, feeling the wave embarrassment crawl up your spine. “I’m so sorry, Ezra. It won’t happen again.”

“Stop apologizin’. There ain’t a thing wrong indulgin’ in a little well-earned self-pleasure.”

The way he said pleasure made your breath hitch. You hoped like hell it didn’t pick up on the radio.

“If there’s one thing I’ve come to realize in my years,” he said, “is that there’s no use feelin’ shame in feelin’ good.”

His voice was smooth and deliberate now. That bastard knew exactly what he was doing to you. “So don’t you stop yourself because of me—truthfully, I don’t mind. Not one bit.”

Hesitantly, you reached down to press the heel of your hand against your clit, choking back a moan threatening to escape your throat—but not entirely succeeding.

You heard Ezra’s breath coming loud and heavy through the radio. “Are you touchin’ yourself right now, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you gasped out, your previous inhibitions completely shattered.

“Fuck,” Ezra replied. “Thank Kevva this radio headset is hands-free.”

You heard what might have been Ezra undoing his zipper—and your suspicions were confirmed when you heard a low moan through the radio.

“Ezra—”

“Do you have the faintest idea what you do to me, woman?” The line swelled with static and the throaty rasp of Ezra’s voice. “Told myself not to—made myself not think of you like that. It ain’t proper. But when you—you let me watch—”

You whined and slid your hand beneath your underwear. “I was thinking of you,” you confessed, “always thinking of you—”

“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Ezra said, “all I’ve got is spit-slick and a weak hand wishin’ like hell it was you.”

You sped up the pace of your fingers as he continued.

“If you were here,” he said, “I’d bury myself inside you so deep—ah, fuck—’til you were the only thing I could feel.”

At his words, you slid two fingers inside yourself up to the knuckle, arching your hips, trying to get them as deep as they could go, thumb tirelessly working at your clit.

“I want that,” you panted, “I want you.”

“—Make you come on my cock again and again ’til you’re dizzy with it,” he said, “fuck you so hard you feel it the next day.”

Ezra’s words were pushing you close to the edge. “Ezra, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he groaned, “let me hear you, sweetheart.”

You came to the overwhelming sound of Ezra’s broken moans and your own desperate cries and the static of the radio and the beating of your heart—

a discordant symphony of absolute ecstasy.

–

Ezra returned the following night with a full pod of supplies. You worked together like a well-oiled machine, moving various goods from the pod to the tent in an orderly fashion. You both made small talk—Cee was doing well at the Academy, the shuttle station shop was stocked enough with what they needed, no, they didn’t have real coffee, just the shit stuff in packets.

Despite the friendly conversation, the air was thick with unspoken words.

It was hot out—as it always was on this planet—so you breathed a huge sigh of relief when you had both moved all the supplies to the tent and you could leave the sweaty pod. You both discarded your helmets and stood in front of the air circulator on Ezra’s side of the tent, sifting through the supplies and placing them where they belonged throughout the tent.

When you reached at the same time as Ezra for a can of coolant, your hands collided, sending a shockwave up your arm and stopping your breath.

You both froze, staring at your hands where they met.

Slowly, carefully, Ezra intertwined your fingers with his.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered, those beautiful brown eyes of his gazing at you tenderly.

You couldn’t take it anymore—you climbed over the pile of supplies between you and pressed your lips to his.

He let out a surprised little noise against your mouth before returning the kiss with fervor, wrapping his arm tightly around you and pressing you close to his chest.

“Couldn’t—stop—thinkin’ of you,” he said between kisses.

“Do you want to—can we—” You gasped against his mouth.

“Yes,” he breathed, scrambling to work at the zips and fasteners on his suit. He didn’t object when you reached out to help remove the suit—and honestly, you weren’t thinking of it as helping him, more like getting all your clothes off as fast as possible because holy shit this was happening. Ezra had already removed his boots when he took his helmet off earlier, and you were only dressed in your undershirt and shorts, so this blasted contraption of a suit was the main obstacle.

You both managed to get the damn thing off and Ezra kicked it aside. He reached back, grabbing his sweaty t-shirt behind the collar to tug it over his head. You grasped the hem of your top and pulled it up and off, throwing it to the growing pile of discarded clothing.

You were about to strip off your shorts when Ezra reached for you again, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck, down to the tops of your breasts along the edge of your bra. You scrambled to unclasp it, letting it fall to the floor. Ezra wasted no time, cupping a breast in his hand and lavishing kisses on the other. When you felt the wet heat of his tongue against your nipple, you cried out, grabbing his hair and giving it a tug. He moaned against your breast before pulling away to look at you.

“Let’s take this to a bed,” you urged.

Ezra nodded vigorously in agreement and you both stumbled over to his bed mat, falling atop the sheets in a tangle of limbs.

Ezra sat up and you situated yourself on his lap, wrapping your legs around him. You could kiss him like this for hours, his tongue in your mouth, your fingers in his hair, his hand steady and warm on your back.

When you both took a moment to catch your breath, Ezra cleared his throat and looked you in the eye, his expression almost timid.

“I must confess, I have not had the chance to... partake, since I lost my arm,” he said. “I may not be as formidable a sparrin’ partner as I once was.”

“Ezra, I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” you said, leaning in to kiss him again. He stopped you with a press of a finger to your lips.

“Allow me to enlighten you.” He shrugged with his stump. “Nothin’s as it once was. I can’t even take a piss the same way. Ever try to hold a dick with a hand that ain’t there?”

“Can’t say I have,” you said.

“Oh, hush, birdie, you can understand the sentiment,” Ezra grumbled. “Everything is at the behest of my damned weak hand. I can’t read my own handwriting anymore. Can’t shoot like I used to—my grip’s shit on the left. Even gettin’ dressed is harder than minin’ aurelac.”

He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “And as long as we’re on the subject of minin’, I can no longer mine most things on my lonesome. Each harvest is hardly half of my previous yields, and I got the kid to support on top of everything. Now, Cee deserves every bit of that support, do not misunderstand my words—I would move Kevva and earth for that girl. But such meager wages do tend to make one feel... inadequate. A man’s work is no petty thing.”

You listened to Ezra attentively, not knowing how you could get it across to him that he was no less of a man in your eyes than if he had two arms. You wanted to reassure him, but he pressed on.

“So please, allow me to posit this caveat,”  he said, “that I intend to make love to you, and to do so to the fullest of my capabilities—but even my best efforts may prove... unsatisfactory.”

Make love. Ezra wanted to make love to you. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

You were so stunned by Ezra’s choice of vocabulary that it took you a moment to process what he said.

“Oh,” you said. “You don’t think you can make me come.”

Ezra ducked his head; you could have sworn he was blushing. “You always cut right to the quick.”

You cupped his cheek, running your thumb along the little white scar there.

“Ezra, I don’t care. I just want this. With you.” You glanced down to where you straddled his lap, rolling your hips a little against his growing arousal. “And forgive me if I’m assuming things, but it seems like you want it, too.”

Ezra moaned quietly at your movements. “My desire was never in question, I assure you,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile.

You leaned in and kissed him softly. He returned the kiss before gently moving you off his lap.

“Lie down, sweetheart,” he whispered, and you eagerly obliged, reclining on the mattress. He settled on top of you, propping himself up on his elbow, kissing you passionately. Eager to get your hands on him, you hooked a finger under his waistband and gave a tug.

“Whoa there,” Ezra said, “slow down, spitfire.”

You moved your hand away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, believe me. But those clever hands of yours will have to wait, because I’ve been starvin’ for you,” he said with a sly grin, kissing a path down your breasts to your stomach, “and I can no longer deny myself a taste.”

It took a moment for your Ezra Translator to kick in. “Oh.” You scrambled to shimmy your shorts and underwear down. Ezra took over, pulling them all the way off and tossing them over his shoulder before leaning down to continue his trail of kisses.

He nudged at your thigh with his head and you eagerly opened your legs for him. Rough stubble tickled your thighs as he kissed his way to your cunt. At the first feeling of his hot breath against your clit, your hips jumped up out of their own volition, knocking Ezra off his left elbow and face-planting him onto the bed beneath you.

“Sorry!” You squeaked. You reached out to steady him but stopped yourself—you knew he hated being helped.

“Hell’s bells,” Ezra grunted. He gripped at the sheets with his hand as he slowly pushed himself to sit upright.

“Left arm ain’t worth shit,” he grumbled under his breath, “can’t even hold me up.”

“It’s alright, Ezra,” you said, “we can try again.”

“Indeed we can,” Ezra said. He lay down on his back next to you and motioned to his chin. “Take a seat, sweetheart.”

“Um,” you started. You’d done this before, but not like that. “I don’t want to—hurt you.”

“Kevva’s sake, woman, I ain’t gonna break,” Ezra said, then added with a grin, “if I suffocate on account of your cunt, I will embrace death with open arms. Well, one of ’em, anyway.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a groan.

“Here lies Ezra, drowned in pussy,” he continued teasing, eyeing you with a wicked grin.

You hesitantly shuffled toward him. Drumming up some courage, you knelt above him, one knee on either side of his head. You were so nervous that you could hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

Whether impatient or just eager, Ezra grabbed you by the hip, then, and urged you down onto his mouth.

You gasped, bracing yourself as you felt the white-hot warmth of his tongue against your cunt. You choked back a moan, your hips stuttering forward, trying not to grind down too hard on his face. Ezra was having none of that. He urged you to move, his hand gripping your hip and firmly pulling you forward. With a little more certainty, you rocked your hips forward and back, making his tongue slide against your clit in long strokes. You moaned again, louder this time, and Ezra hummed his desperate response, burying his face in your pussy like a man starving.

You rutted against him urgently, your thighs beginning to burn from holding yourself up over him. Your movements became less graceful, more desperate—you slid forward too far, causing your slit to grind against the bridge of his nose, and you’d be embarrassed if didn’t feel so damn good. You were right on the precipice, moments away from shaking apart, when Ezra stilled your hips with his hand and brought you back to his tongue. He latched his mouth over your clit and sucked on it, wet and sloppy and fucking perfect.

“Fuck, Ezra,” you gasped, the heat coiling inside you tighter and tighter, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—”

Ezra growled, his teeth grazing your clit for a moment, and the jolt of sensation just on the right edge of pain had you coming so hard you thought you might black out. You stumbled forward, reaching out to break your fall, your cunt pulling away from his mouth. Somehow, Ezra knew you needed more, reaching behind his head for you and guiding you back in place with his hand. He began to lap at you again, working you through another shaking shockwave of pleasure.

You had to pull away before it was too much. You collapsed next to Ezra on the too-small mattress, trying to catch your breath, feeling your thighs burn and your cunt twitch and your heart sing.

“Give me a minute,” you gasped.

“Take all the time you need, sweetheart,” Ezra said, equally breathless.

You turned to look at Ezra. His face was flushed red, beads of sweat dripping down to mix with your slick that had ended up all over his mouth and chin—and his nose. He looked absolutely filthy and you’d be mortified if he didn’t look so damn pleased with himself.

You reached for your discarded t-shirt and gently wiped at his face, cleaning up the most offensive wet patches before tossing it aside again. “Sorry,” you said.

Ezra chuckled. “I do not accept your apology, ma’am,” he teased. “That was sexier than hittin’ a motherlode of aurelac.”

“Now that’s high praise,” you teased back.

“C’mere and kiss me,” he all but whispered, reaching out to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger. You closed the distance and pressed your lips against his. It was almost chaste—if not for the knowledge of where that mouth had just been.

He pressed his forehead against yours. You breathed deeply, absentmindedly playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

You looked down at the straining bulge in his pants, snaking your hand down to stroke at him through the fabric. A little choked moan tumbled from his throat at your touch.

“Let’s take this off,” you said, thumbing the waistband. He nodded in agreement, laying on his back and lifting his hips so you could pull his pants down and off in short order. His cock sprang free, hard and aching.

You licked your lips. “No underwear?”

“Too fuckin’ hot for underwear,” he said, gasping when you gently rested your hand on the crease where his thigh met his hip.

You moved your hand up and down his thigh, making him squirm and thrust up against nothing but air. He practically whined, his hand clawing at the sheets.

“Touch me,” he begged, voice cracking.

“I am touching you,” you said with a wolfish grin.

“Damn it, woman,” he groaned, “if the heat don’t kill me, you sure as shit will have the pleasure yourself.”

“Patience,” you chided, not sure how long you could keep this up—you wanted him inside you, and you wanted him now—but you loved seeing him spread out and desperate for you.

Finally, you wrapped your hand around him and gave a long, firm stroke. He threw his head back and moaned, arching into your touch. You licked your lips as you studied his cock, the thick length of it twitching ever so slightly in your hand. You rubbed at the underside of the head with your thumb and your mouth watered when a bead of precome welled up at the tip. On instinct, you moved down to lick it off.

Ezra cursed, bucking up to meet your mouth. You held him down by the hip before taking him into your mouth as far as you could.

“Fuck, sweetheart—I—fuck!” Ezra cried out, clawing at the sheets with his hand, writhing against your hand where it held him down. When you tentatively reached down to gently squeeze his balls, he nearly sobbed.

“I’m gonna—” Ezra gasped.

You pulled your mouth off of him, then, replacing it with your hand, not moving, just holding him at the base.

“Hold on, I didn’t say stop,” he said with a breathless chuckle. “Everything alright?”

“I want you inside me,” you whispered, barely audible.

Ezra reached out to still your movements. “I don’t have protection, sweetheart,” he said, voice strained.

You bit your bottom lip, averting Ezra’s gaze for a moment. “I have the implant,” you said, looking him in the eye again.

Ezra’s eyebrow shot up. “Well, shit, woman,” he said. “Thought they only had those fancy contraptions in the Ephrate.”

“They do,” you said. “I did have some decent money, once. In the rush. Before my crew took it all and left.”

“You and I have trod similar paths, so it would seem,” Ezra said.

“The rush left a lot of us in the dust,” you said.

Ezra nodded. “The deadliest dust there is.”

After a long moment, he sat up to kiss you, just a gentle press of lips. You put your arms around him and closed your eyes, breathing with him for a moment.

“How do you want to—which way should we—” you stumbled over your words.

“You may have me whichever way you desire,” Ezra said, voice low in your ear, “and I will do my darnedest to provide.”

“Can—can you be on top?” You started, “I mean—I will if it’s easier, but my thighs are kind of killing me.”

Ezra chuckled, and you thrilled at the vibration of it against your chest. “Lay back,” he said.

You complied, laying down on the bed mat. He reached behind you to grab the pillow.

“Lift up that pretty ass of yours for me,” he said, and you did. Kneeling before you, he placed the pillow under your hips.

“Reckon my knees will hold me up longer than my arm,” he said, gripping your hip to tug you towards him.

“Guess both our thighs will be burning tonight,” you said with a sly smile.

“Worth every ache,” he replied, taking himself in hand.

He slowly rubbed at your slit with the head of his cock. You moaned, your cunt clenching against thin air as you felt wetness dribble down. Ezra dragged his cockhead through the slick, gathering it before rubbing at your clit directly. You gasped at the jolt of pleasure lighting up your body—it felt so good you could cry. You could hardly stand the teasing anymore, wanting him inside you now more than ever.

“Ezra, please,” you begged.

At your urging, he lined himself up and slid inside you with one deliberate movement. The sensation of his thick cock filling you up, the almost-aching stretch of it—it was better than you ever imagined. He grabbed you by the hip again to pull you even closer as he began to thrust into you at a steady pace.

“Look at you,” Ezra said, his voice gravelly and low, “takin’ my cock like it was made for you. Shoulda known you’d feel this good, sweetheart.”

“Ezra,” you panted, “Ezra.”

You looked up at Ezra as he filled you completely—from his pupils blown wide and his lips slightly parted, to the broad expanse of his shoulders, to the torso adorned with freckles and scars, to—fuck, where his cock was seated deep in your cunt—he was more beautiful than any gemstone.

You could tell Ezra was trying to control the pace of his thrusts, biting his lip in concentration. You didn’t want him to hold back.

“Harder,” you breathed.

“I ain’t gonna last,” Ezra said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t care!” You cried out, clenching down on him.

“Fuck!” Ezra leaned forward and braced himself against the bed, arm trembling with the effort as he set a brutal pace, fucking into you hard and deep and unrelenting. You nearly screamed.

“Touch yourself, sweetheart,” Ezra’s voice was frantic and loud, “come for me, please, please, fuck!”

You rubbed your clit for hardly a moment before you shook apart, your cunt spasming around his cock, your body consumed in flames of pleasure so intense you could hardly breathe.

Ezra managed a few more thrusts before he came with a shout, his cock inside you as deep as it could go.

–

In the aftermath, Ezra collapsed beside you, absolutely exhausted. You turned your head to kiss him, lazy and slow.

“If it’s alright with you,” he said, his breath warm and close, “I’m inclined to take the day off tomorrow.”

“We’re sure going to be sore,” you sighed.

“Well, yes,” he agreed, “but I’m keen on more...sparrin’ practice.”

“You can say sex, you know,” you laughed, “not everything has to be a metaphor.”

Ezra smiled. “I do have an inclination to run my mouth, don’t I.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Ezra just rolled his eyes before taking your hand in his, your fingers twining together.

“I just realized,” you said, looking over at Ezra’s desk, “I could’ve sat on that chair instead of your face. Would’ve made things easier.”

Ezra’s eyes widened a fraction, looking over at the chair, then back to you.

“Why didn’t I think of that? I am dumber than a box of rocks,” he said with a chuckle. “But I do believe my method is superior.”

“We’ll have to test your theory,” you said. “Do some serious research.”

Ezra nodded eagerly before setting a steely expression with a furrowed brow. “Of course.”

--

content: phone sex (well, radio sex if you wanna get technical), cunnilingus, face-sitting, blowjob, vaginal sex

a/n: listen. all the scifi sex I write will conveniently make use of “the implant” purely so they can raw-dog it. also like where tf is ezra gonna go buy space condoms. this is set in the fringes of the galaxy. it’s not like he can pop over to space cvs and get some cosmic cock wrappers for his magnum dong. they don’t carry them at the shuttle station, okay?

and yes I DO go back and forth in my fics deciding whether “come” or “cum” is hotter/more grammatically correct/etc and this is a come fic, apologies to the cum crowd

special thanks to taylor (@damerondjarin​) for the exchange of messages that inspired this fic, and for all the moral support thereafter. believe it or not this entire fic was supposed to be JUST the face-sitting sex scene and uh it expanded from there. Oops.

[sleepdeprivedghoul]

What’s Left of Me [BTS AU]

Words: 3.6 K

Summary: Jungkook was a typical college student. Nothing interesting there, his only friend, Kim Seokjin, or as he calls him, Jin, is terribly ill with an unknown illness that not even the doctors can prescribe. One night Jin asks Jungkook if he wants to play a game. Only the game isn’t what Jungkook thought. But it’s just a game right? What’s the worst that could happen?

Genre: Angst, Mature Content, Horror/Thriller. 

~ ~ ~

It was nearing midnight as Jungkook had arrived back to his flat after a long drive across town just to deliver some notes and cards to Jin, who was currently running a fever with a mysterious illness. The doctors weren't even a hundred percent sure what was wrong with Jin, maybe it was a strain of pneumonia?   

Yeah that has to be it, thought Jungkook as he slid off his shoes and went straight to his computer, he logged on and started to type up his essay on emotions and how they play into day to day life, but the emotion his professor gave him was quite difficult. It was sadness.

Sure the assignment was simple and all but never really experiencing true sadness he didn't know how to start it off. Besides a cheesy quote about feeling broken and alone. 

He felt like he was about to go insane, he never felt true sadness and he was sure his professor would want it to be about something really depressing over just, ‘I lost my pet cat named Pete,’ but something more.

WIth a loud beep his phone went off alerting him of a text from Jin:

 "Kookie thank you for the study materials!" 

Jungkook smiled and was about to send him a response when Jin replied again:

 "Have you played What's Left of Me? Or heard of it?"

“Honestly no... What is it?” 

Before Jin responded Jungkook reread the name of the game and typed it in on his search bar for What’s Left of Me, all that popped up was a book. Frowning he knew this is not what his hyung meant so he went back to the search bar and tweaked his search adding Game. What popped up was Google claiming an error that Google was not responding. 

“Odd...” He muttered before he tried to open a new tab only for the new same message to reappear. “You have to be kidding me,” he groaned and continually refreshed only to keep getting the same message and that Google had crashed. 

“Why?!” He exclaimed, brows furrowing as he looked over at his phone only to see a video link from Jin. Clicking it he heard a soft female voice, practically whispering all while there was a black screen. 

“Hi... I’m not gonna introduce myself because what’s the point.... Well obviously you’re here for my game What’s Left of Me. The game’s a bit different than your average game, there’s no shooting of others but decisions and story based themes, you the Player decides what happens. Nothing is reversible so play how you feel but do it carefully. I am giving you the extent of five players to choose from and that is all. Thank you for your consideration and I hope you enjoy.” 

The video ended causing a frown to play on the young males features as he texted his hyung. 

“That gave me the chills. Her voice was so sad, yet so familiar. WHY WAS SHE WHISPERING???” 

Sent from Jin at 12:03

“I like how her video was, her voice was soft and peaceful as it captures your attention immediately. I’m ready to play it!” 

Sent from Jungkook at 12:03

“Ok... Did you download it?”

Sent from Jin

“Yea are you going to Kookie?”

Sent from Jungkook

“It won’t even let me view the game.”

Sent From Jin

“Restart your computer.” 

Why, thought the younger male but did as told, he waited for the system to reload and as it did their was a new file on his computer. WHAT’S LEFT OF ME in all caps. “How did this get here?” Scared Jungkook looked around his dark room but nothing was out of place, he even scanned his computer for a virus. Nada.

“Did it work?” Texted Jin, Jungkook could barely breathe yet alone focus on the situation at hand. How did this happen?

“Yeah the game was already on my computer somehow...” 

“Huh strange, maybe you clicked download.” Responded Jin and as he read the message he shook his head, Jin didn't seem to get it. The game just appeared. He hadn’t even had the option to download it as it never popped up when he searched it. 

“No because I couldn't even find the game when I originally searched it.” 

Sent from Jin

“Computer was probs lagging but at least you have the game now. I think I want to play Namjoon. He seems interesting. What about you?”

Sent from Jungkook

“Erm hang on let me load the game, I haven’t open it yet.”

“K.” Was all Jin said as the younger male moved his cursor over the game and clicked open. As the game was loading an eerie song was playing in the background, Hell it wasn’t even a song, more so screeching and loud crashes.  Every now and then the screen would glitch out and he’d get a brief glance at a girls face. He was only at 10% as the game completely froze except for the song which was on an endless loop and began repeating the word why over and over as the depressed girls face froze on screen before him, a single tear running down her smooth skin.

“You left us...” She whispered before the game automatically shut down and sent Jungkook staring at his home screen, eyes wide and breathing rapid. “What the literal fuck,” he cursed as the game restarted and took him back to the loading screen yet it was all different. Instead of a sad song on loop and the sad girl, the game played a soft happy tune as the background was all black and the title appeared in a bloody font. What’s Left of Me the words practically dripping down the screen as a candle flickered beneath the text casting long shadows revealing a room. 

He had to admit this game had some freaky cool artwork. He clicked the title, not really sure what else to do as there was no options for the game. His options appeared before him carved into the desk that the candle was sitting on. The game title was on the gray wall behind the candle. 

Jungkook read his options slowly and wondered if Jin saw the same things as him. 

Continue Game

New Game

Leave?

Curious as to what Continue Game would do for him, since he’s never played it before and was sure no one has played it on his computer he clicked the option. The game file loaded and he was quickly inserted into a dark bathroom, a young man with copper hair, almost golden, was crying in the middle of the room. The only sounds besides the poor males soft spoken sobs was the sound of the bath running and pouring out onto the tiled floor all around the sobbing man. The game glitched and instead of water surrounding the copper haired male it was now a dark red substance which Jungkook could only assume was blood. He was no longer crying but screaming at the top of his lungs, “WHY WHY WHY!” His dark gaze looking dead at the screen, his eyes finding Jungkook’s, it was if he was was aware of Jungkook watching him. It was like the male wasn’t in the game.

Jungkook’s throat constricted with fear. The game crashed and he was back to the main menu. He most certainly wasn't going to try to continue that again unless it was his own saved progress, but even then he still didn't want to do this. 

Why is he even considering this game? For Jin, he softly reminded himself. But why did Jin even want to play this game, it was so freaky and weird. Did Jin not get the same intro as him? Maybe Jin was smarter than him and decided not to try and continue the game, speaking of the Continue Game option that was no longer present instead it said, Can’t Continue Something You Never Started or Cared For. 

Chills ran down his spine as he took a picture and went to send it to Jin who had been blowing up his cell. Jungkook didn't even read his messages from his hyung as he instantly went to send Jin the freaky message from the game. Only the test wouldn't go through, he was shot with an error. “What the Hell?” He grumbled and tried once more only for it to not send. 

“Why’s this happening? I paid my bill!” Biting his lower lip in confusion he looked at Jin’s messages and hoped his hyung would understand his technical difficulties. 

 From Jin sent at 12:10

Jungkook you there?

Hey did you start the game?

Kookie, kookie, kookie?????

Ok spam time 

Hello

What does a janitor yell at a party?

SUPPLIES! hahaha get it? Supplies 

I’m worried you alive? 

Wait are you asleep? 

If so sorry. Send a bunny emoji if you’ve been kidnapped.

I’m gonna start the game, Namjoon is pretty cool and looks good. What about you? Who will you play as, you have five options, all of them epic.

From Jin sent at 12:12 

I get it, you hate the game and you haven’t even started.

Jungkook shook his head and chuckled, Jin is so childish and impatient, he thought to himself and sent a quick apology text. Sent, he managed to send a text! His eyes widened as he tried to send the picture only the picture wouldn’t go through. 

Why was that?

Why was it that he could send an apology to Jin but not a picture? Did he not have enough storage? Was their text history too long? 

It just didn't add up. Whatever, he thought, It doesn’t even matter. It’s just a game. 

Clicking on the New Game option he was sent to a  character page. Five characters like Jin said, but there was an outline of a missing character, two actually. He hovered his cursor over both of them but all he got for their stats was:

Name: ???

Age: ???

Height: ???

Gender: ???

Description: ???

He looked at the outline and noticed the lock in the middle of their chests, he had to unlock them. How come he didn't see that when he was first looking at them? 

Whatever, just find a character and start the game so Jin won’t be upset. With a sigh he moved his over a young male with a blonde mullet, a boxy smile on his perfectly proportioned face. 

Name: Kim Taehyung. 

Age: 23

Height: 5′10 

Gender: Male

Description: Taehyung is a happy go lucky, one of a kind guy, unlike any others that you will ever encounter in life. 

Already interested and a tad bit jealous of how happy and lucky Taehyung gets to be while he, himself, is worried for Jin’s health and stressing over stupid projects that are all nearing there due date. Shoving some his hair out of his face he moved on to the next character, the one from the Continue Game option. Curious as to see what was wrong with him and who he was he began to read the stats.

Name: Worthless

Age: Does it matter? I’m just gonna fade away...

Height: Too short just like life....

Gender: Dead

Description: You let me die, it’s your fault. Why didn't you care about me? How could you let me go through with it? WHY’D YOU LEAVE ME?

Shaking his head with a low sigh escaping his lips, he wondered who was this character and why was he so depressed? But also curious of his stats, he asked Jin. 

Sent from Jungkook at 12:13

Jin who is the copper haired male after Taehyung?

Sent from Jin at 12:13

Who Jimin? Y? 

“Jimin,” whispered Jungkook softly almost as if he was testing out the name. His name was so nice compared to his description. The characters blank stare held his gaze, honestly Jungkook felt a bit guilty for this made up character. 

Sent from Jungkook at 12:15

I couldn't see his stats 4 sum reason. :/ 

Sent from Jin at 12:15

The pausing of this game is janky... Lemme go back to the lobby. Pray that my game saves

Sent from Jungkook at 12:16

I pray it saves

Sent from Jin at 12:17

Okay Name: Park Jimin Age: 22 Height: 4′8 Gender: Male duh Description he’s a chill dude with a beautiful smile.

*Height 5′8 lol he’s not that short. That’s about it.

Sent from Jungkook at 12:17

Is this some sort of dating sim?

Sent from Jin at 12:17

No most certainly not. I don;t really know what it is, but I know it’s not a dating sim. Each character has a different story, that’s all I know. 

Sent from Jungkook at 12:18

This is some srs bull.

Sent from Jin at 12:18

Please don't use acronyms Kookie. 

Jungkook laughed and shook his head at his hyungs requests when, he too, use abbreviations such as why to y.

Sent from Jungkook at 12:18

Yes boss

Sent from Jin at 12:19

😈 Lol picked your character yet?

Sent from Jungkook at 12:19

No not yet, my game’s acting up. 

Sent from Jin at 12:19

Well hurry up so you can play!!!!!

Sent from Jungkook at 12:20

Ok gimme a minute.

Placing his phone down in his lap he moved on to the next character, a tall male with silverish purple hair with deep brown eyes that seemed to be able to read your soul and a soft dimpled smile. 

Name: Kim Namjoon

Age: 23

Height: 5′11

Gender: Male

Description: A bookworm, a really hard worker with excellent grades, who’s also a natural leader. Pretty cool guy once you meet him. 

Jungkook chuckled at the last part, “once you meet him.” Like he’s gonna meet Kim Namjoon in person, he’s just a character in a video game, closest thing he’d get to meeting Namjoon is playing as him. Which he won’t because this is Jin’s character. 

The next character’s picture was sweaty, his tongue out, black hair in his eyes, as a black hat rested on his head. 

Name: Jung Hoseok

Age: 24 

Height: 5′10

Gender: Male

Description: Hoseok, Hobi, is an all around ray of sunshine, with constant happy vibes. Always there for you when you need it, remember?

He frowned, why is it like the game is talking to him directly, “Fine if I play as Hoseok or Hobi, whatever his name is I’ll remember that he’s a ray of sunshine to help others.” He grumbled but a small smile played on his features as a warm aura seemed to enclose around him. 

Moving away from the friendly happier male he moved onto the one dressed in all black, a mask covering his mouth and nose as his dark brown eyes stared at him judgingly. He was more ominous looking than scary.

Name: Min Yoongi

Age: 25

Height: 5′9 

Gender: Male 

Description: Always quiet but observant, known to stand up for those in need, tired but always working. 

Nodding his head, understanding each character he finally decided that he’s play as Taehyung. He would’ve played as Jimin if he was able to, but the game simply would not help let him. 

Starting up as Taehyung he was given the option:

Play as Kim Taehyung?

Yes?     No?

“Obviously,” he said with a chuckle as he selected, yes, the game loaded with ease, compared to when he first started the game. A small transition of a butterfly landing onto a window sill was played in the background, then he heard the sounds of a camera snapping a photo. 

“Babe,” came a male voice in the background, the loading symbol stopped as the clip began to play. The light filtered into the room showing a few dust particles floating around as the butterfly stayed on the sill slowly moving it’s beautiful blue and black wings. 

“In here,” came the females voice, the door opened and the floor groaned with the males footsteps. “Are you coming, we’re about to leave?”

“Sorry was taking a picture.”

“You’re obsessed with that thing.”

“Photos keep memories.”

“Yeah but can also steal a part of your soul.” Spoke the deep voiced male jokingly as the girl laughed. What a sound to be heard, it was like music, so carefree and soft. Jungkook wished he could listen to her laugh all day, she seemed so happy, unlike any other girl he’s ever met and tried to talk to.

“Well this camera can’t have my soul,” she stated promptly. The camera angles changed revealing a small girl, her hair covering her face, until the man, who Jungkook recognized as his player Kim Taehyung, moved his hand to her face brushing her short dark brown hair away from her eyes. “You look so much better showing your face.” She shook her head, the hair falling back into her brown eyes as her dimpled grin moved to crinkle her eyes. 

“Whatever oppa,” she teased softly punching his arm. “I’m serious,” he muttered pulling her closer to him, her hands rested upon his chest and the camera still in her left hand. The butterfly flew past the camera showing the two lovers. 

The room changed, it was no longer the happy loving environment that Jungkook was originally thrusted into. Instead his character was sitting on his bed, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. Every now and then he would repeat a name, it was obviously the girl that he was with name.

“Elli,” he whimpered, even his dog was sniffling and whimpering. His puppy rested his head on Taehyung’s thigh. Both of them were honestly too sad to watch causing Jungkook to push away from his desk and move to his bed. 

“What the fuck is this game? It said Taehyung was a happy go lucky guy, what the fuck happened to that?” Raking his fingers through his hair he took a deep breath and texted Jin:

I can’t play, I have class tomorrow 8 am. 

He lied flatly and went to send only it wouldn’t. “Again with this bullshit?” He questioned aloud pissed, throwing his phone across the room and onto his bed. “Fuck this,” he grumbled as he moved to his couch, falling heavily onto the cushions and looking up at his ceiling in annoyance. 

Through the corner of his eye he noticed the television had turned on. Must’ve sat on the remote, he thought to himself as he sat up and looked under the cushions only to find nothing but a quarter, three pennies, a dime, and a moldy cheeto. Scrunching his nose up in disgust and grabbing the 38 cents that he had found he placed the cushions back in their place. 

He turned on his lamp and continued his search only for the lamps light bulb to explode, shards of glasses flying through the paper lamp shade and nearly cutting him. Startled by the destruction he looked all around the room, his eyes landing on the Tv and to the message displayed through the static. 

juSt go bAck to the VidEo gaME ! 

The message was pretty clear of what it wanted him to do. The younger male didn’t understand why only a few letters were capitalized, and not even in a specific order or why there was two words underlined. Looking back and reading the all capitalized letters he wrote them down:

S - A - V - E    M - E 

A shiver ran down his spine at the startling code, maybe it was unintentional but something in his gut told him, it was there for a reason. He did the same with the two underlined words: 

SAVE THE GAME 

Is what the message came down to. Who was he even supposed to be saving? And why was his television telling him to save the stupid game? It didn't make sense, all of this was just making him frustrated. He shook his head and unplugged the television having enough of this shit. 

“I’m done!” He exclaimed as he moved onto his bedroom, all the lights in the house began to flicker on and off. “Oh great my life now is becoming Paranormal Activity, fun.”

With a groan he went back down the hall and to his computer, the screen glowing at him. “Now how do I even save?” He grumbled trying to find a way to save the game without losing what little progress, technically none, that he’s made so far. 

With a roll of his tired eyes, he pulled up the options and found nothing useful on saving the game. “How the fuck? What is this even? This game,” he groaned out annoyed, ready to just log off his computer and restart Taehyung’s intro scene. Exiting the options he was brought face to face to Taehyung's sad, blood-tear stained cheeks, thanks to the new camera angle. What made it even more creepy was the twisted boxy smile on the male’s face as he stared right into the camera. 

Jumping back startled, and nearly falling out of the chair, Jungkook released a slight yelp as the character began to speak to him, almost directly. 

“Aren’t you gonna save me? Or are you, too, just gonna abandon me like all the others?” 

Two options appeared before him in a dark red, dripping font:

Save ME 

OR

Abandon ME

Hesitant of what the two options meant he hovered his cursor trying to decipher what he should do, when he realized that this was the way of saving, or so he hoped. 

[alienaiver]

🌾 my name is nohr, you're welcome to call me that but you are also welcome to use affectionate nicknames ✨

🌾 i'm 29 years old and im a native inuit who lives in scandinavia. my starsign is cancer. i love d. gray man, haikyuu, bnha and jujutsu kaisen a whole lot!

🌾 my pronouns are they/them and i identify as agender and aroace. i am neurodivergent and physically disabled.

🌾 i love video games, cats, books, manga and anime, multiverse theories and aliens! my birthday is in the summer but winter is my favorite season. my favorite animal are frogs 🐸

🌾 i have a cat who's a rescue and means the world to me, i love talking about him and showing pictures. i have a lot of fun ones, if you ever need some cheering up, i can send you some<3

i would love to be friends, my askbox is always open for chats about anything and i have a discord that you are welcome to ask for! though, while the content of this blog is friendly for all ages, i do remind you that i'm 29 and would like for people who ask for my discord to be 18+ 🧡

however, due to my autism, disabled hands and irl obligations, my replies are sometimes embarrassingly slow, like... weeks. it looks like ghosting to some but its never(!!). the social rules about not sending me a new message before ive replied to the first doesnt count with me either, so always send away and ill reply when i can!!! i also suffer NO!!! friendship decay whatsoever, so i dont find it strange if you hit me up with long periods in between.

i want to interact and be more active with writing mutuals but i miss a lot of stuff on the dash, PLEASE tag me in anything you do if you'd like, unprompted and everything! or send me a msg about your tag list if i miss it 🥺🧡 it genuinely brings me the greatest joy, so i dont miss anything. tho i do apologize if i dont always interact in a timely manner or still miss it, despite tags. brainfog makes me hazy a lot of the time!!!

i am neither white, cishet, able bodied or skinny and i try to reflect it in my writing. my reader's always gender neutral! i constantly try to do my best by avoiding things like gendered clothing and gendered descriptors, visible blushing, hair length+texture, other physical descriptors, and body type related descriptors! (i also have a habit of making the characters as aggressively non-straight as possible!)

i do however reblog content that may contain aforementioned things and i ask you to read their respective warnings and content notes!

requests are welcome in my askbox when they are open and you can check the status, rules and stuff here!

my frequently used tags:

nohr.txt random talk, personal posts, etc (i talk a lot. im sorry)

nohr.writing all my fics in one place!

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nohr.rec recommendations for fics i really like!

nohr.talks answered asks!

nohr.ref a little neat tag for writing tips and references!

i tag the most common triggers but you are more than welcome to message me if there's something specific you'd like tagged and i will try my best to do it. they usually go tw trigger (e.g. 'tw blood', 'tw eye horror' etc)

© alienaiver 2024.

[octalove]

Back Then

(Batsis/Jason Todd/Dick Grayson)

Description: Reader’s little brother is having some trouble adjusting to his new life. Sad toward the end.

The sun was bashfully hiding behind some thin gray clouds, not unusual for any given afternoon. Leaning against my still-warm black Maybach 57, I tried not to grow impatient. “Maybe he joined an after school activity.” Dick mumbled through the Twix bar I’d picked up for him at the vending machine during lunch. He was sitting in the front seat, with the window rolled down, listening to Adele. I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that Jason Peter Todd would rather be skinned than join an after school activity. Still, though, Gotham Preparatory School for Boys had let out eleven minutes ago, and most of the other boys had gotten into their parent’s cars and sped away to their uptown abodes. Dick and I had come straight from Gotham Academy, punctual as usual, so as to avoid a folly of disapproving glares from dad and Alfred at dinner tonight. Where the hell was that kid?

“Maybe he ran away. Joined the circus.” Dick tried again. “Maybe I’m gonna put you in a circus.” “Back in a circus.” He corrected with a grin. Finally, at 4:15, Jason emerged from the school’s artfully carved wooden doors. His head was bowed, dark hair sticking up in all different directions, brow furrowed. He looked small in his school uniform, plaid socks and disheveled blazer. He hugged a book to his chest. A leathery hand lay on his shoulder, attached to a spindly man in his late 50’s, with receding salt and pepper hair, and golden oval glasses perched on his beak-like nose. I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms, and upon spotting me, the man turned pale as a ghost, just as Jason looked up to reveal a purple bruise under his eye. He snapped his gaze back down. Dick quickly assessed the situation as well, and hopped out of the car, standing equal to me at a solid 5’8, but with all the toned muscle of a gymnast since walking age. We were about to play good cop bad cop- me, the polite, sophisticated elder sister who didn’t want to involve her egregiously powerful father, unless provoked by lack of cooperation, and Dick, the ill-tempered 15-year-old brother ready to raise hell if he didn’t get a good idea of what the fuck happened.

“Headmaster Ellison.” I said tersely, smoothing out my Gotham Academy uniform. I was thoroughly familiar with him from Dick’s days at the prep school- he’d called him Headmaster Hellison, and had a catalogue of grievances as long as his list of unfinished assignments.

“Ah, Miss Wayne. You look lovely today.” I had to steel my face into something vaguely agreeable, because even though it appeared he was the one afraid of me, I was 17 and in a schoolgirl skirt, and something about getting complimented by old men always skeeved me.

“What happened?” I cut right to the point, deciding small talk might soften my resolve, and I was in the mood for this to piss me off.

“Well, you see, we had a small incident today-“

“It’s okay! Can we go home?” Jason piped up abruptly and nervously, eyes pleading with me to let it go. Unfortunately, Waynes skewed toward long grudges.

“Come here, let me see.” I said more softly. Stiffly, Jason trudged across the neatly cut grass, still avoiding my eye. The bruise itself wasn’t bad, but I could tell it had just begun to bloom.

The Headmaster cleared his throat. “Jason has been encountering some problems with some of the other boys. This wouldn’t be the first incident, but it did escalate this time-“

“Not the first incident?” I clipped.

“It never got physical before, just some small verbal altercations that we easily handled.”

“Obviously they weren’t handled.” It was Dick’s turn to interrupt. It always struck me how he could make his voice go from lazily playful to stark and authoritative, biting off words almost as effectively as dad. Who needed Batman and Robin when Y/N Wayne and Dick Grayson were on the case?

“Please, can we just go? I’m okay, honest.” Jason begged, grabbing my hand and tugging just a little. His bronzed face was all swollen and puffy- not just from the fight. I could tell his eyes were rimmed with red. But he looked at me with all the determination and bravado of a street rat from Gotham, and my heart always bled for him in that regard. I sighed.

“Well, I have violin practice here shortly, Headmaster Ellison, so I’m going to take my brother home,” I bit off the brother part with a special zeal to emphasize that Jason Todd, no matter his name or background, was a Wayne, and I was his reminder. “And my father will be calling this evening to handle it once he gets off work.” Work that includes being able to liquidize this whole school right into his bank account in the time it takes to send an email.

“Get in, Jason.” I said. He did.

After a silent ride home, in which Dick tried to coax the full story out of an increasingly moody Jason, we arrived back at the manor whereupon I briefed Alfred, concerned, supportive, and called dad, exasperated, quiet. I let my little brother stew in his room until later that night, when I finally got tired of waiting him out and knocked on the door.

“Jaybird.” I cooed softly.

“…”

“Jay. If I open this door and you’re not there, I will set up the largest manhunt this city has ever witnessed.”

“I’m okay.” A quiet voice called back, sounding annoyed.

“May I come in?” I asked.

“…”

“…”

“Ok.”

I cracked the door open. He was balled up in his window nook, engrossed in a book. The room was dark, and he was reading with a flashlight, which was really unnecessary because he had about a dozen lamps, including a really cool lava lamp that Dick had gotten him. He’d changed out of his uniform and into pants and a hoodie, his hood pulled over with the strings pulled taut. He glanced down at the keys in my hand, narrowing his eyes.

“Come on.” I said.

“Where?”

“You haven’t eaten since you got home, kiddo.” His gaze fell askance. When it came to Jason, food was the way to ensure the answer was yes, whatever the question was.

“Can you bring me back something?” He grumbled quietly after a moment. I shook my head.

“I’m going to Sherman’s. Dine in only. One time offer.” I said with a smile. He frowned.

“I don’t wanna talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce isn’t coming. Just you and me. And we don’t even have to talk.” After some consideration, he pulled himself from his nook and brushed past me on his way out. I grinned to myself. Too easy.

Sherman’s Diner was the finest restaurant experience in Gotham City. The reflection of the neon lights skewed across puddles which danced with the drizzling rain. Fuchsia, cyan, lime green, red. Cracked white tiles and a sign with Sherman himself; a little plump chef man who, despite his jovial countenance and enthusiastic smile, appeared to be weeping tears of rust. Inside, the floor was unswept, the tables a bit sticky from all the no-show teenage staff of the payroll, and one of the lights above a lonely booth flickered. Jason loved it. The waitresses loved him.

“Come on in and sit down, hun, we’ll get ya some coffee!” A blonde woman called from behind the counter. One thing about Gothamites and Diners, black coffee was a 24/7 ordeal; 9pm on a school night was no exception. I let Jason pick the booth- he usually went for the same one, creature of habit that he was. We slid into the cool, torn red leather and neither of us needed to look at the menu. We sipped our coffees quietly for a while- Jason pretending to like it because it was the worldly thing to do. He’d never admit that he only started after he saw that dad and I always passed on sugar and cream.

It seemed our little evening standoff was going to bleed into the night. I took it as an opportunity to show him how patient I could be when necessary. The waitress- Darcy- set down a small slice of Oreo cake on the table. For him. Finally, he sighed, taking a bite of it.

“I hate school.” He mumbled.

“The school? Or the kids?” He didn’t answer. “What happened, Jay? Last week you loved school.”

“I like English.” He offered.

“Jason.” I said, leaning forward and folding my hands on the table. Food hadn’t worked. Patience was out the window. It was time to apply pressure. “If you don’t tell me who hit you, I, on my honor as a Wayne, am obligated to track down every snotty little boy who ever set foot in Gotham Prep and hit their snotty little faces to see how they like it.”

Jason’s lips tugged into a smile, which he fought, and eventually lost. So he hid it behind his cake. But after a minute, his smile fell. Something else crossed his face and he looked out the window.

“I hit first.” He said quietly. Solemnly. I blinked at him, surprised.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Jared Mullins. I hit him first.”

“Why?”

He sniffed, furrowing his brow to try and fool me into believing he was something tougher than a ten year old boy. Maybe he was. Tougher than the likes of whoever the hell Jared Mullins was. “He said…”

I waited.

“He said I was poor. Said I don’t belong at the school. That Bruce only took me in cause he felt sorry for me.”

“Sounds like he deserved to get hit.” I sipped my coffee. He didn’t smile again. A beat passed in its place.

“I don’t know why I hit him.”

“Because it was a stupid thing to say.” He shook his head.

“That’s not it. He was right.”

My heart fluttered in my chest. “Jason! The fuck he was. You know that’s not true.” Alfred would’ve been appalled to have me cuss in front of him, as if it wasn’t a large majority of his vocabulary since before he came to the manor.

“You don’t get it.” He said, eyes glued to the rain on the window. “You’re his daughter. His real daughter.”

“And Dick isn’t his real son?” Dick was usually the one to advise him when his legitimacy came into question, not me. Because in truth, I didn’t understand. Jason didn’t answer the question. A plate of chicken tenders and fries appeared, but they went untouched.

“Look at me please.” He did.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re not dad’s real son. And it definitely doesn’t matter that Jared whoever the hell thinks so or not. Dad took you in because of who you are, and everything you’re going to be. You belong in this family and wherever else you go, because you’re worthy of everything Gotham has to offer- and more.”

Jason’s face crumpled a little before he composed himself, blinking fast and wrestling with the emotion. He didn’t say thanks, but that was thanks enough.

“Hey. Did you see how scared Headmaster Hellison was?” I asked smugly.

A small smile. “Yeah.”

“That’s because you’re one of us. And we scare the piss out of people like him and Jared Mullins. Cause we’re a damn good family.”

Jason smiled at me. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

*

People like us

I watched- all I could do was watch. There was no way in hell I could stop him. The Jason that stood before me was 6’3 and impenetrable. Even if I thought I could get the gun from his hand, I wasn’t going to save anyone. The only thing about himself he kept when he drug himself out of the grave was his stubborn conviction. Anyone he wanted dead would wind up that way.

Scare the piss out of people like him.

The man let out a guttural, desperate noise as he tried to crawl away, pale as a ghost as Jason stood over him. He was a criminal, to be sure, but not one willing to die for his trade. Evidently, that wasn’t enough.

Cause we’re a damn good family.

“Red Hood! Stand down, now.” Batman’s voice snarled, echoing off of the concrete walls and floor. I flinched. Jason didn’t. A single shot, blood spatter, all the rest. His red monochrome helmet was on the ground, black hair all mussed and disheveled from the fight. A bruise was blooming under his eye.

His gaze flicked up, landing on me. Any trace, any remnant of my brother was gone. The man who came back was a dejected, solemn thing, who carried this dark look in his eye and looked like he could eat me whole. I tried to convey something to him with my eyes. It didn’t appear to take effect.

“You’re late to the party.” His voice rumbled in his chest, and he turned his attention to Batman.

I tried not to let my voice shake as I stepped forward.

“We’re here now.” I said.

His jaw clenched at the sound of my voice. Something grim passed his features.

“Yeah. I guess we are.”

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (46) Dancing

Ao3 | FF.net

It rained the night of Mayor Bourgeois’ ball. An ill omen if you were to ask Marinette or Adrien. Their first night being reintroduced into proper society, and it rained. 

A limo had been sent to the bakery, so that the guests of honor could arrive in style. Alya and Nino had shown up early, also invited because of their hero status, not that any event planners besides Chloe knew. 

Gabriel had really outdone himself. Though the designs were based on sketches from Marinette, he had taken them to a whole new level. “So you,” he had said. “It’s perfect, just for you!” 

The champagne dress with exposed back and high slit leg hadn’t felt ‘like her’ at all. Of course it was gorgeous, and it was a beautiful dress. The iridescent silk changed colors as she moved, drawing all eyes to her. Maybe in another life, when Ladybug hadn’t been defeated, she’d feel more deserving of the dress. 

As it stood, the low back just showed her scars, and made her feel exposed. ‘Wear them like a badge of honor.’ Gabriel had said, ‘you survived, you’re here. You’re stronger than anyone else in that room.’

And yet, as she stood looking herself over in the mirror, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. 

Ugly. 

The door to the bathroom opened and closed, her husband entering. Gabriel hadn’t spared him from the ‘wear your scars with pride’ treatment either. The white shirt under his suit only buttoned up to his sternum, allowing the scar from his rib surgery to be seen. He was just lucky his skin graft scars were hidden under the deep gray suit. 

“You look beautiful,” Adrien said, looking at her with adoration.

“I don’t think so.” She brushed her hair once again. It was still too short to really do anything with, so she had opted to let Alya curl it. With all of her nervous tugging and pulling, the curls were turning into waves, and would soon be flat.

Adrien rested a hand on her bare shoulder, kissing her scarred neck. “I’ve always found you beautiful, Marinette. No amount of dirt or scars could change that.”

“Well, what about everyone else? What will they think?”

“Do you really care what everyone else thinks? Much less a bunch of stuffy, obnoxious politicians?”

“No…I suppose not. I just…if I get criticized at all, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.” 

“No one will criticize you. I happen to think the dress is very flattering on you.”

“The scars don’t ruin it?”

“No. If anything, they compliment it.” 

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“I love you, Adrien Agreste. Thank you.” She bounced on her toes and pressed a delicate kiss to his lips. 

There was a knock on the door, followed by Sabine’s voice. “Are you both ready? The party starts soon.”

“Better bite the bullet.” 

They left the bathroom together, meeting up with the rest of the group downstairs in the bakery. Before leaving the apartment, Adrien grabbed an umbrella, and held it above his wife as she climbed into the limo. 

The action felt familiar, as did his smile in doing so. 

The ride to Le Grand Paris was pleasant. Alya and Nino gushed over the amenities in the car. “I’ve never ridden in a limo before! I feel so fancy!” Said Alya, as she sprawled out over one of the seats. There was plenty of room to do so.

“Would anyone care for some champagne?” Nino asked, in his fanciest poshest voice. 

“You open that bottle, and I’ll tell your mother.” Sabine warned. “It’s not polite to get drunk before arriving at a party.” 

“I’m glad you both got to come,” Marinette said, smoothly changing the subject. “This would be really boring without you.” 

“Oh, we’re boring?” Tom asked, arms crossed. 

“You know what I meant, Papa.” Marinette smiled at him. 

Arriving at Le Grand Paris, you would have thought they were arriving at a movie premier. The door to the limousine opened and there was a series of flashes from the paparazzi. 

Tom and Sabine went out first, followed by Nino and Alya, and then finally, Adrien and Marinette stepped out under the umbrella. 

“Did you design the dress yourself?”

“Did Gabriel design your outfits?”

“Are you wearing someone else?”

Clothing. They were all asking about the clothing. That was something she could handle. Adrien was right. The dress was flashy, and eye catching, and that’s all anyone was going to talk about. 

The alternative was not polite for such an occasion. 

They were led through the lobby, into the elevator, and upstairs into the ballroom. 

Before the elevator doors even opened, she could hear the crowd, a garbled mess of voices and laughter. Her heart rate increased. 

Then the doors opened, and they stepped into the room. 

All eyes seemed to land on her and Adrien, as guests clapped for their arrival. She wasn’t able to do anything but stand there. Stand there frozen and staring, not even smiling. These guests were here to pay her respect and honor, but by god it was the worst experience of her life. 

Over and over, her gaze flitted to face after face in the crowd, barely recognizing them for a second. These were strangers, people she never would have known, except for one tiny little detail. 

Some of them, she had murdered. 

She had seen their faces only once before, in her memories, last breaths, screams of agony. 

And they were clapping for her. 

Did they not remember? Or were they pretending? Were they hiding and plotting? Were she and Adrien in danger?

Then Chloe was there, in her bee-themed dress, loud and bright and inviting. “Adrikins! Maripoo! You’re here!” 

She never would have said this before, but thank God Chloé was here. 

She weaseled between them, hooking an arm through both of theirs. “Come on, I’ll show you to your table!” 

It was right in front of the dance floor, which was vacant for now. A small symphonic band played beautiful music, filling the hall with the sort of ambience only seen in Disney movies. 

Gabriel and Emilie were already at the table. 

“Oh Marinette!” Emilie cooed. “You look absolutely gorgeous! Gabriel insisted on keeping this dress a surprise from me and I have been dying to see it!” She played with the long piece of flowing fabric over Marinette’s shoulder. “I love the purple undertones! It perfectly matches your lipstick!” 

“Thank you, Madam Agreste.” 

“And look at you!” She immediately went to her son. “My handsome man! Oh! You’re so grown up!” She rested a hand on his cheek. “Before I fell asleep, you were a little shorter than me. Now...now I have to look up at you.” 

Adrien looked away from her, a pain in his chest. 

“Sorry, I just...got swept up in emotion. That suit fits you like a dream.” 

Then she was onto the next target. “Oh Sabine!” 

Now that they were in public, Adrien’s voice disappeared again. But Marinette could read his expressions like an open book. “The suit makes you look older. Of course it would stand out.” 

He nodded in understanding, letting the resentment go. He had no reason to be angry with his mother. He just constantly had to remind himself until it stuck. 

They both took a seat at the table. Obviously, people were schmoozing around and rubbing elbows. But the schmoozers could come over here if they were so inclined. 

Next to Marinette sat her parents, and next to Adrien sat Nino and Alya, while Gabriel and Emilie sat on the other side. Chloe sat at the table next to them, just an arm’s length away from Adrien.  

So they were surrounded by mostly trustworthy people. The jury was still out on Gabriel, but he had at least shown that his harm was unintentional. 

They had to be prepared for the worst if someone in the room decided to go for revenge. 

Of course, now that their identities were out in the open and the party planners were somehow educated on kwamis (probably thanks to Chloé) there was a small doll sized table in the middle of their table, fitted with two chairs and settings. 

“Oh, that’s cute. Tikki, Plagg, you can join us.” 

The Kwamis peeked out of Adrien’s jacket, where they had hunkered down for the night. 

“Oh don’t mind if I do!” Sang Plagg, as he took his seat. “I demand cheese cubes!” 

Tikki was only a beat behind. “Behave yourself Plagg, this is a very fancy event.” 

“And we are the guests of honor,” he said snottily. “While Adrien and Marinette are the brains and bodies, we are the brawn. So we get just as many accolades as them!” 

“Selfish.” Tikki drawled. 

A waiter appeared at the table. “Dinner is still a ways out, but can I get drinks or hors d'oeuvres for anyone?” 

“Your finest cheese cubes, my good man! And keep them coming until I fall out of this chair!” 

“Yes, of course Mr. Black Cat.” 

Gabriel ordered a white wine for the table, while Marinette just asked for water for her and Adrien. 

“It’s alright,” said Sabine. “You can have a glass of wine. It’s a special occasion.” 

“I appreciate that, but I need to be alert. Just in case.” 

Sabine heaved a little sigh, disappointed, but understanding. “Alright. Just try to have a little fun, okay?”

Marinette looked over the crowd again, subtlety trying to see who was watching her.

Considering this was her first public appearance as Ladybug, there were quite a few.

“Did you need something Miss Dupain-Cheng?” A waiter asked. 

“Oh…no, no just—just looking.” 

“Alright, don’t hesitate to flag us down if you need something.”

“Thank you.” 

He cheerfully filled up her water cup before scurrying off. 

Before Marinette could get lost in her scouring, she was interrupted by Gabriel. “Adrien, will you come with me a moment? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” 

Adrien stood from his seat with hesitation. Even now, at an event like this, Gabriel wanted him to rub shoulders with business folk? Maybe not, and so his curiosity propelled him on into following. 

“Should I come too?” Marinette asked. 

“No no, just…just relax Marinette.” 

Ah, so this was one of his business associates. Well, he’d humor his father this once, and see what this was all about. 

They crossed the room, coming upon a group of laughing men, all in expensive suits with expensive wine in hand, with expensive watches on their wrists, and fattened with expensive foods. 

Adrien immediately felt out of place. 

“Adrien, this is M. Mercier. He’s the lawyer handling your case with Salo.” 

“Hello there, kiddo.” The man grasped his hand tightly and shook. “Nice to formally meet! Of course, your father and I have been in contact for a long time. Don’t worry, we have everything under control.”

Well. That was good. It wasn't as if he had to testify or re-hash anything he had been through. It was all recorded. 

“And this is M. Chevrolet, he works on the Board at Gabriel. One of the primary stockholders.” 

“We met when you were just a boy,” he clarified with a tight handshake. “But you were so busy with modeling, there was really no reason for us to chat. But now that that avenue is closed, I’ve been working on finding you a position in the company. One that wouldn’t require too much investment, so you can come home to your wife at night.” He smiled. “And well, since college isn’t in the future either, it might not be exactly lucrative, but you are a stockholder, as Gabriel’s son. Of course, you could always fall back into superheroing, if you think you could.” 

Was this man…mocking him?

“Adrien hasn’t ever specified if he was interested in college or not,” Gabriel said calmly. “But I do thank you for looking out for him. He and Marinette have been…apprehensive about the future.” 

“Oh of course they have.” 

That tone, no matter how well intended, made Adrien bristle. He didn’t have to take this. He didn’t need to be polite. 

He tapped his wrist, an indication he needed meds. 

“Alright, you can go back.” His father excused, absently. 

As Adrien turned to leave, he could hear M. Chevrolet say, “You know, he’s not going to get anywhere not speaking. He’ll be lucky if I can get him in as a janitor.” 

He hurried his paces back to the table, gnawing on his lip and trying not to cry. 

Before he got half-way there, a hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. 

He jumped, yanking his wrist free, and stood prepared to fight. 

A woman looked at him with shock and horror. “Oh my goodness! Mr. Agreste, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to get your attention.” 

Adrien relaxed into a stance a normal person would take. He then noticed there was a little girl sitting at the table next to the woman. The girl’s face was badly scarred, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

“This is my daughter, Adrianne.” The woman smiled. “She…she was in the same place as you. My ex-boyfriend owed that woman some money…and she took Adrianne as ransom. Because you and Ladybug escaped, the police were able to find her and bring her home. So…I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you Chat Noir.” Said Adrianne. She was so quiet, it was almost lost in the crowd. But he heard it, and that’s all that mattered. 

Adrien crouched, getting eye level with the girl, and gently rested a hand on her head, petting her hair in a way that he enjoyed too. The girl smiled up at him, face full of respect and adoration. 

He mimicked the action of typing on a phone. 

“My phone? Uh, here…” Said the woman. 

Adrien put in his contact information, and whispered Adrianne, right in her ear. “If you need anything, just text me. Chat Noir and Ladybug will help.” 

Then, Adrianne’s subdued smile doubled, turning bright and warm. It warmed his chest, and gave him hope.

 —

Marinette kept on a firm alert. It was hard not to panic, with the discovery she had just made, but the fear twitched her fingers. She needed to find Adrien and get out of here, but she couldn’t give away what knowledge she’d learned. 

A man, just a table over, had a gun concealed. She saw it as he reached forward for a glass of water, and she was trying not to stare. 

But she did. 

A very rational part of her brain told her he was probably a police officer, and it was no big deal. But she had killed police officers during her rage, and their vow to protect and serve didn’t prevent thoughts of revenge. 

Once Adrien came back, she’d steer him towards the elevator, and they’d make a break for it. They had appeared. They didn’t owe anyone anything else. 

As she cast her glance over the room, she missed her target moving. “Uh, excuse me?” He asked. 

Marinette turned, wide eyed and horrified to see the man standing beside her. 

He knelt to get on her level. “Sorry, I Uh...I just wanted to check in with you. I saw you looking at my gun. I’m with the police. I’m here because I worked on your case, but I’m also on security.” 

Oh, she knew who he was. Now that she had a good look at him, she recognized him from the last time they met. 

“I stabbed you. At the Police station...I stabbed you with a lance...I killed you.”

“Yeah, you sure did.” He laughed nervously.

She shut her eyes tightly, swallowing the bile in her throat. 

“But,” the man continued. “So did Stoneheart, and Glaciator, and Siren, and Frozer. There were probably a couple others. Being on the force in Paris with Akumas is always a gamble. But, I’m back. Ladybug always brings me back.” 

“I’m sorry...” 

“I forgive you. I haven’t held it against any other Akuma, so why would it be different for you?”

“I...I just...” there was so much relief, she couldn’t find the words to say. She wanted to apologize for being suspicious of him. 

“I’ll be right over there. If anyone tries anything, we’ll handle it. I mean, of course Ladybug and Chat Noir are more than capable of handling anything...the chief just wants you to be able to relax. So, relax. Okay, Miss Ladybug?” 

Marinette allowed herself to take a calming breath and smile. “Thank you. I think I will.” 

It was only a minute or two before Adrien returned, looking less than happy. 

“Is everything alright?”

He didn’t respond to her question, but offered a hand out to her. 

She took it, and allowed him to help her out of her seat. He led her to the dance floor, and wrapped his arm around her waist while he held the other in his own. 

Then, he began to lead her in time with the music. 

“We’re the only ones dancing,” she commented astutely. 

“Yes. Everyone knows it’s rude to interrupt a dancing couple.” 

“Who’d your father want you to meet?” 

“Some rich assholes.” 

“Just as I thought.” 

Adrien guided her out into a twirl, and the band began to play just a little louder. Just for them. 

“There’s a little girl here, Adrianne.” Adrien said. “She was held prisoner like us. You should say hi to her when we get the chance. I gave her my number, in case she needed anything.” 

“I’m glad. I would like to meet her.” A quick turn, and her long skirt flailed outwards in a glittering pinwheel. “There’s security guards here with guns, in case anyone tries any funny business. I was told we could relax.” 

“I am relaxed,” Adrien assured. “This is the most relaxed I can get nowadays.” 

“I feel the same.” 

“But I feel better here with you.” 

“Because I’m tough and I’ll kick anyone’s ass?”

“Yes.” He chuckled. “Exactly.” 

The band lulled into something a little slower, to Tchaikovsky’s Valse Sentimentale, so that Adrien could bring her a little closer, chest to chest. The slow pull of the strings allowed them pause, to hold each other without anyone thinking it was anything other than dancing. 

“Do your feet hurt?” He whispered. 

“No. Are you okay?”

“I’m wonderful, my lady.” 

“Good. We never got to have a first dance at our wedding.” 

“I suppose we can count this for now.” He hummed. “But I want a real wedding first. One that I’m happy for, and I get to see you in a pretty white dress.” 

“This is just practice then,” she amended. “So we can get used to dancing in front of people.” 

“I think our battles were a little like dancing, we worked in tandem all the time.” 

“When we weren’t getting tangled in my yo-yo.” 

“You got better. I secretly think you wanted to be close to me.” 

“Subconsciously, way deep inside.” 

“Glad I finally got you to admit it.” 

“Only to you, love.”

When they finally decided to sit back down, there was some faint applause from the room. 

“You guys are the definition of adorable,” Said Alya, as Adrien helped Marinette take her seat.

“Thank you. It’s fun dancing with a twirly skirt.” 

“I got it on video, if you want it later.” 

“Thanks Al.” 

From there, it was smooth conversation. Gabriel didn’t try to introduce anyone else to them, and Marinette actually found herself beginning to relax. 

The lights dimmed, and Mayor Bourgeois took the podium.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, today we are here to pay respect to the heroes of our city, Ladybug and Chat Noir!” 

There was a resounding applause from the crowd. 

“There is no doubt of your strength and courage. Heroes you were, heroes you will always be. Know that every moment you suffered, we were right there with you, hearts breaking, and voices full of prayers. Hundreds of brave men and women put their lives and families on the line to do what it took to bring you home. Tonight, we want to thank them for their hard work.” 

Marinette closed her eyes, a pain in her gut. Now she would come face to face with the numbers. All the people that died trying to save them? Or was she thanking all the people that failed?

By time she came out of her thoughts, there was a woman up at the podium. “…the brave men and women that were assigned to this case, that spent hours analyzing footage and clues to try and get a lead. It was the most exhausting case the bureau has undertaken to date…”

Marinette crossed her arms, but tried not to show her disdain. What was she supposed to say? Thanks for trying?

“Every day, our hearts broke a little more for our heroes…” 

She heard Adrien sigh behind her.

Soon, another man took the podium. This time, she did catch a name, Arthur Vanderguard, Minister of Interior. The last time she had seen him, he had been dangling off the edge of a building, Chat’s claws in his neck being the only thing separating him from a nasty fall. 

He looked right at them. “Marinette, Adrien, thank you for coming to our little dinner. It hasn’t been that long since you got out, about you’re both looking well. On behalf of the police department, the city of Paris, and France itself, I’m truly sorry for failing you.” 

That was not what she was expecting. These bureaucrats had all gotten up and talked about how hard it was for them, but patting themselves on the back for their hard work anyways. For someone, especially the Minister of Interior, to admit they failed?

It was unfathomable.

“We did try hard. But in the end, Hawkmoth had to step up to the plate. That’s humbling. Someone our city has been fighting for years in the one to fix our mess. We were fighting a war on both sides. The war to save the innocent, and the war to protect the ones we love. Your bravery and strength supersedes that of all of Paris. You endured pain we can’t imagine, even with the footage we saw. And when you escaped, you went out and talked some sense into us. Into me. I was afraid of Edward Savauge and Salo. And that fear prevented me from doing my job. But not anymore. Because of your actions, I and everyone once that were being blackmailed by them are free to do our jobs the way we’re supposed to. The way we vowed we would from the beginning. So, Ladybug, Chat Noir, I owe you an apology, and a sincere thank you. Despite everything, all your pain, all the trauma, you still managed to make Paris a better place. You truly are heroes, and I sincerely hope that you’ll continue to watch over us in one way or another. Thank you.” 

The apology washed over her like fresh water on a hot day. After what she had done to the officials of the city, she was certain she owed them one instead. She underestimated the effect Lady Lacrima had had.

Mayor Bourgeois was back at the podium. “Of course, there is one more person we’d like to hear from tonight. The foundation of hope in Paris, resilient, brave, and strong. The Lady of the hour, Ladybug!”

Marinette tensed up as the crowd clapped. 

“Did you know you were speaking?” Asked Alya. 

“No! No, I had no idea! I don’t know what to say! Alya—“

But a strong hand clasped her shoulder as Adrien stood, taking her place. 

“Adrien?” 

He just kissed her forehead. Then he tugged on Chloe’s pigtail and gestured to her to follow. 

“Err, Chat Noir, everyone!” The Mayor corrected, as Adrien made his way to the podium. 

He took the mic off the stand and handed it to Chloe. 

“What am I supposed to say?” She hissed.

He shook his head, and then went over to the grand piano, silently asking to have a seat. 

The pianist scuttled off, giving him the bench. Adrien moved Chloe’s arm so she was holding the mic in front of his mouth.

Then he began to play. 

Just a chord at a time. High, low, high, low. Slow, and droning. 

Then he began to sing, with a voice soft and full of the grit of silence.

So far from who I was

From who I love

From who I want to be

There were gasps all around the room, shocked to hear him not just speak, but sing.

So far from all our dreams

From all it means

From you here next to me

“Is this the song he was working on?” Whispered Nino. 

“I think so…” 

So far from seeing home

I stand out here alone

Am I asking for too much?

Watching his face, Adrien had closed his eyes, and furrowed his brows in concentration. He was putting everything into this.

So far from being free

Of the past that's haunting me

The future I just can't touch

His voice broke, not conditioned for singing, and so filled with sincerity.

And if you take my hand

Please pull me from the dark

And show me hope again

He looked up and over to Marinette, holding her gaze, like she was the only person in the room. And to him, she was.

We'll run side-by-side

No secrets left to hide

Sheltered from the pain

The song faded out with the final chord, and he stood. The applause was overwhelming, and he bobbed his head in gratitude. As he made his way back over to the table, Marinette stood to greet him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Thank you for saving me, Kitty.” 

“I thought if someone was giving us the opportunity to speak, I ought to make it worthwhile.” 

Marinette kissed him then, right on the lips and unashamed of being seen by anyone.

The rest of the meal went smoothly. Marinette and Adrien were allowed to remain at their table, only occasionally being bothered by other guests, but mostly just basking in the fancy atmosphere and good company. Even Gabriel was on good behavior. Though he did occasionally sneak looks at Adrien throughout the meal.

--

It wasn’t until they got back to the bakery, Gabriel and Emilie included, that things took a turn. 

“Adrien, do you mind if I have a word?” Gabriel asked, as the rest headed upstairs. 

Emilie and Marinette both hesitated, and stayed just out of sight, eavesdropping. 

Adrien had a hunch he knew what was about to happen, and only clenched his fist to hold himself back. 

“Your behavior tonight was inappropriate.” Gabriel began.

Adrien’s nostrils flared, but he remained quiet. 

“You snubbed two very important people that only wanted to help you. It was not an appropriate time to dance with Marinette, especially since I had other people I wanted you to talk to, and you deeply insulted Mayor Bourgeois with that performance. He put on this dinner for you and Marinette, the least you could have done was thank him for it. Instead, you treated this like one of your high school parties. All eyes were on you, and consequently, all eyes were on me.” 

“I’ve heard enough!” Emilie snapped, coming around the corner. 

“Now dear—“

“Don’t you ‘now dear’ me!” She sent a perfectly manicured hand into his cheek. “How dare you, Gabe! Is this how you talked to him after I left? Is this normal for you?!” 

Adrien rested a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, I’ll take it from here.” 

Both Agreste’s snapped their jaws shut at his tone. At his voice.

Marinette peeked around the corner, just visible enough for comfort and support. 

“Father, I don’t need your criticisms anymore. I know perfectly well how to behave at an event. I left the conversation with your ‘important men’ because they were patronizing me. I didn’t appreciate it. I left in the most civil way I could, but I’ve been through too much to be treated like that. I’m not stupid, and I’m not weak. I’m just as capable as anyone else. Maybe more so.” He breathed deep, being spurred on by the attentive look on Gabriel’s face. He wasn’t angry, he was just listening. “I wanted to dance with my wife. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. No one else seemed to mind. And, that song I performed I wrote myself, in isolation. Marinette wasn’t prepared to speak, but I knew my song would convey everything that needed to be said.” He nodded once. “There. I explained myself. Are you happy now?” 

Gabriel Agreste didn’t smile. Not really. The closest he got was a slight twitch of his lips. And that’s what he did. “Yes. I am.” 

Adrien blinked. “You are?”

“Yes. Thank you for explaining to me. I misunderstood your behavior. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” 

Adrien almost cried then. Both from shock and relief. 

“It was a very lovely song, by the way. I think it did get the point across.” 

“Th…thank you, Father.” 

“You’re welcome.” He squeezed his arm. “Now come along, I believe Sabine is making coffee for us.”

--

Adrien’s song is ‘So Far’ by Olafur Arnalds.

[bookandcranny]

Beatrice - Chapter Five

She sucked on her lower lip and it tasted sweet. Bittersweet really, but any amount of sweetness was good enough for her.

Sprinting up the staircase two at a time, Gianna couldn’t remember why the climb had ever been an obstacle. She burst into her apartment and out of it again, through the window, onto the fire escape. Before she could think to be afraid, she leaped.

If she’d faltered, if she’d slowed for a second before making that jump, she would’ve hit the ledge and, best case scenario, clawed her way up to safety with a shattered pelvis. The worst case scenario was a lot messier and, she decided, not worth thinking about at the moment. 

The important thing was she had made it, barely, and miraculously unbroken too. Unbroken because “unharmed” would’ve been too generous a word for it. She landed badly, twisting her ankle and spilling forward onto hands and knees. It was only thanks to the cradle of some overgrown greenery that she hadn’t cracked her skull open on the fountain while on her belly blindly grasping for leverage.

Maybe it was the headrush of having survived her nigh-suicidal recklessness, but the combined scents of the garden were making her dizzy. The exotic flowers’ natural perfume that had been pleasant at a distance now took on a noxious quality. The air seemed to be choking her. How did Beatrice stand it, she wondered.

Feeling a strange twinge she looked down at her scraped palms and sucked in a sharp breath. The cuts themselves were barely deep enough to draw blood, but beneath the tissue she was bubbling, boiling. She tore her eyes away and blinked hard to dispel the vision. 

Am I awake? Am I dreaming again? Did I miss the ledge?

Her mind screamed at her.

It’s something in the air. It’s something about these damn plants. An infection? An allergy? No, can’t think about it now. There’s no time. Look away, deal with it later.

Thankfully the sliding door was unlocked. Most people don’t expect intruders at five stories up. It opened with a click and Gianna tensed, withholding herself against the urge to rush in, metaphorical guns blazing. She stood there in the doorway and listened for sounds of distress, but it was eerily silent. The luxury apartment was as serene and sterile as she remembered it.

“Bea?” she whispered as she stepped inside. “Beatrice?”

No response. Her own dragging footsteps were loud in the emptiness, scraping along the tile like a murmuring: hush, hush. 

Gianna rounded a corner into the dining room and there she found her, and the mad doctor too. Beatrice was sitting at the table in a white dress with a gauzy quality to it that reminded her, sickly, of a wedding dress. Dr Rappaccini came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder before at length turning his sunken eyes towards the uninvited guest.

When he spoke, his voice sounded thick as if speaking around a swelling. “After all these years, you think I don’t recognize the taste of one of my own formulas? I’ve been doing this since before you were born, children.”

“It was only medicine, Father,” Beatrice insisted, looking up at him. “To help you sleep.”

“A long sleep indeed,” he growled. Gianna had no rightful reason to flinch away from the fury of an old, sick, and at least partially drugged old man, she reasoned. There was nothing of him to be so afraid of. But she did, and she was, and deep down she always had been, since the moment she saw him. There was something wrong with him, something she couldn’t put a name to, although if she tried the word “evil” might make an appearance. 

It had been a long time since Gianna had considered herself one among the faithful, the kind of person to buy into such archaic concepts as pure good vs pure evil. She never quite believed in a soul that could be broken down into quantifiable measurements— a half cup of goodness, an even ounce of vice. She couldn’t say from what recipe a man like Dr Rappaccini was formed, but what she saw before her now repulsed her. The layers of him peeled off like old paint and underneath were all the years and all the people who ever imposed their will on her. It didn’t make her feel righteous, it made her feel small and scared. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t want to catch what he had.

“This really has gone too far.” He spoke not to her but to Beatrice again. Although he kept her penned within his periphery, Gianna was an insect to him. “What did you think would happen? That you’d run away together? Go off into the sunset and live happily forever after like those books you read? You know better. This is only a passing fancy. She’ll die, and you’ll find another.”

Then he touched her cheek, almost tenderly. For a moment he almost looked like the father he was, or at least pretended to be. Gianna saw him and a younger Beatrice: teaching her, dressing her, holding her, bringing her to life only to take it away.

“Let go of her, she’s coming with me.”

Dr Rappaccini sneered. “Oh by all means. Who am I to get in the way of my daughter’s happiness? But if you two are going to insist on keeping up this charade, I think it’s only right I let you know what you’re getting into.”

The young woman stiffened. “Father, please don’t.”

“Have you been feeling ill lately, Ms Alexander? Been noticing some certain sudden changes?”

Gianna instinctively closed her fists and felt her bloodied palms sting.

“Now now, no need to be embarrassed. I’m a doctor you know.” He wheezed a little laugh to himself. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? Peculiar dreams? Maybe even during the day you find yourself feeling disoriented, seeing things. Do you find yourself feeling breathless or dizzy when you take in the city air? If not, you will. The medicine my daughter so kindly shared with you will be wearing off soon.”

Startled, she turned a questioning glance to Beatrice, but the other woman wouldn’t look at her. She’d told her the tea was medicinal, but it had never occurred to Gianna that she might be more familiar with the ailment than she let on. 

“It’ll only get worse from here, you know. Look at me,” he coughed. “Like the late great Madame Curie, my passions took their toll on me in the end. Though not before affording me a sturdy tolerance for most known and unknown poisons, I’ll have you know. That’s over fifty years of gradual exposure for you. Ah, but you didn’t come here to listen to me talk about work. 

“I’ll get to the point. You can treat the symptoms, but there’s no cure, no release from her poison. Even as we speak it’s tainting your healthy young blood, devouring you from the inside out. If I act fast, you may still live to a ripe old age. You might not even have any lasting side effects, lucky thing! But all this is if I give you the antitoxin, and if you don’t continue to willfully expose yourself to the source.”

“The source? You mean…?”

“Yes! My sweet Beatrice.” He petted her hair with the back of his fingers. “Lovely, isn’t she? Everything I grow… so very lovely. Don’t worry, I’d never do a thing to harm her. Can she say the same about you?”

“Don’t listen to him!” Beatrice stood up suddenly, surprising both Gianna and Rappaccini himself. “I never wanted to hurt you! I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

“But you can’t help it,” said the doctor. “It’s in your nature. It’s in your scent, the touch of your skin. Imagine what she could do with a kiss, Ms Alexander! Oh I almost want to see it. I’m sure it would produce some valuable data. But I’m not the cruel monster you make me out to be. That’s why I tried to stop you, even though my daughter begged me not to spill her secret. I tried to make you understand. 

“She can’t be released upon the world. Maybe in a few generations we’ll have a version that can control her own potency, but not yet. Not you, Beatrice.”

The poison-blooded woman spun on her creator. “Why did you make me! Why did you make me like this! Why bring me into the world at all if I can’t be a part of it! What is the point of being alive if I can’t touch another living thing without hurting them!”

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, hot and angry. Gianna instinctively reached out to comfort her.

“No, stay away!” she screamed.

Dr Rappaccini took her into his arms. Her tears soaked through the shoulder of his ill-fitting coat and raised his flesh with welts, yet he didn’t flinch. Arrogant gray eyes locked with Gianna’s and the message was clear. No matter how much she loved her, Beatrice belonged to him. She would rather choose an empty life under the heel of a man who could never truly care for her over the risk that she might further harm the one person who did.

Then, a curious thing happened. It started with a gentle rumbling that gradually grew in intensity like the beginnings of an earthquake. Then there was the smell. Beatrice always had a slightly floral scent to her that Gianna had assumed was perfume, but now, like in the garden, it was so overpowering that it seared the nose and throat and muddled the senses. Rappaccini noticed as well and turned to his daughter with a delirious look on his face.

“Girl, what have you done?”

The woman lifted her head. Veins like dark tendrils bulged beneath her skin, wispy strands of violet encroaching at the corners of her eyes like ink in water. A noxious venom bubbled up and spilled over her lower lip. The doctor staggered backwards. Gianna might have followed his lead if she were in her right mind, but as it was she was stricken, mesmerized by her. Even through the confusion and the terror, she wanted to reach for her. Her blood sang out to embrace her.

There was a sound of shattering glass from the terrace and the garden rushed in, spilling over and crashing like a tidal wave, flooding every room it entered with rapidly growing roots and bright green vines. The onslaught of green grew and morphed and stretched and with every pulse of its new buds and branches there was a noise like a muffled human scream.

The slithering stems ignored Gianna, skated right past Beatrice unbothered, and latched onto the form of Dr Rappaccini, pulling taught as they snared him.

“Beatrice!” he cried out, but not in horror or in rage. Oddly enough, though he was alarmed, when he looked into the face of his creation, the creation who would destroy him, his expression was one of absolute wonder.

“How are you doing this, Beatrice? How?”

She looked at him, with her eyes still clouded and the nectar of her ire dripping freely from her lips, and she said, “No.”

Only then did true panic set in for the scientist, for he understood exactly what that no meant. 

Vines began to encircle his torso and pour into his open mouth, choking him, soaking up the living wet warmth of him and pouring in their poisons. They dragged his limp body, barely recognizable now, back out into the garden. They raked him over the shattered remains of the glass door and took him into their soil until no bit of him could be seen under the still earth.

The renowned genius Dr Giacoma Rappaccini died without ever knowing the whole truth of what he had created, without even the parting gift of that understanding, that knowledge he had so fervently sought after. That right had been revoked from him. Even so it could be said that Dr Rappaccini died with some sense of satisfaction. After all, what parent isn’t joyed to see their child finally surpass them?

As the flood of plants retreated so too did the murky discoloration of Beatrice’s eyes and skin, leaving only a faint sheen of laboured sweat. Unthinking Gianna moved towards her but her legs buckled halfway there. Her eyes rolled back and for a moment all the universe narrowed to the feeling of hands carefully lowering her to the floor.

“Oh God, Gianna.”

She blinked and saw Beatrice kneeling over her, felt the warmth of her breath. It occurred to her suddenly that she could very well be about to die. She wasn’t in any pain though. Even the ache from her twisted ankle was gone. If anything, she felt extraordinarily well, for a paralyzed person. The only improvement, she thought foggily, would be if she were able to just move. If she could move it all, if she could speak, then there would be nothing that she couldn’t say, not ever again.

“Gianna, I’m so sorry.” She leaned her head against Gianna’s breastbone and sobbed. “I love you. I love you.”

Gianna’s heart fluttered. In fact, it pounded so hard and so loud that Beatrice head shot back up with surprise. She sniffled and blinked back tears.

“Gi-Gianna? Are you still in there?”

Obviously Gianna couldn’t respond, but she searched her face and must have found an answer in it regardless. 

“If you can hear me… I’m going to try something. It- it might… I don’t want to hurt you. That’s what I was trying to… I don’t, I’ve never been able to control it before, but every time you looked at me I just, just tried to focus on that, on how much I wanted…” She swallowed thickly. “So I’m going to try one more time. One more time, okay? I’ll think about how much I love you, and you think about… well you just think about staying alive and maybe… maybe this time. Maybe it’ll turn out alright this time.”

With that, she closed her eyes and kissed her. It was everything Gianna had dreamed and nothing she had expected. Clumsy and inexperienced, gentle and sweet, and something sort of tingly she had a feeling wasn’t entirely due to attraction or apprehension or any mix thereof. She felt her eyes fall closed and her own lips part slightly to let her in. Too late she registered the sensation of something liquid pooling on her tongue, falling down her throat. She choked, briefly, then reflex kicked in and she swallowed. 

“Gianna?” Beatrice asked nervously.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “You too,” she croaked. “I love you too. I would’ve told you sooner if I knew.”

“If you knew what?”

“That, that you needed to hear it. Someone should’ve told you sooner. Someone should’ve told you a long time ago how lovable you are.”

As she recovered Gianna touched a finger to her lips and it came away sticky. She sucked on her lower lip and it tasted sweet. Bittersweet really, but any amount of sweetness was good enough for her.

“Not to be the nosy overbearing girlfriend or anything, but what just happened exactly?”

Beatrice sat back on her heels. “I’m not really sure where to start. You’ve probably already figured out that I’m… not entirely human.”

“And all that talk about you being a hybrid and like a poisonous plant wasn’t entirely metaphorical, huh?”

She smiled sadly. “Father was always open with me about what I am. I wanted to be open with you too but part of me was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. The other part was afraid you would.”

A fair assumption. Even having witnessed the ultimate show of her power firsthand, she still had a hard time internalizing it.

The conflict must have been apparent on her face; Beatrice pulled away from her, folding her hands over her lap.

“I’m dangerous, I know. Nothing my father said was a lie, but there were things even he didn’t know about me. When you told me we could run away… you made it sound so simple, you know? It really made me believe I could do it. I really thought I could change. I thought I could be more like you, but instead I think I made you more like me.”

Gianna looked down at her hands. The cuts from earlier had sealed themselves closed, not so much as a scratch remaining.

“I’ve never tried to do that before. I don’t know exactly how it’ll affect you, or how much. You might live to be two hundred now. Or you might start to kill everything you touch.” A noise escaped her that was half laugh, half sob. “But I do know what would’ve happened if I left you like that, in that in-between state. Maybe it’s selfish of me. Father said it was. He told me if I cared for you at all I should send you away before it was too late, but I just…”

Gianna touched her. She shivered. “You never would’ve been able to scare me off anyway. I’m too stubborn for that.”

Beatrice sighed, sinking into her touch like she was a warm bed on a freezing cold night.

“So, what now?” Gianna asked at length, though she was reluctant to think of anything beyond this moment. This, all that she’d discovered, it did change things. Just not the things that mattered. Not as far as she was concerned, at least. “I mean, I guess we don’t have to leave now, but you do have a body in your garden so…”

“No. I want to. I want to leave.”

“Then we will,” said Gianna. “I just need to make a call first.”

-----

Petra pulled up to the curb outside a street she had intended never to visit again and opened the door with a glare.

“Gianna. I see you’re still alive despite ignoring every single warning I tried to give you.”

Before Gianna could respond she got up and pulled her into a clumsy hug.

“Crazy girl,” she muttered affectionately.

For half a second Gianna relaxed into the hug, before she remembered herself and pulled back with a gasp.

“What’s wrong?”

No blisters or rashes forming spontaneously on her skin. No sign of any adverse reaction at all. Her shoulders sagged with relief. It seemed she hadn’t absorbed Beatrice’s more overtly toxic qualities along with her immunity. Or, not yet at least.

The thought had been nagging at the back of her mind, that more traits might yet blossom down the line. Even Beatrice, by her own account, hadn’t been born with many of her abilities but rather had grown into them throughout her childhood and into the early years of adolescence. 

And I thought puberty was bad enough as it is.

“Nothing,” she replied at length. “I’m just a little sore.”

She had explained the situation to the best of her ability over the phone, but had omitted more a number of key details. Some things she withheld with purpose, some because she felt it wasn’t her story to tell, some simply because she couldn’t find the words. 

To Petra’s knowledge, Gianna had made plans to run away with Rappaccini’s daughter and when the man refused her, had broken into his apartment. This led to a struggle which resulted in his accidental death. All technically true. The details she chose to keep vague for the time being, until she could be certain the professor was on their side, although she had a sneaking suspicion she knew more than she let on anyway.

Petra looked from Gianna to the visibly shaken young woman who was clinging to her side. “Who did him in?”

“I did,” said Gianna without a thought. She’d been mentally rehearsing her story while they waited. “He found out about me and Bea and made it very clear that he was willing to kill us both to stop it from happening. I freaked out and pushed him, and he fell. He was old and frail. It was an accident.”

She nodded along with the tale but her thoughts were plainly elsewhere. Gianna got the impression she didn’t entirely believe her. That was fine, as long as she didn’t press.

“Where is he?”

She let go of the breath she’d been holding. That, she could answer definitively. “In the garden. Under it, I guess.”

Another nod. “It’ll do. He was a shut-in; I doubt anyone will come looking for him. I assume anyone who knew him well enough also would know better than to investigate his disappearance too closely. I’ll keep an eye on things, just in case.”

It probably should’ve bothered Gianna how nonchalant she appeared about a former colleague’s murder, even one she had a bad history with. But truthfully she was just grateful Petra had agreed to all of this so easily. She had no desire to look too closely at her motivations.

Petra reached into her pocket and handed Gianna a slip of paper with an address written on it.

“My summer home,” she explained. “You can lay low there for a while.”

“Petra… thank you.”

“Thank you. You’ve done me the service of taking care of something I should have a long time ago. Maybe once the good doctor’s research is in ashes I’ll finally be able to sleep through the night.”

She said it lightly, but there was a grave seriousness in her eyes.

“Please, not the garden,” Beatrice said softly. She’d spoken little since they’d left the apartment and it was no wonder why. The gravity of her actions was now beginning to sink in, and that combined with leaving the safety and familiarity of her home for the first time in her life had put her in a state of shock. 

She never would truly regret laying Dr Rappaccini to rest, but the world did feel like a very different place without him in it.

“Is there any way you could get the plants to us once we’re there?”

“I’ll do my best, I can promise you that much.” She looked Beatrice up and down, really taking her in for the first time. “So you’re the ‘daughter.’”

“I am. I was.”

Dr Bagnol flexed her fingers around the handle of her cane, quietly contemplative. For the first time that Gianna had ever seen, she was unsure of what to say. “Did you ever… The other experiments, did they…?”

Beatrice inclined her head. Thankfully she needed no elaboration. “My father told me some. He said there were others before me, my sisters, but that they were imperfect and didn’t survive more than a few weeks. Your name’s Dr Bagnol, isn’t it? He spoke about you too, once or twice I think. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time.” She hesitated. “They’re happy now, if it helps. I never met them while they were alive but they talk to me through the flowers, though I can’t always understand them. My father didn’t believe me when I told him. There were a lot of things he didn’t believe in.”

The woman hummed in acknowledgment. “It’s a pretty unbelievable story. But I’ve dared to put my faith in plenty of strange ideas and often I’ve been right. For better or for worse.”

Petra gestured to the open car door and handed Gianna the keys. 

“You’d better get moving.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I’ve got things to take care of here, the sooner the better. Don’t worry about the car. It’s the least I can do.” Her gaze lingered on Beatrice. “I’ve missed a lot of birthdays.”

They packed their bags into the trunk and Gianna settled into the driver’s seat. Catching the other’s anxious look she assured her, “We’ll go slow.”

“You may not have that luxury,” Petra said with the certainty of someone who had made her own share of narrow escapes. She rapped her knuckles on the hood of the car. “Go now and don’t stop until you’re across the state line.”

Nodding grimly Gianna spared one last look to the older woman: her co-conspirator, her mentor, her friend. “Thank you.”

They drove, and little by little New York retreated in the rear view until it blipped out of existence, a vanishing dream. Gianna would’ve liked to say she was sorry to leave it behind but in reality, the city wasn’t her home. It wasn’t her tiny apartment with the glitchy kitchen light and plastered over vintage moulding, nor even the house in the suburbs where her parents still lived, blissfully unaware of their daughter’s doings. 

To her, home was an ephemeral thing, the stops on the way to a destination that was always changing. Beatrice on the other hand had only known one home all her life, one which may never exist for her again, at least not in the same way it had. 

Yet when Gianna dropped one hand from the wheel and reached for her, she slotted her fingers between hers with no hesitation, only a trembling sigh as she continued to familiarize herself with the skin-to-skin contact. That too, Gianna thought, could be home. If nothing else, she could try and make it one for her.

A few hours passed with fewer words spoken between them. Sometimes she would ask Beatrice if she was hungry or feeling motion sick or if she wanted to try lying down in the back to get some rest, and each time she would answer with a polite shake of the head. The night settled over them like a deep blue linen, too gentle and frail to risk tearing with clumsy words.

The quiet wasn’t a bother to either of them. If talk is cheap then the clasping of hands and the soft kisses pressed to wrists and knuckles was a language that had cost them dearly.

Nearing their destination, Gianna pulled onto a sideroad that took them from asphalt to dirt and gravel to nothing as it came to an abrupt dead end. There was no house or even any helpful landmarks to be found, just grass and trees, so they parked the car to have a look around while Gianna fiddled with the GPS.

Beatrice stepped out into the field and filled her lungs, cautiously at first, and then in deep lusty breaths like a drowning body coming up for air. She shucked off her shoes and hiked up her dress to let the wild grass brush against her legs. The new plantlife turned brittle and curled away from her touch but she didn’t mind.

Gianna turned to find her partner lying in the middle of the field, heels digging into the dirt like she was trying to put down roots, and laughing giddily. The unrestrained, childlike joy on her face was contagious and Gianna soon found herself giggling as well.

“Having fun?” 

“Oh it’s so weird,” she hiccuped. “There aren’t any walls. There aren’t even any buildings. It just goes on and on forever.”

She sat down in the grass next to her. “It’s not too overwhelming?”

“It is, but in a good way. It’s so… so much more than I thought it would be from books and pictures. It feels like a dream.”

“Describe it to me,” she said.

Beatrice sat herself upright and curled into Gianna’s embrace.

“It’s not the same as being in my garden. These plants don’t speak to me, and I can feel them but I don’t know them, if that makes any sense. You can’t feel them at all, can you?”

“No. Whatever you gave me… I don’t know, maybe it just doesn’t work that way.”

She tried not to look disappointed. Being able to touch, to be beside one another like this and not have to worry should have been enough. It was enough. But Gianna was beginning to understand that Beatrice’s loneliness was a vein that ran deeper than the more obvious isolation she experienced. 

As Dr Rappaccini himself had alluded to, she was one of a kind. To Gianna, that just made her all the more amazing, but to Beatrice it was a curse. More than anything, maybe more than to be loved, she longed to be understood. 

“Wish your superpowers could help us find this stupid house,” Gianna remarked.

Beatrice perked up. “Actually, I think it’s just on the other side of those trees.”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t really know how to explain it but there’s this absence. Like, a blank space. Things are growing around it but in that space,” She made the shape of a square with her hands. “Nothing.”

Gianna stood up and brushed herself off. “Well let’s take a look then.”

Sure enough, the path picked up again on the other side of a small thicket and led them to the house-- more of a cabin really. Although the outside was just as overgrown from the years of neglect, aside from some dust and cobwebs the interior was remarkably well preserved. In a closet they found a broom and dustpan, some rags, and a bottle with an inch or so of cleaner still swishing around at the bottom. They also happened upon spare linens and an abandoned down comforter that had been tucked aside for a rare chilly day, blessedly free of grime. 

The weather was still plenty warm so they opened all the windows and aired out the rooms and when Gianna was confident no spiders would crawl into her mouth while they were sleeping, she bid Beatrice join her under the duvet. There they dreamed with nothing but that big comforter between them and the night air. That was how they stayed until the morning.

For weeks they lived like this, playacting the roles of the two happy honeymooners. They got up, worked on cleaning up the house, cooked, ate, went to bed, and occasionally slept. It was a strange dance, one whose steps they made up as they went along. And sometimes they fell out of step. 

Gianna had to go into town sometimes, to walk in the all too human places Beatrice still feared to tread and come back with supplies and dinner and a new book for her to read. It was nice, Beatrice thought, to be cared for in little ways like that, but though she gratefully accepted the gifts they also tended to remind her that when it came down to it, not very much had changed.

Her dictatorial father was gone, but so was her garden, her petaled elder sisters whom she cared for and cared for her in turn. The doors were all unlocked now, but many days she found herself lurking in the thresholds listening for the sound of tires crunching on leaflitter. In those interrums, she was as alone as she’d ever been.

When Gianna was there though, all was lovely. She gave her things she never imagined she would have-- at least not so freely, certainly not multiple times in one night. But in the wake of her affection a sick fretful feeling would open up like a chasm in her chest, taunting her as it ripped her in two, “Don’t you know how to be alive without trailing at someone’s heel?”

Its presence, this nebulous worry, dogged her day by day. In the small hours, while her girlfriend slept, Beatrice lay awake trying to trace the shape of this shadow that darkened the edges of her newfound happiness. 

“Bea? You okay?”

She was standing outside in the grass, near the woods that surrounded the cabin. She liked to be here. Wandering too far made her nervous so she had to devise more creative ways to explore the world that was now open to her. Often she came here to test the reach of her awareness, feeling her way through the landscape as if with a phantom limb. 

However Gianna found it a little unnerving to watch her girlfriend standing and staring into space for hours on end and typically only joined her when it had been long enough for her to get worried.

Beatrice blinked and rolled her neck experimentally. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She put a hand on her shoulder. “Dinner’s ready.”

They twined their arms together as they walked the beaten path back to the house. It was times like this that she felt she could forget her concerns and just enjoy the present moment. Whatever came next, she wanted to have as many moments like that as she could.

--

next chapter

[captainjimothycarter]

So it's a silly image but I like to imagine Steve realizing that Peggy was responsible for what's now one of New Yorks first gay bars, but back until the 90s it was an underground secret no one knew about. "Everyone needs a place to be themselves."

i don’t think this was silly at all. I love the HC so much and I hope I did it honor. Thank you for sharing it with me.

--

“What’s this?” Steve asked the second Natasha flung an old file down on top of his sketchbook. His nose wrinkled from the dust, fingers brushing over the frayed edges. This thing had to be decades old, but the same could apparently be said for him in this new century.

It was an old, unmarked file with the edges starting to yellow and fray. He was afraid if he picked it up by the edges or flicked it open, the thing would crumble apart in his hands. There wasn’t one single, distinguishing mark on this thing. It was odd, considering most of the files that Natasha had tossed his way recently were marked with some sort of SHIELD symbol or even the SSR. This one was null.

“What do you think it is?” Natasha huffed, sitting herself down across the table from him. She nearly blended into the gray walls with her outfit, the only part of her that stood out, as always was the bright, red hair. Her voice was kept down low, not in a this is a shared secret sort of way, but more of we’re in public and in a library so don’t you dare we loud.

Even if this was SHIELD’S library.

“I don’t know. Looks like a file.” 

Steve couldn’t help but roll his eyes, dropping it down so it laid on top of the book he was reading. Natasha complained he spent far too much time in the library but given the circumstances of waking up in some new century where everyone you knew was dead (including the love of your life), then you sort of became a shell of yourself and hid away in Shield’s library. One, to read all you can about missed events, and two, to hide away and distract yourself with the knowledge of the fact that you had to play catch-up of the last 60-something years.

“Just open it, Steve. I think you’ll find the contents interesting.”

His mouth opened but what could he say? Argue? Insist? Nothing. There would be nothing that he could say that would get Natasha to take this file away because she knew she’d won. She had plopped it in front of him, an unmarked file, and sat down and at him expectedly. Curiosity would get the better of him, even if Steve didn’t want to admit it. 

Natasha’s eyebrow rose in a manner that reminded Steve of his mother, that insistingly asked him if he was really done with telling the whole story. Instead, she silently waited, arms crossed over her chest.

Steve reserved his sigh for another day when she might care more about his wants and just did the quickest thing that would get her to leave him alone. He opened the damn file and immediately wished he didn’t.

Front face and center was the love of his life. Or well, there was a photo of her. Actually, there were several photos of her. Photos that he wasn’t even aware that existed. Peggy must’ve been shortly after the war, standing next to who could’ve only been Angie. She was smilingly brightly despite the shiner and he could hear her laughter echoing in his head, see the red lips despite the black and white photo. They stood with a group of people he didn’t recognize either. People that she looked friendly or even close to given how one guy was holding onto her waist. 

Steve wasn’t jealous, not by much. Maybe a small flicker of jealousy flared to life inside of him, but it instantly cooled down when he made the connection. Or, one connection. Just hidden between them, he could see the guy holding her waist was also holding hands with a gentleman that was smiling brightly at the camera. 

Oh. 

It reminded him of the gay clubs he and Bucky would risk visiting when Steve was in the better days of his illnesses when there wasn’t a risk of them being seen and ratted out by neighbors or when he wouldn’t risk coughing up a blood-clotted lung.

Sadly, there was nothing on the other side of the photo. Not that Steve expected much, Peggy had her manner of keeping things organized, and being a spy meant you left little untraced. So why she allowed herself to be photographed was beyond him.

No answer came with the next photo.

Even if in this one, he could make out the bruise under the makeup she tried to hide it with. He could see her eyes crinkling in the corners when she laughed and smiled at the camera. Her red lips instantly claiming his attention. Despite the crowd of men around her, some familiar to the old photo and some new, Steve didn’t look at them. He looked at her eyes, the warm, honey-coated eyes that were a sign to him that screamed welcomed home.

Natasha wouldn’t give these to him to stare at the photos of his beloved, she wanted him to see something, but what?

There were still men and women around her, some dressed in stylish outfits, some with funky-looking ones. Angie was still beside her and despite the closeness of the pair, one man each hung from their shoulders. The same two men who held hands in the photo before. They stood in front of a brick wall, one that looked familiar to him, but why?

It was an itch in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite scratch.

There were more people in the next photo, more than enough to sit two photos side by side so he could cram them together to see the full photo. Still, nothing. Still, Peggy and Angie and a group of people. Men holding hands, a little braver to be outside the frame of the two women. And still that same brick wall, but why was that brick wall familiar? Why did that little notch right above Angie’s left ear hit him like, well, a stack of bricks?

And why did the next few photos, each following more, and more people, until Peggy stood by herself in front of the building, silver in her hair, a wedding band on her fingers, but pride radiating in those fierce eyes, frustrate him more?

Steve just wanted to slam these photos down and take a walk, take a breather. He doubts Natasha did this to be cruel, to throw his reminder that he had loved and lost into his face. He did that enough to himself.

Sighing, Steve ran a hand over his hair and dropped his hand beside the last photo of Peggy. Older. Shortly before she died of old age. Silver in her hair, wrinkles on her face but a fierce, determined look. 

It hit him then, why those bricks frustrated him so much, why that notch in the brick made his heart drop.

That very notch was made from Bucky using a slingshot to scare off the bees because they terrified his baby sister. 

Those red bricks belonged to the apartments that he and Bucky grew up in.

There was more in the file but Steve didn’t want to look. He wanted to shut the damn thing and turn away. Instead, he swallowed and picked up a newspaper article from the 1990s. Peggy was on the cover, holding onto a cane, looking dead in the cameras as if she was daring a soul to challenge her.

Peggy Carter: Fighting the Unseen Fight is what the title read.

“It was a gay bar,” Natasha murmured, drawing Steve from his thoughts. She must’ve seen how his hand was shaking around the article. “Peggy Carter assisted in running a few underground gay bars in New York, up until the 1990s where...the one she is standing in front of is one of the first public gay bars to open.”

“I…” Steve swallowed, his throat feeling dry. It felt like he took in a mouthful of dust. “I don’t know...why?”

“I think you know why,” she mused, giving him an almost loving look. “Because she wanted to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I wonder where she got that from?”

“She’s always had that,” Steve snorted, forcing himself to let go of the files. “Always fiercely protective of her loved ones. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Yes, but you stirred the fires inside of her. She might not have done it because of you, but she did it in your name.”

Tapping the newspaper, the woman sat back and Steve sighed as he looked back down at it. He forced himself to read the last few questions and answers.

Why did you do it?

“Everyone needs a place to be themselves. If no one else was to protect the innocent, then I had to step up to the plate to do so. I’m only lucky that some of my connections had agreed to protect us when things got bad. During the movement, we became safe houses and safe havens for those who needed protection. Not once do I regret my actions.”

Why here? Why open the first gay bar here?

“I…could think of no place better. Steven Grant Rogers was an inspiration to me, the driving force as to how I actually met my wife. During the war, we’ve seen men, great men being sent back home for being in love with people of the same sex. I’ve seen Captain Rogers step up to the plate to put a stop to it, to take falls for kissing men and women when all of us knew that he was far from the situation at the time given the nature of the job. I’ve seen him lie straight to people’s faces, no matter their position in the government or war to keep our men’s feet on the ground. I’ve seen him harbor his best friend’s secrets until the day they both died. I protected those men and women before I met Captain Rogers again and even after he died, but Steven...gave me the courage to do more.”

“I…” Steve, this time had to open and close his mouth, to force his brain to think. “I don’t know what to say..”

“Don’t then,” Natasha breathed, reaching over to take Steve’s hand and give a gentle squeeze. “She knew you were bisexual before you even knew.”

“I think that can be said about a lot of things.”

Natasha’s lips twitched into a small smile before it disappeared. “Would you like to see the bar? It’s still functional to this day. I think it’s written into some post SSR, pre-SHIELD clause that it has to be protected and kept open. It’s still in the same spot.”

Sitting back, the blonde let out a long sigh and picked up his jacket. He might as well, he was getting nothing else done today. Not when his mind was on Peggy, on everything she’s done. “Sure. Just...what is it called?”

Natasha paused, leading them out of the empty library. Her head craned over her shoulder to watch Steve carefully tuck the file inside of his coat and follow after her. “Captain’s Commandos.” 

[shewhobefuddles]

Jordelia Playlist

Okay, here's the playlist of Jordelia songs (and their explanations) I've compiled over quarantine through sheer boredom, and starvation of more TSC content. Feel free to skip the explanations, I just have too much time on my hands and wanted to get my thoughts out. I put a shortlist below to skip the writing. 

Add songs in the comments!!!

Shortlist

Heather- Conan Gray

All I Ask- Adele

Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift

Stone Cold- Demi Lovato

Like We Never Loved At All- Faith Hill, Tim McGraw

Make You Feel My Love- Adele

Apologize- One Republic

The Last Time- Taylor Swift

Moral of the Story (slowed) - Ashe

Burning- Sam Smith

Without a Word- Birdy

Kiss Me- Ed Sheeran

Salvation- Gabrielle Aplin

Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: I. Prelude- Bach

Heather- Conan Gray

We all saw this one coming, but it really is a good song that I think goes well with Cordelia’s situation. “But I watch your eyes as she walks by; what a sight for sore eyes.” The song quite beautifully describes a classic case of unrequited love, and how it feels to watch the person you care about be obsessed with someone else. Cordelia spends the book watching James follow Grace around, and pushing aside her romantic feelings for him, as she believes that he does not return them. Even after they’re engaged, she accepts that he will never love her, and his feelings for Grace will remain. Of course, we all know there are magical, manipulative forces at play here, but James and Cordelia don’t yet.

All I Ask- Adele

“So don’t get me wrong I know, there is no tomorrow, all I ask is if this is my last night with you, hold me like I’m more than just a friend.”  This song is absolutely beautiful, and if you listen to nothing else on this playlist, listen to this. An underrated Adele masterpiece. Anyways, it again relates to unreciprocated love, and the desire to have one last good memory with the person you love before you have to leave. This makes me think of the desperation of time running out in James and Cordelia’s fake engagement, and Cordelia trying to savor each moment, even though she thinks James isn’t doing the same. It makes me picture her trying to memorize how it feels to be held in his arms as his fiancee/wife, with their inevitable divorce looming over her. I don’t know if they will actually divorce, or even end up getting married. Who knows how their fake engagement will play out. But still, she’d be anticipating divorce, and feeling these things all the same. 

Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift (listen to the slowed version for even more feels; idk why but slowed versions always have more tension)

“Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe. Red lips and rosy cheeks; say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your wildest dreams.”  To me, these are the silent pleas of Cordelia as she prepares to leave James, hoping that he’ll still think of her, remember her fondly, even if it’s just in his wildest dreams. It’s also James. James will eventually wake up from his enchantment, and when he does I’m sure he’ll be filled with regret over what he could’ve had with Cordelia, remembering only once the enchantment is off how beautiful she was, how much of a wonderful person she was that he connected with so strongly. This song adds a layer of wistfulness and time gone by between the couple’s memories, and where the couple is now, recollecting them, which hopefully won’t happen in the books. I hope that years don’t go by between Cordelia and James seeing each other, after everything with their engagement. But it’s an interesting thought.

Stone Cold- Demi Lovato (her live/acoustic versions are also worth a listen!)

“I’m happy for you, know that I am, even if I can’t understand. I’ll take the pain, give me the truth. Me and my heart, we’ll make it through. If happy is her, I’m happy for you.” Tears. Tears. Cordelia is so kind, mature, and understanding, and she has never once blamed James for his feelings for Grace, or wished Grace any ill will. She just wants to see James happy, even if it’s not with her. She will continue to love him, and bravely, quietly endure the pain of watching him with someone else, because she cares for him so deeply that just having him close to her, in her life is enough (for now). I sense trouble and discontent, and think that the pain will eat away at her over time, but she really does want the best for James, and wishes him and Grace well.

Like We Never Loved At All- Faith Hill, Tim McGraw (yes it’s country, but hear me out it’s a good song, and I don’t even usually like country music!)

“How can you just walk on by, without one tear in your eye? Don’t you have the slightest feelings left for me?” This one reminds me of how James and Cordelia had about a week or so where he wasn’t under an enchantment; they had a passionate moment in the Whispering Room, James was all enamored and calling her Daisy, and they talked about reading together. And then, the return of the bracelet, and James’ feelings for Cordelia seemingly disappeared. I understand that Cordelia had already had reason to believe James liked Grace, as she’d seen them together before the enchantment was off, and she was probably never that secure in James’ feelings for her, as he only partially professed them very briefly before going back to being in love with Grace, but I have to believe there was a moment where she was very confused. Like, “James and I passionately made out in the Whispering Room, and then he told me he’d never wanted anything more than to kiss me, and now he’s back with Grace? Huh?” So, this song reflects that: having something with someone, only for them to act as if it never happened at all, leaving you with the memories and pain.

Make You Feel My Love- Adele

“Nothing that I wouldn’t do; go to the ends of the earth for you. To make you feel my love.”  A song of deep love and devotion. I imagine Cordelia’s selfless love for James, that burns brightly despite his lack of returned affection, or James’ eventual realization of his love for Cordelia. Him being devastated that he has hurt her, that she doesn’t believe he loves her, that he was never able to recognize his feelings before. I see it as James professing how he feels to Cordelia, baring his soul to her and showing her his devotion, trying to erase her pain and earn her trust.

Apologize- OneRepublic (again, I kinda like the slowed version; you can so clear hear the violin, piano, and tension)

“You tell me that you need me then you go and cut me down, but wait. You tell me that you’re sorry, didn’t think I’d turn around. And say, that it’s too late to apologize.” How I picture some Chain of Iron angst, as a result of the confusion and miscommunication that will be going on with James and Cordelia, due to the enchantment. James will give her mixed signals as his true feelings battle with the feelings brought on by the enchantment, and there will be chaos and pain. James will have a lot to explain to Cordelia at some point, and we’ll see how receptive she is to what he has to say. Cordelia is forgiving and understanding, but she will not tolerate being toyed with, disrespected, or neglected by anyone, not even James, and the bracelet may make it seem like James is mistreating her. No matter which way the story goes, drama will ensue, feelings will be hurt, and amends will have to be made.

The Last Time- Taylor Swift, Gary Lightbody

“This is the last time I’m asking you this, to put my name at the top of your list. This is the last time I’m asking you why. You broke my heart in the blink of an eye.” This song is similar to All I Ask in that it describes the last, bittersweet moment of a relationship, and the desire to preserve that moment to keep with you after the end, and give you a reprieve from the pain. Again, it makes me think of Cordelia trying to savor the moments she gets with James before they have to split.

Moral of the Story- Ashe (SLOWED!!)

I don’t know if it’s just me but I can’t stand the normal version of the song, it sounds a little too poppy. Go listen to the slowed and reverb one on YouTube, it’s so much prettier and more haunting. Anyways, some little quotes that remind me of James’s situation are: “So I never really knew you. God, I really tried to. Blindsided, addicted.” and “You can think that you’re in love, when you’re really just in pain.” To me, in the context of TLH, this song is about James’s deep regret at being caught up in delusions about Grace for years, and ruining things with Cordelia, the love of his life. Also, reflecting on how he’s been held back from truly being himself and experiencing emotions for much of his life, which is devastating. The piano alone at the beginning sounds like melancholy and regret, James pondering the things that have happened to him and the decisions he’s made, and the pain that all of this has caused him, as well as everyone else (I’m guessing Grace will use him to do some scary, dangerous sh*t).

Burning- Sam Smith

“I’ve been burning, yes I’ve been burning. Such a burden, this flame on my chest.” This song instantly reminded me of them, because of the chapter Burn in ChOG, where Cordelia says something like, “For a year I will be close to him, and know what it means to burn.” The actual verses and lyrics of this song don’t apply perfectly to James and Cordelia, but it’s a song about the pain love can bring, how it can burn, so I thought the essence of it fit them.

Without a Word- Birdy

“Stand there and look into my eyes, and tell me that all we had were lies. Show me that you don’t care. And I’ll stay here, if you prefer. Yes, I’ll leave you. Without a word.” Again, I feel this relates to the concept of “Am I imagining everything that happened between us?” that was present with Cordelia after the bracelet was put back on James, only, Cordelia never confronted James. She just assumed she had been reading things wrong, making things up in her mind, and so she accepted it when James went back to Grace. But this song explores the confrontation of two people whose relationship/romance has ended, in which one person is demanding that the other be honest about what happened with them, what their true feelings are. While Cordelia accepted James’ return to Grace fairly easily, this song makes me imagine James confronting Cordelia, once the enchantment has been broken. I can imagine that Cordelia might not be forthright about her feelings for him, after everything she’s been through, but James will only just be realizing his deep love and affection for her, and will likely be wanting to know if she felt what he felt during their moments together that he’d forgotten, like the Whispering Room, or when she read to him. James will want to know how Cordelia feels, and this song is how I picture him wondering about it, and possibly approaching her.

Kiss Me- Ed Sheeran

“So kiss me like you want to be loved.” This one is just a soft, romantic love song. I’m all for the angst and drama, but I do hope that James and Cordelia eventually get time where their feelings have been requited, they are secure in their love, and they can just enjoy being together. This song makes me imagine them slow dancing in a dimly lit room by a dying fire. Sigh.

Salvation- Gabrielle Aplin

“Just a trick of light, to bring me back around again. Those wild eyes, a psychedelic silhouette.” I like all the different metaphors and details this song uses to describe the way that someone you love lives in your head. It reminds me of all the times Cordelia is distracted by James, or is thinking about little details of his, like his eyes or dimples. Her love for him has refused to go away, even through the difficult situations they’ve been put in, and thoughts of him are always floating around somewhere in her mind. James will likely be the same, once the enchantment is broken.

Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: I. Prelude- Bach

This is a piece of classical music with no lyrics or tangible relation to James and Cordelia, but it gives me moody, dramatic ballroom vibes, and I imagine it playing in the background of a scene in TLH.

[midnight-aether]

Why Vox by Christina Dalcher is not a good novel: Review & Analysis

The premise of this novel is incredibly interesting, don’t get me wrong: Vox (2018) is about a dystopian future, in which US American women are only allowed to speak 100 words per day and must wear a bracelet that shocks them if they go over that limit. Women also aren’t allowed to write, read or use sign language. The main character is a genius linguist called Jean who hates every man in her life, including her husband Patrick and her own sons.

The first sentence already tells us three things about this novel: (1) it’s told from a first-person perspective, which means the reader will be aware of the protagonist’s every thought, (2) the oppressive regime in the novel goes by the name of Pure Movement, so it’s probably going to have something to do with religion, and (3) the action takes place in the span of a week, which I feel like it’s a huge spoiler for the fact that I won’t care for any of the characters at the end of the book, since there’s only so much character development that can happen in that time.

If anyone told me I could bring down the President, and the Pure Movement, and that incompetent little shit Morgan LeBron in a week’s time, I wouldn’t believe them.

There will be spoilers from this point on.

The Setting and the Protagonist

The main character in Vox, Dr. Jean McClellan, is a specialist researcher in the field of aphasia, that is, according to Wikipedia, “an inability to comprehend or formulate language because of damage to specific brain regions”. At some point in the novel we are made aware that a colleague of Jean’s, with her help, has discovered a cure for aphasia, even though they are both linguists and neither a chemist nor a medical researcher. However, she was unable to publish this discovery, due to the conveniently timed sexist apocalypse that stripped her of all her academic titles, as the reader is often reminded.

Jean is married to her husband Patrick and has four children with him:  three boys and a girl. Jean evidently resents every man in her family,  especially Patrick and their 17-year-old son, Steven. Apparently they’ve  all been very quickly indoctrinated to believe women shouldn’t be  allowed to speak, so they treat Jean and Sonia, the daughter,  accordingly.

There is a whole subplot about Steven, but it’s so plain and uninteresting that there isn’t much to say about it. Basically, he is all for the Pure Movement and their ideals of purity for women, but then still sleeps with his high school girlfriend and proceeds to tattle on her. When she is taken away to a camp, he realizes his mistake a leaves to save her. At some point he is captured by the Movement and ridiculed on TV. Jean doesn’t really care that he’s gone, but is pleasantly surprised when he reappears at the end safe and sound.

At this point, the Pure Movement has only been in power for less  than a year and a half. This movement is very overtly described as a Christian uprising that originated within the bible belt  and had spread to the entirety of the USA. The followers of the  Movement also adopt overly conservative views on gender roles, marriage  and sex, leaving very little doubt about the roots of the oppressive regime in Vox.

The Plot

The main intrigue in Vox begins when the brother of the US president starts suffering from aphasia after a “skiing accident” and the government comes to Jean for help, despite her being a woman in a society that literally won’t let women speak. Why do they come to her instead of going to any other male scientist? Because apparently Jean is the best linguist in the whole country... even though, as far as the government (and the reader) knows, she’s only been researching aphasia for a couple of years and hasn’t found a cure yet. Well, the author herself has a doctorate in linguistics (not in the field of aphasia), which brings me to my first problem with this novel: the blatant and, quite frankly conceited, self-insert.

You may have noticed that I wrote “skiing accident” in quotation marks on the last paragraph. That’s because it’s hinted a couple of times throughout the novel that the president’s brother was actually injured on purpose by the government, but this turns out to be false. Later it seems like he was never even injured in the first place, but this is never clearly resolved, as the character himself never appears “onscreen”; however, it’s not a cliffhanger that perpetually haunts the reader.

Back to the story: Jean agrees to help because, by taking the job, she and her daughter get to remove the shock bracelets for the duration of the research. The government then proceeds to give Jean one week (remember the novel’s first sentence) to produce a cure that, to the best of their knowledge, hasn’t even been found yet. If that sounds like a stretch, they even let her work with her old research team of three people, which is supposed to fully convince the reader that a week is a completely plausible time frame to discover, produce, test and approve a cure for an illness.

The Side Characters

This team is composed of Jean, her former colleagues Lin and Lorenzo, and their supervisor Morgan, who you might remember from the novel’s opening sentence. Morgan is apparently an idiot linguist who is very unfit for his position, which is supposed to show how twisted the society in Vox is, as they put the dumb people in charge just because they’re men, and silence the smart women. What it actually does is show that this version of the USA apparently only has a handful of linguists and no other skilled scientists.

This is the novel’s description of Lin:

Lin Kwan is a small woman. I often told Patrick she could fit in one of my pant legs – and I’m only five and a half feet and 120 soaking wet, thanks to the stress diet I’ve been on for the past several months. Everything about her is small: her voice, her almond eyes, the sleek bob that barely reaches below her ears. Lin’s breasts and ass make me look like a Peter Paul Rubens model. But her brain – her brain is a leviathan of gray matter. It would have to be; MIT doesn’t hand out dual PhDs for nothing.

Here we learn that Lin is small, not conventionally attractive (read: small boobs and ass), and finally that she is incredibly intelligent. For some reason, Jean finds it important to describe Lin’s curves, as well as her own, before mentioning Lin’s intelligence. No, this novel was not written by Michael Bay. Also, for representation’s sake, Lin is Asian and a lesbian, yet every other major character in this novel is a white straight person.

Well, there is another lesbian in this story, actually. Jean’s old college roommate, Jackie Juarez, who Jean hasn’t seen since before the machocalypse. We get to know Jackie through flashbacks: the novel tries to portray her as this loud, over-the-top feminist who often tries to make Jean join the rallies and protests against the growing Pure Movement. Alas, Jean chooses to focus on school instead of going to protests and forever regrets this, thinking that if only she had fought, she might have changed history.

I don’t know how to feel about this novel’s depiction of Jackie. She is made out to be a stereotypical feminist lesbian, who actively protests against the uprising of the Pure Movement, and yet whose efforts are in vain. Here is an excerpt that characterizes how Jean sees Jackie, and therefore how the reader is supposed to see her:

“You have to vote, Jean,” [Jackie] said, throwing down the stack of campaign leaflets she’d been running around campus with while I was prepping for what I knew would be a monster of an oral exam. “You have to.”

“The only things I have to do are pay taxes and die,” I said, not holding back the sneer in my voice. That semester was the beginning of the end for Jackie an me. I’d started dating Patrick and preferred our nightly discussions about cognitive processes to Jackie’s rants about whatever new thing she had found to protest.

Here you can see that Jean clearly dismisses Jackie and “whatever new thing she had found to protest”, and instead muses about what an intellectual she is. I understand that this is a flashback, and it’s supposed to show that Jean was wrong not to care about protesting the Pure Movement, but this is told from present Jean’s perspective, so it’s clear she still rolls her eyes at Jackie’s activism in general. It feels like Vox is trying to say that actively expressing your ideas and concerns is useless, since Jean eventually overthrows the government with science and not through activism – and it even takes her no longer than a week to do it, as we learn at the beginning of this novel. There is a lot to unpack here,  but I still wouldn’t recommend thinking too hard about the ideas in this book.  

Jackie only becomes relevant to the plot towards the end. At some point she is held hostage by the government, so that Jean is forced to finish her work. Why the government chose to kidnap Jean’s old college roommate who she hasn’t seen or spoken about in years instead of, say, her daughter, we will never know. In the end, Jackie is only there so that Jean can save her and “redeem” herself for not having been there for Jackie in the past.

Lorenzo, the last member of the team, is Jean’s love affair since way before the Pure Movement effectively took over. The novel likes to remind the reader that Jean is with the Italian hunk Lorenzo because she despises her husband Patrick, so that makes cheating okay. Eventually we learn that Jean is pregnant with Lorenzo’s child, so he offers to let her escape with him to Italy as his wife. Yet Jean can’t allow herself to leave without her daughter Sonia – she’s fine with never seeing any of her sons again, though. She considers this for a while as she works on the cure for aphasia.

The Ending

At some point during the week, Lin disappears (we later learn she was imprisoned due to big gay activity). Jean and Lorenzo announce that they’ve discovered the cure and even test the serum on a random neighbour of Jean’s who happens to have aphasia as well. Also, Jean’s mother had an aneurysm earlier that week and also started suffering from aphasia. The government is pleased with the results and take the serum away.

Later, Morgan, the supervisor, takes Jean and Lorenzo to a strange lab underground to have them further develop the cure. There they walk through a hallway full of chimpanzees in cages, and there is a bizarre scene in which Jean gets too close to a cage and is attacked by a chimpanzee. There is no purpose to this scene other than to shock the reader, honestly. Here, the novel briefly, yet disrespectfully brings up a very real woman who was mauled by a chimpanzee in 2009 and managed to survive (Wikipedia link, no pictures), by having Jean think something along the lines of “oh no, I don’t want to end up like her!” during the attack.

Jean is fine, obviously. We’re over 200 pages in and nearing the end of the novel when the first interesting development happens in the form of a plot twist: the government has been using their cure in order to create an anti-serum that gives people aphasia. Their plan is to create a more effective means to silence women, of course, since they  wouldn’t be able to comprehend or formulate language any more. When Jean discovers this, she wants to quit, but is forced to stay when they reveal they’ve been keeping Jackie, Lin and Lin’s girlfriend hostage in the same building for this very occasion. And maybe also Steven back at that camp, but we don’t even care about him at this point.

The climax of the story arrives, and everything happens so quickly the reader doesn’t have time to digest it. I had to reread what actually happened at the end, because I couldn’t remeber it anymore. I’ll try to recreate the pacing of the ending in the following paragraph, so you can understand what I mean:

Jean and Lorenzo save the lesbians (who are the only likeable characters, so that made me happy), Morgan dies, I think, and they escape with the anti-serum. Patrick appears and decides to help, so they send him to the White House with an anti-serum bomb that suceeds, giving the president and all evil politicians aphasia. Patrick is killed during this, freeing Jean from their marriage and allowing her to escape with Lorenzo and all of her children, whom she suddenly stopped resenting. The Pure Movement collapses and all is well, thanks to... well, thanks to Patrick and Lorenzo.

Conclusion

Vox is a mess of a novel. The characters are unlikeable, the plot is badly paced and the ending is too sudden. I really didn’t care about what happened to any character at any point, which is incredibly disappointing. Additionally, there are many things wrong with the political message in Vox, namely the idea that all religious people are inherently evil and that men generally wish to control and silence women. The premise was good, the writing was fine, but the performance was terrible, unfortunately. Vox feels like it was rushed to come out in time for the dystopian fiction craze of 2017-18 caused by the release of The Handmaid’s Tale TV series. Hopefully we’ll see better work from the author in the future.

Blog | Goodreads

[vincent-g-writer]

The Silver Screen Savant, pt 2- the Meh, the Bad and The yikes.

Hello Writers!

Last time here on Starry Starry Write, I talked a little about Autism in the media and my personal experiences therein. Today, I’d like to go a little broader, and tackle the topic from a macro perspective.

In recent times, you’ve probably heard “Representation Matters” oft repeated. Especially in prominent talking spaces like social media. But what does that mean, exactly?

Why “Representation Matters,” and how.

The short answer:

Diverse representation in media tells us that everyone has a place in the world. That everyone’s story matters.

The long answer:

It’s no secret that we begin engaging with media at a young age. When I was growing up in the 90’s and 00’s, TV and video games were often the babysitters of my peers. I was one of the few kids in my neighborhood whose parents weren’t divorced. The kids I knew? Not so much. Most of them were raised by single parents, grandparents and of course-the boob tube. I personally prefered books, when my mom wasn’t yelling “it’s too nice out to be holed up in that dark bedroom!”

Now, don’t mistake my preference for some kind of intellectual superiority. I watched plenty of TV too. Besides, books aren’t magically out of the equation. Printed material is our oldest form of media. And- often just as problematic. Though I will say- I saw a much broader range of people on covers adoring library shelves than I ever did titles on a TV roster. But, I digress. The point is: for many of us, consuming media begins at an early time of our life. And that’s where the problem starts. Even in my childhood, where The Magic School Bus, Hey Arnold, and Sesame Street showed people of all kinds, I can point to many that did not. Especially not people like me. Which did me a grave disservice. I didn’t know I was on the spectrum for a long time, and when I finally found out, I was horrified, thanks to what I had seen on TV.

Because media is not only a wonderful way to learn about people that don’t look, act or sound like us. It also informs our ideas of who we are, and what we can be. Whether we like it or not: it shapes how we understand the world. And it doesn’t stop with Childhood.

Time Changes Much, but not all.

Things are better now. Well, a little bit, anyway.

As an adult, I see more people like me on the screen nowadays. Which is nice.

Ish.

Why “ish?” Well…

Frequently, these “noticeably different” characters (read: Autistically coded) are branded “NOT AUTISTIC!” You heard it here first, folks! That one character (insert your favorite) is Totally Not Autistic. Despite being written in a way that gives every indication otherwise.

*Facepalm*

Now for some examples, which we’ll call the “Meh,” “The Bad” and the “Yikes.” For “fun,” we’ll also go into the off-air perceptions of the characters.

The “Meh.”

First on the list is Dr. Spencer Reid, from CBS’s “Criminal Minds.”

Dr. Reid is the youngest member of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, having joined at the age of 22. He holds three B.A degrees in Sociology, Psychology and Philosophy, as well as three Ph.D’s in Engineering, Chemistry, and Mathematics.

He also has the social skills of a limp dishrag. Wait, what’s that? High Intelligence + Low Social Awareness? Hmmm…Then there’s his restrictive behavioral patterns, obsessive interests, and general “quirkiness!” that we could talk about. But let’s hear a quote from the actor who plays him, Matthew Gray Gubler:

“..an eccentric genius, with hints of schizophrenia and minor autism, Asperger’s Syndrome. Reid is 24, 25 years old with three PH.D.s and one can’t usually achieve that without some form of autism.”

Hoooo-boy. I could go into all the things wrong with this, including why the term “Asperger’s” is both horrific (TW: Eugenics,Ableism, N*zis) and harmful. However, today we’ll simply leave it with the fact that this term is no longer applicable, having been reclassified in 2013 as part of Autism Spectrum disorder.

The “Bad.”

Next up, we have Will Graham, from NBC’s Hannibal.

Like our first example, Will works for the FBI. He’s a gifted criminal profiler with “special” abilities, namely hyper empathy, which allows him to reconstruct the actions and fantasies of the killers he hunts. He’s intellectually gifted, hates eye contact, socializing, and prefers to spend…most of his time…alone.

Oh dear. Haven’t we been here before? But, I mean, he doesn’t have Autism! The show runner says so!

For Will Graham, there’s a line in the pilot about him being on the spectrum of autism or Asperger’s, and he’s neither of those things. He actually has an empathy disorder where he feels way too much and that’s relatable in some way. There’s something about people who connect more to animals than they do to other people because it’s too intense for whatever reason.

You can’t see me right now, but I’m cringing. A lot. This is just…ugh. I mean, for starters, I know a handful of autistic people who struggle with hyper empathy, which can make social situations overwhelming and hard to navigate. In fact, I happen to be one of them. Plus, there’s a cool little thing about how, frequently, people on the spectrum more readily identify with animals. But, y’know. Who am I to say? I’m just someone, one of many, who’s dealt with this my whole life.

Now, onto the “Yikes.”

*sigh*

And finally, we have BBC’s Sherlock, a modern adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s renowned “consulting” detective, and probably the most famous fictional character of all time.

Now, I’ll start by saying that the BBC incarnation is not the first to be Spectrum labeled. In fact, Sherlock was my childhood hero, and the first “person” I saw referred to this way. My aunt, an avid reader herself, casually remarked to a friend “I’ve always wondered if Holmes is Autistic,” after I came yammering on about how fantastic the books were. Had I not been champing at the bit to get back to my reading, I might have asked her what that meant.

I also believe this fandom driven speculation is why many detective type characters (see above) are often coded as Autistic, intentionally or otherwise.

In this New York Times article, Lisa Sanders, M.D. describes Holmes traits:

He appears oblivious to the rhythms and courtesies of normal social intercourse — he doesn’t converse so much as lecture. His interests and knowledge are deep but narrow. He is strangely “coldblooded,” and perhaps as a consequence, he is also alone in the world.

Now, before we go any father, let me take a moment to defend his creator. During the time Sir Arthur Conan Doyle first created his most famous work, Autism was not known. That isn’t to say it didn’t exist. We’ve always existed. In fact, it’s now believed that the Changeling Myth, a common European folk story, was a way to explain Autism. In one telling (there are a few) children displaying “intelligence beyond their years” and “uncanny knowledge” were imposters, traded out by Fae creatures for offspring of their own. Children believed to be “Changlings,” regretfully, often came to a bad end. A chilling reminder that the stories we tell impact our real lives.

So while Autism was at least somewhat recognized, it did not become its own official diagnosis until 1943.

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes was first published in 1892. Now, as a writer who often draws from my personal reality, I imagine Doyle probably “wrote what he knew,” which is to say, acquainted with one or more Autistic people, he used them as inspiration.

On the other hand…

BBC’s Sherlock first aired in 2010. And while one might argue that the writers simply capitalized on the Autistic fan-theory, or took already available traits and exaggerated them for their version… they left a lot to be desired. Autism aside, this new Sherlock is…well…an asshole. Narcissistic, abusive and egocentric (to name a few) he sweeps his caustic behavior under the rug of “high functioning sociopath,” and blytly ignores the consequences.

Which is a major problem. Because while doing this, he’s still “obviously” (at least in the Hollywood sense) Autistic. In my previous post, where I said some characters are “too smart™, and logical© to ever have feelings, friends or empathy,” this is what I meant.

This is bad. We’re looping right back to Representation Matters. Bad representation, and the navigating of such, is just as important for writers to think about as good representation. Maybe even moreso. Because bad representation paints real people into cardboard, stereotyped people-shaped things. It otherizes. And it’s harmful. You would not believe the people I’ve met assume I’m not Autistic because I’m not an egotistical jerk. Why? Because they watched, you guessed it, BBC Sherlock.

Confession time:

Now here’s my little secret:

I love all of these characters. They are some of my favorite on tv. Why? Because for good or ill, I recognize myself in them. Finally, I can turn on the TV, and see myself. Or, somewhat, anyway.

My favorite character out of this list? Loath though I am to admit it… Is Sherlock. See, what those well meaning folks didn’t know (the ones who say I’m I’m “too nice,” to be Autistic) is… well, if we’re being honest, I wasn’t always nice. A few years ago, I was that guy. I was a jerk because I thought I was the smartest person in the room. Which is really not a good look. In fact, sitting down and watching the first season of sherlock, (around three or four years after it came out) made me realize how much of a jerk I actually was.

There are other things there too. Things that tie me to all these characters, that I didn’t list. But that’s for another today.

For now, I’d like to add a caveat or two:

1) I’ve watched all the shows listed above, and adore them. As I mentioned, Sherlock is my favorite. He’s also the one I’ve watched the most (Repeatedly, in fact. Whoops.) and I recognize it’s not all bad. In the end, he learned to treat people better (somewhat) and certainly became more human over time. And, there are other deeply problematic elements of the show I’d like to tackle, eventually.

*cough* Queerbating! *cough*

2) I’m well aware that the above cases are all thin, white, able bodied, “straight” males. But I chose these characters for a couple of reasons. One, they’re the most prominent type on TV. Again, we loop back around to representation, and why we need more positive, diverse examples of it.

And finally-

3) In my last post, I mentioned I’d give some “good” instances of Hollywood Autism trope. But I didn’t exactly do that. Partially, because half way through, I thought…perhaps…I’m not the best to judge what might be a good Autistic character. I mean, I’m sure someone will read this and think my current aforementioned characters are fine. Heck! They might even argue my perception here, and say the characters are just fine. I accept that. In my life, both on and off the page, I recognize that I cannot, should not (and don’t want to) speak for an entire community.

Because of this, I cannot tell you how to write a “good” Autistic character, or what media is “acceptable.” I can’t even really tell you what a bad character is. Sure, I have a lot of opinions about it. But- if you’re on the spectrum and like and identify with the above? That’s fine. I mean, even with all the problems I noted (and some I didn’t) I certainly do.

On the other hand, if you’re a writer, and you want to write a character from this (or any, for that matter) community you aren’t part of, I caution you.

Do your research. Preferably from multiple credible sources.

Talk to people on the spectrum about what it’s really like. (Though try to steer clear of asking for emotional labor.You could, say, hop on reddit and ask the community there, for instance, which is a no pressure way to obtain potentially decent info.)

Finally, whatever you do, remember this-

Autistic people can look like anyone. We can act, and think and be different, like anyone. We are real, living, breathing people. Not robots, not sob stories, not tropes. People. So if you write about us, write us like people. And your work will be all the better for it.

-Your Loving Vincent

[klovenhooves]

Johnny Lawrence and the Five Love Languages Chapter One: Quality Time

Johnny couldn’t explain how it had come to this. It was bad enough that he was sitting here, on the edge of the parking lot outside of Cobra Kai, staring down into a can of Coca Cola, with Miguel on the other side, looking at him furtively out of his peripherals like Johnny couldn’t see him doing it. It was worse that they were currently discussing Johnny’s latest and possibly worst epiphany to date.

 “So you have a crush on your greatest rival, there have been tons of movies about that,” Miguel said bracingly, turning his gaze completely out to the parking lot.

 Johnny grimaced, his grip tightening on the can of soda. “I don’t have a crush, Diaz, shit, you make me sound like a high school girl.”

 “Oh, sorry, should I have said that you’re in love with –”

 “Not if you want to keep all of your teeth.”

 Miguel laughed in that nervous way he did when he was pretty sure Johnny was bluffing, but he didn’t want to push it. Johnny couldn’t bring himself to look over at the kid to read his face – he could feel that his face was warm, and as long as he kept looking out over the parking lot, he could claim it was a sunburn. People got sunburned in California, after all. It was a worthy excuse.

 After a long bout of silence, Miguel cleared his throat and tried again. “Have you considered telling him how you feel?”

 In fact, yes, Johnny had considered that, if only for a fraction of a second before he realized how stupid it was. What would Daniel say, anyway? He could map out the sequence of events with no trouble: Johnny would try to tell him the truth, and Daniel would laugh, not believe him, and get angry with him for trying to pull some sort of ill-conceived joke on him. Johnny would get embarrassed, and the conversation would end the way it had began – with them angry at each other.

 “That’s a stupid idea, Diaz.”

 Miguel sighed. “What’s stupid is trying to bottle up your feelings. What if he feels the same way?”

 Johnny almost laughed. “He doesn’t.”

 “You told me I should never take no for an answer,” Miguel pointed out.

 “That was when I thought you were talking about some random babe, not LaRusso’s kid,” Johnny mumbled. “It’s not the same.”

 “Why isn’t it the same?” Miguel asked, and Johnny could feel him turning his knees toward him, trying to face him completely.

 “You can pursue other random babes if one doesn’t like you,” Johnny said after fishing for the right words.

 Miguel scrunched up his face, trying to read between the lines. Johnny could practically see the gears in his head turning. “So…what you’re saying is ‘not taking no for an answer’ works with people you kind-of-sort-of like, because you won’t get your feelings hurt if they say no. And that same strategy won’t work with someone you love because their rejection will hurt more.”

 “That’s not what I’m saying –”

 “Have you tried maybe hinting that you like him?” Miguel interrupted. “See if he picks up on it?”

 Johnny tilted his head, finally catching Miguel’s concerned, serious gaze. “What do you mean?”

 “I mean, try being nice to him –”

 “That’s ridiculous –”

 “Okayyyyy,” Miguel said, trying to hide his smile behind his hand. “Have you heard of the five love languages?”

 Johnny squinted. “There are more than five sex positions, young grasshopper.”

 “No, I –” Miguel groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment before trying again. “No, it’s – it’s this thing about how people show their love and receive love differently. Sam showed it to me, we took this test –”

 “Your girlfriend made you take a test?”

 “It tells you how you most like to receive affection,” Miguel’s face was darkening to pink now at the mention of his girlfriend, but Johnny was trying to ignore it. “There’s uhhhh, quality time, physical touch, words of affirmation, acts of service, and receiving gifts.”

 Johnny took a long sip of his now lukewarm soda. “How do you know which one you are?”

 Miguel shrugged. “You could take the test.”

 “I’m not a nerd.”

 “It doesn’t really matter anyway,” Miguel brushed him off. “What matters is what Mr. LaRusso is.”

 “How do I get him to take the test?” Johnny asked. “Show up at his house, put on a disguise, tell him I’m taking surveys?”

 “What? No, Sensei, this isn’t Looney Tunes,” Miguel laughed. “Just…try some of them out. See how he responds.”

 “So just…” Johnny grimaced. “Give him a gift?”

 “Yeah,” Miguel said. “Or try spending some time with him, or do something for him, stuff like that.”

 “I don’t know, Diaz…”

 Miguel turned away and looked out over the parking lot again. “Or you could just pine after your karate rival until you’re old and gray and life has passed you by.”

 “What the hell kind of Lifetime movie crap is that LaRusso girl making you watch?”

 ***

 Johnny, true to his word, refused to take the love language test. He didn’t have to take the test to know what he liked – he just needed to know how to get it. So, against his better judgment, he found himself writing down the love languages on an old gas station receipt in his apartment and trying to figure out which one to try on LaRusso first.

 He still hadn’t settled on which one when his phone vibrated on the kitchen counter, startling him out of his reverie.

 It was a text from Robby: “Meet at the beach on Saturday? Surfing?”

 He smiled down at the text. He was still struggling with finding ways to connect to his son, but sometimes, things just worked out.

 “Let’s make a day of it,” he texted back. “Bring LaRusso and his kid.”

 “You mean his kids?”

 “Sure, yeah, why not?”

 In record time, his phone was skittering across the countertop, the phone number on the display unknown. Johnny scooped it up and answered.

 “Yeah?”

 “What the hell are you planning, Johnny? A replay of our first fight on the beach?” Johnny almost grinned at the sound of LaRusso’s voice. He should have known he would be paranoid.

 “Paranoid, LaRusso?” he asked, and Daniel huffed over the line. “Just trying to be a good example for my kid, you know, like you told me I should be?”

 Daniel didn’t say anything.

 “Would it make you feel better if I called it a truce?” Johnny asked, a pit opening up in his stomach the longer Daniel was silent. Did he really believe Johnny was incapable of putting aside their rivalry for his son?

 “What time?”

 Triumph overshadowed the pit in his stomach. “Ten. Bring your surfboard.”

 “My wha –”

 ***

 LaRusso didn’t have a surfboard. That didn’t surprise Johnny – there was no way that he learned to surf in his time in California. He was too busy stealing guy’s girls on the beach and spending time with Mr. Miyagi. Still, he showed up, his two kids in tow, Robby lingering by the Volvo, unhooking his surfboard from the top rack.

 “You actually brought a surfboard,” Daniel remarked, his eyes traveling down Johnny’s short wetsuit. “Like, an actual surfboard.”

 “Some of us are actually from California, LaRusso,” Johnny replied, trying not to check out Daniel’s orange (peach? Pink?) swim trunks. “Want to learn?”

 “Do I have to wear a wetsuit?” Daniel asked, and Johnny could see him squinting behind his sunglasses.

 “You can borrow mine,” Johnny quipped, picking up the surfboard and turning toward the ocean, away from Daniel’s appraising gaze. “Unless you’re scared.”

 “Shut up and get in the water.”

 As if on cue, Robby whooshed past them both toward the water, surfboard under his hand. “Race you!” he shouted back to Johnny, who gave Daniel a proud look.

 “I’ll be right back,” he said, taking off toward the water, Robby with a clear head start. Daniel watched him go, brow furrowed, mind struggling to process this borderline-friendly Johnny Lawrence.

 He sat on his towel next to Sam while they surfed, pros in his eyes, since he didn’t really know what good surfing looked like, Robby completely at home, his smile so bright Daniel could see it from where he was sitting, Johnny as at ease on a surfboard as he was in a dojo.

 “Did you know Robby could surf?” Sam asked, looking over at her father from behind her sunglasses.

 “Nope.”

 “I wonder if he’ll teach me,” Anthony said from Sam’s other side, completely hidden underneath their huge beach umbrella, his eyes still trained on his Nintendo Switch.

 “Oh, you don’t want to learn karate but you’ll learn how to surf?” Daniel asked, halfway between irritated and amused.

 “The ocean isn’t going to kick me in the nuts, Dad.”

 “Gross,” Sam grumbled, turning a page in her book.

 Daniel let them bicker, content to watch Johnny and his son surf. There was something peaceful about it, watching a fractured family come together in those small moments, like when Johnny offered Robby a hand back onto his surfboard when he fell off, or when they high-fived for seemingly no reason at all. He was reminded of Miyagi telling him about plants in his garden that simply bloom later than others.

 “Doesn’t make them wrong, Daniel-san,” Miyagi had said, refilling his water can. “Just different.”

 “LaRusso,” Johnny’s voice shook him out of his memory, and suddenly he was standing in front of him, dripping wet, wetsuit far too tight for Daniel’s own comfort level, sticking to abs that Johnny had no right having, not with the amount of beer he consumed on a daily basis. “Come on, your turn.”

 “I – I don’t know, Johnny –”

 “I’m not going to throw you to the sharks, LaRusso, trust me.”

 There was something plaintive in the way he said “trust me,” that brought Daniel up short. They didn’t say things like that to each other; they didn’t say much to each other that wasn’t an insult. And yet, here they were, Johnny with an outstretched hand, water dripping down his tanned body, looking every bit a 90210 character, his eyes somehow still soft and a little bit uncertain.

 “Fine,” Daniel grumbled, allowing Johnny to pull him to his feet. “But no laughing.”

 “I promise nothing,” Johnny grinned, and it was a genuine, giddy smile, one that Daniel wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on Johnny’s face before. It was almost childlike, sunny in its intensity.

 It made him smile too.

 ***

 Apparently Anthony really did want to learn to surf, and Daniel found himself in the water beside his son, Johnny and Robby their respective teachers. Johnny had, so far, only taught Daniel how to straddle the surfboard so that he wouldn’t fall off, and was currently at the head of the surfboard, standing in the chest deep water, watching Anthony try to do the same thing.

 “You have to find your balance,” Robby was saying exasperatedly, but he was clearly trying to suppress his own smile. “You can’t just expect it to find you.”

 “It’s just sitting!” Anthony complained, shoving his wet hair out of his eyes. “How hard could it be?”

 Johnny huffed a laugh and turned back to Daniel. “I’m going to let go of the board, LaRusso, think you can stay on?”

 “I’ve used pool floaties before, Johnny,” Daniel retorted, and Johnny smirked knowingly. Well, that made him nervous.

 “Okay, genius, here you go,” he said, releasing the board just as a wave gently rocked it, and Daniel had to lurch forward to grab the edges to keep from slipping right off.

 “Tighten your legs, LaRusso,” Johnny said nonchalantly, and Daniel felt his face go hot.

 “I don’t – I – what?”

 Johnny’s hands gripped the surfboard again. He caught Daniel’s gaze and released it to take in the deep blush that had spread over his face and all the way to his ears. “I said, tighten your legs so you don’t fall off.” He peeled his eyes away from Daniel to find another wave coming. “Try it again.”

“No, Johnny don’t –” But his hands were already leaving the board, and the wave jostled the board sharply, this wave bigger than the one before. Daniel tightened his legs, the same way his weird cousin told him to do when he rode a horse on an ill-fated business retreat, and closed his eyes, waiting to slip off the board and into the water.

 And then the board mellowed out, and Daniel was still on it.

 He opened his eyes to find Johnny beaming up at him, eyes the same color as the ocean beneath him, water running down his face like it was trying to trace his skin in gold.

 “Good job, LaRusso,” he said, and Daniel could faintly hear the sound of Anthony spluttering in the distance. “Now let’s try it on your knees.”

 “On my what?”

 ***

 By the time the sun went down, Daniel had learned how to stand up on a surfboard, much to Johnny’s very infectious glee. He couldn’t actually surf on it yet, the standing was hard enough, but he still felt immensely accomplished. He imagined part of that had to do with Johnny’s proud smile.

 He understood, in those little in-between moments, when Johnny would tell him how to keep his balance, when he would cheer in the wake of Daniel’s very simple success, why he was such a good sensei. His enthusiasm was catching, and there was a childlike enjoyment that made the day feel more momentous, the whole thing felt very special.

 Sunset found them leaning against Johnny’s car, a beer in their hands, the salt drying on their skin.

 “This was fun,” Daniel said into the comfortable silence.

 Johnny, beside him, jerked his head around to look at him. He looked thrilled, like Daniel had given him much better news than he enjoyed himself. That was curious.

 “Really?” he asked, looking so much like a puppy that Daniel didn’t mind reassuring him.

 “Yeah, really,” he insisted. “I don’t think I’m a very good surfer –”

 “Everything takes practice, LaRusso,” Johnny interrupted smoothly, taking a sip of his beer. He was still smiling.

 “Then why don’t you teach me again next weekend?” Daniel asked.

 Johnny blinked. “You mean – you want to do this again?”

 Daniel shrugged. “I mean…if you want to.”

 “Yes,” Johnny said, a little too quickly. “I mean, yeah, I guess, if you want.”

 “Good,” Daniel smiled, turning back to the ocean, trying not to notice Johnny’s eyes on him. “Next weekend then.”

[owletstarlet]

19 shy, 27 giggly or 28 first for tanunatsu if you dont mind 💖

[#19, a shy kiss, from the 76 kiss prompts meme. Sorry it took so long! Established relationship because lord knows we need it right now–]

*** 

“Is that a new shirt?”

Whatever Natsume had been about to say never makes it out of his mouth. Instead he follows Kaname’s gaze down to where the triangle of soft pink is visible, flecked with bits of green, where he’s tugged at his scarf and begun to fiddle with the zipper.

“Oh,” is all he says, not quite meeting Kaname’s eyes. That, and a noncommittal “mm,” as he zips his jacket firmly back up and yanks the scarf back into place.

Kaname blinks, puzzled. “You can take your jacket off if you’re uncomfortable. It’s really warm in here.” His own jacket lies discarded across his knees; he’d needed it in the dim coolness of the aquarium where they’d spent the afternoon, but the little waiting room on the train platform is generously heated and getting stuffier by the minute.

“It’s fine,” Natsume says, expression now perfectly smooth, arms coming up to rest loosely across his chest. If Kaname didn’t know by now how to pick out the taut thread that the words rested upon, he’d have missed it.

And Kaname probably should have dropped it there. Except there’s high spots of color on Natsume’s cheeks, and he’s clutching a hot can of vending machine cocoa. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks, instead, hand hovering of its own accord above Natsume’s shoulder. He’s struck, then, by a worse possibility than him getting ill, worse and likely paranoid of him, that Natsume could be hurt and concealing it with the jacket and that Kaname had somehow missed the signs. He doesn’t think Natsume would do that, or at least that he’s a lot less likely to than he might’ve been even a handful of months ago, but it sets off a flurry of unwelcome images through Kaname’s head.

“No, it’s—I’m okay,” Natsume says, quickly, and he looks sincere enough that Kaname’s chest unclenches, a bit. He blows out a breath. “Just. The shirt’s a bit…much.” His mouth tugs into a brittle line. “It was Touko-san’s idea,” he tacks on. “…mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Natsume makes a tiny non-answer of a sound in his throat and shifts a little in his seat, now studiously avoiding Kaname’s gaze. And the picture he paints huddled there in the little plastic chair, cheeks dusted pink, is so frankly adorable that Kaname has to firmly remind himself not to let it show on his own face. Not if Natsume’s legitimately uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to take your jacket off if you don’t want,” Kaname says, slowly, “but it’s forty minutes until the next train, and I really doubt anyone else is going to show up,” he says, gesturing towards the deserted platform outside. A pause. “You know I won’t laugh at you or anything, right?”

Natsume doesn’t answer, but he does look up, and something has softened behind his eyes. It’s like there’s a few dozen honeybees trapped behind Kaname’s sternum, all knocking into each other and clamoring for escape, to see that look directed at him.

“O-or, um,” he continues, “If it’s really bothering you, you can wear this one.” He plucks at his own long sleeves. “I’ve got a t-shirt under it, and you could change in the station bathroom.”

The look Natsume gives him is just long enough for Kaname to think he should’ve just dropped it after all. But then his expression shifts into something considering. Very slowly, he reaches up and tugs his scarf loose.

“You said you won’t laugh,” he reminds Kaname, his tone just this side of defensive, and he unzips his jacket.

And it’s a near thing, for Kaname to hold back the sound that bubbles up in his throat, when he sees.

“I have this one,” he blurts, instead, finger coming up to lightly poke a spot just over Natsume’s stomach. “A-and this was the first I ever got—” he brushes just below Natsume’s collarbone, but the image printed in pale green onto the cotton is half obscured by Natsume’s jacket, still covering his slightly hunched shoulders. His fingertips catch the hem. “Can I—” he cuts himself off, upon realizing how very still Natsume is holding himself, like he’s been holding his breath. He lets his hand drop. “Sorry.”

When Natsume meets his eyes, though, he looks vaguely startled. “Wait, you. Want to see?”

“Yes.” The word falls all too quickly from Kaname’s lips, and he feels his face grow warm.

“…oh,” is all Natsume says, like he’s not sure how to parse this information.

“It’s just, um.” Kaname has to resist the urge to chew on the inside of his cheek. “I really like it. But you don’t have to.”

Natsume still very much looks like he’d rather melt into his scuffed-up plastic seat than take his jacket off fully, but to Kaname’s surprise, a pale smile touches his lips. “I know,” he says. And he shrugs off the jacket.

And…objectively speaking, it’s not all that different from many of the other shirts he owns, the newest of the several button-downs in the light colors and playful patterns that Touko seems so fond of selecting for him. He’s never indicated that any of those shirts are a little much, but then again Kaname knows that Natsume would deeply value anything chosen just for him by somebody who cares for him half as much as Touko.

But what’s got Kaname’s full and undivided attention at the moment is the shirt’s pattern. Spangled across the cotton, in splashes of green and purple and gray and darker pink, are an array of succulents and desert flowers, each no larger than a bottlecap. There are easily a dozen varieties, not fantastically detailed but not dissimilar to the ink-and-watercolor illustrations in the guide book he’s had the longest—a library book Dad had brought for him when he was twelve and laid up with pneumonia for the better part of a summer. A book which had, incidentally, ended up in a box of his possessions the next time they’d moved house. Natsume had flipped through that very book last weekend, sprawled out lazy and warm across Kaname’s bed. Kaname had kept tight reins on the impulse to volunteer entirely too much information as he looked at each page over Natsume’s shoulder, while Sensei offered his periodical commentary on which plants looked like they’d be the tastiest fried up in oil. Sensei had been entirely unmoved by Kaname’s insistence that they’d probably make him sick to eat, and had given Kaname’s own little collection of plants on the desk and windowsill enough long conniving looks that Natsume had cuffed him on the head for it. Kaname feels warmed to the core at the familiar images before him now, at the slowly-relaxing shoulders and the still-flushed cheeks of the boy wearing them.

“Where did you get it?” Kaname asks, tugging gently at one sleeve. Pachyveria exotica, his brain supplies, reflexively, at the sight of the pale green starburst beneath his thumb.

“That secondhand shop, the one near the post office across from the school. I was there with Touko-san. She chose it—well.” A sheepish twist of his mouth. “She saw me looking. And she said it’d be…nice, um. To wear. The next time you and me went out.”

“…Oh.” He thinks his own face must have gone a bit pink now, too. Then he asks, because it seems important somehow, “Did you want to get it? You know, for your own sake.”

Natsume smushes his lips together a bit, stares very hard at a spot on Kaname’s shoulder. Finally says, “…yes? I mean. Yes. I tried it on, and, uh, Touko-san said it looked nice. She said you’d think so too, and she sounded really really sure about it, and I guess I ended up agreeing with her?” His expression turns sour. “Then I tried it on when Sensei was around. He laughed so hard he choked on the eel he was eating.” His eyes narrow. “He’s not here right now because I threatened him.”

Kaname glances out at the platform, then, and the dark treeline beyond. Of course he’d noticed Sensei’s absence, but given that Natsume hadn’t seemed at all tense as he surely would if they were wholly unprotected, Kaname had figured that Sensei wasn’t far. If he wasn’t, then Kaname can’t quite help wondering what is out there watching over them. He forces his attention back to the matter at hand, though, saying, “I mean. Ponta doesn’t wear shirts, so I wouldn’t trust his opinion. And—” He closes the space between them, places both hands lightly on Natsume’s still-tensed shoulders. “Touko-san was right. I like it. So much.”

The twitch of Natsume’s lips, however slight, feels like an accomplishment.

Until he begins, “…but, ah—” before apparently thinking better of it, cutting himself off with a tiny shake of the head, looking of all things frustrated with himself. “Never mind.”

Kaname doesn’t press him, but he waits, not letting go of Natsume’s shoulders.

Eventually, Natsume huffs out a short breath, and glances down at his shirt. “I don’t remember the names,” he admits. “Of any of them. And I know you’ve told me. Probably more than once. And we’d even looked at your book together. The library over near the park didn’t help either, they only really had gardening books and—”

“You went to the library?” Kaname interrupts, unable to help himself.

“Um.” It takes a little longer to happen this time, as Natsume realizes exactly what he’s just said, but the shade his cheeks eventually land upon is spectacular, like they could scald Kaname’s fingertips if he touched them. “Just for a little while,” he mumbles, fiddling with the hem of the shirt where it sits on his thigh. “I just checked the one section.”

“You went to the library,” Kaname repeats, slowly.

“But I couldn’t find the—”

The rest of his words are lost, then, between Kaname’s lips.

He can taste chalky canned cocoa on Natsume’s mouth; and Natsume doesn’t quite kiss him back, but some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders beneath Kaname’s palms. After a moment, he feels Natsume’s arms snake their way around his waist.

When they finally part, Kaname doesn’t even get the chance to see if that astounding blush has changed any, because Natsume promptly plants his face against Kaname’s chest. Kaname huffs out a chuckle and rests his chin atop the crown of his head, silky hair tickling at his throat.

“Are you hugging me just to hug me, or are you hiding?” he asks, grinning.

“…you’ve done it, too,” comes the muffled accusation.

“That’s fair.” He brings a hand up to smooth Natsume’s hair, so incredibly fond that the feeling’s practically risen up to stick fast in his throat. “…You know it’s not a test, though, right? This, I mean.” He taps a spot on Natsume’s shoulder, letting his finger trace the strand of pale green pods tipped in plump, pink buds. Sedum morganianum.

“Mm,” is the only reply.

“I mean. I know a lot of the names are a mouthful. The only reason I learned them is because I kind of had too much time on my hands when I was twelve, so. It’s really okay.”

At that, Natsume finally pulls away, just enough to tilt his head up. By now his blush has receded to something a little less alarming. “You can tell me again,” he says, quietly, but eyes alight in that way that never fails to make all of Kaname’s insides feel somehow all bunched up and ready to burst at the same time.

“I don’t want to bore you,” he says, once he finally locates his voice.

“You won’t.” The answer is immediate, certain. “I mean. I’m still not sure I can remember them all, but. You’re really happy when you talk about them. That’s not boring.”

Oh.

Kaname leans forward, tucks an unseen smile into Natsume’s hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Kaname peers down across what he can see of Natsume’s back, from this angle. “…it might be easier for you to see which of these is which if I show you in a book.”

“I’ll have to put my coat back on when the train comes,” Natsume points out. Regardless, he makes no attempt to untangle himself from Kaname, his face once more squashed into Kaname’s chest, arms still looped around his waist.

“Good point.” Kaname leans forward as much as he’s able, squints a little, and touches a spot just below Natsume’s shoulder blade. “This one’s sempervivum calcareum.”

He feels a warm huff against his shirt. “You know I have no idea which one you mean.”

“This one,” he says, and taps the same image where it’s printed over the edge of his sleeve.

“Thanks,” comes the dry response, and Kaname thinks his face might crack in two from the sheer and idiotic magnitude of his grin.  

“You’re welcome. Here’s aeonium arboreum.”

***

[Pseudo-based on a thing I wrote about Tanuma’s hobbies: between Tanuma with his succulent collection and Natsume with his ugly button downs they make one(1) Disaster Gay. Notably I had @mayorofcattown’s awkward aquarium date piece  firmly in mind while writing this one; not that this scenario was intended to have been after a first date, but I was very charmed by the idea of Natsume getting All Dressed Up for a nice aquarium outing… ] 

[poc-movie-supremacy]

Has life been good to you?

A.N.: This is a future!fic, westallen are elderly people in this story. It’s date night for them. If you have any constructive criticism, tell me, but don’t be mean about it, please. I hope you enjoy this fic! (also I don’t own any characters or setting related to the flash tv show or the comics)  

_______

Her joints ache as she puts away a finished book. She slowly walks around the room, searching for her tablet to play a card game. The room is quiet, lit with the glow of the sun. It filtered through the redwoods surrounding their cabin. This cabin used to belong to Barry’s father, but after the kids proved fine on their own and no one needed the Flash, they retired to it. It was quaint and quiet. It was odd at first, but then it became a gift. She felt more relaxed than she has in a while. Life never became lonely either, not with the ability to portal anywhere. 

Iris found her crossword puzzle and settled down in the big red armchair in the living room. Today is date ‘night’. Well more like date afternoon, Iris is almost 75 she’s going to bed earlier and earlier. Barry had gone out to the store to buy some forgotten stuff for dinner. He was still a lot more nimble than Iris in his old age. On good days he could carry her to their bed, but usually he just threaded his arm through hers and walked her to bed. She was grateful for it, Iris underestimated Grandma Esther when she was watching Iris. Doing most things in her old age was a lot harder than it seems. Barry helped her a lot though which she thinks he likes. It makes him feel needed, she figures. 

After about an hour Iris heard the door opening. “Hey honey I’m back.” Barry entered the house carrying two paper bags filled with stuff.

Iris put down her crossword, “Hi baby, do you need any help with the groceries?” 

“No, I just needed these things.” Barry peaked his head over the wall to give her a sheepish smile. Iris arched her eyebrow curiously at her husband. “I may have gotten more than I needed.” 

Iris gave her husband a look but smiled.  “It’s alright, we probably don’t have to go shopping soon then.”

Barry finished putting away all the groceries. He sped over to his wife. “I don’t think so. I bought wine and mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

Iris’s eyes lit up. “You bought wine and mint chocolate chip! Oh, can we have it for dinner?” Iris squeezed her husband’s hand and pouted at him.

Barry looked at Iris fondly. His free hand swept a loose gray curl behind her ear. “Yeah, but for dessert. I’m making lasagna for us.”

“Need any help?”  

“No it’s ok. Lasagna’s easy to make.” Barry also didn’t want Iris in the kitchen since she couldn’t cook that well even after all this time. She glared at him but stayed where she was. Barry leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. 

After turning on the music, Barry bustled around the kitchen preparing the lasagna. Iris hummed softly to the music as she told her husband a bizarre story that apparently happened to their granddaughter. She had dressed up as a chicken in an attempt to vandalize her rival school, but when she heard of a man intent on ill will towards old ladies, she, in a chicken costume, took her friends, also in chicken costumes, took him down. Thankfully they beat him, sustaining only minor injuries. 

Barry’s eyebrows shot up. “Her first time fighting crime was in a chicken suit?” 

Iris laughed out loud. “Mhm. Joey and Melanie were not amused when they found out. Joey called me almost raving about how irresponsible those kids were. It took a lot of effort to not laugh. Once he realized what he was complaining about he apologized, to both of us.” 

Barry chuckled. “Moments like these remind me why Joe said he couldn’t wait for us to have kids. I’m glad they’re ok. You think Cisco’s fuming that his great-niece went out super-heroing and not only did she not ask him for a suit, but the suit she did go out in was a chicken suit?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised. It happened last week I think, so we’ll be hearing about this soon.” Iris said.  

Barry's eyes sparkled in mirth as layering the lasagna. Iris shivered and slowly walked around the house closing the windows. “Ok I put it in the oven, in 45 minutes we will be having lasagna.” Barry ambled over to his wife who had just closed the kitchen window. He wrapped his long frame entirely around her. Old age has made them shorter, but he still had a good foot on her. Iris buried her face into his chest and returned the hug.

“Still cold?” Barry whispered.

“Mmm not anymore.”

“Sorry.”

Iris looked up at him crosseyed and pouting. Barry giggled at his cute wife, it did not help change her facial features. She stuck her tongue out at him then continued cuddling her husband. Barry looked at his wife dreamily and smiled dopily. He looked at her like that so much his friends nicknamed his dopey. (Harry got nicknamed grumpy. He wasn’t amused) Barry didn’t mind the nickname though, it was true. He was in love with her, has been since they were kids and she offered him cookies on the playground. Now 68 years later, they survived every damn thing no one could think of, had kids and grandkids, and got married. The song that came on made Iris’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “Do you remember this?” A thousand years was playing on the tablet. 

“That movie was horrible.” Barry groaned. He remembered that day like it was yesterday even though it had been decades ago. It had been a tiring day fighting crime, so they decided to rewind by watching a movie. Iris got them a ton of snacks then Barry curled up into her side. She mindlessly ran her fingers through her hair while she looked for a rom-com to watch. By accident, they watched the fifth twilight movie. It definitely wasn’t their favorite and Cicso definitely didn’t approve of their choice, but the song, a thousand years, was the one thing they liked from that movie. 

“It wasn’t the best no, but the song, this song, was really beautiful,” Iris remarks. Barry is struck with a good idea. He reluctantly pulls a little away from the hug to put them in a waltz form (even though the song wasn’t a waltz to their knowledge). 

He quietly sings Christina Perry's song to Iris. It’s one of her favourite things about him. They slowly sway side to side as they dance in the kitchen. He spins her around and kisses her temple. When the lyrics, time stand still, come up Barry flashes them into flashtime. He cupped her face and kissed her softly. When they stopped, he rested his forehead against hers. She happily sighed, eyes closed and smiling. She felt lucky that they were able to be together this long. She remembers thinking that he was going to die in the future, when she was going to die, and she counts her blessings that neither of those futures came true. 

“I love you.” He whispers, and he looks at her like she hung the freaking moon. Her hands softly fiddle with his thick red sweater with the gold trim. (It was a gift from Kara)

“I love you.” She adores him, she adores everything he does for her, she wonders if she has repaid the favor. 

“You’re gorgeous. You get more beautiful with every passing day.”

“Every hour every minute?” Iris asks cheekily. He laughs and twirls her. She thinks it’s the loveliest sound in the world. 

“Every hour every minute and then some. You are an angel, Iris West-Allen, and I am lucky to have you.” He’s starting to sweat. Using his powers drains him more quickly than it used to. He doesn’t want her to notice, but she does. 

“I am lucky to have you, Bar.” Her voice is quieter when she says this next part. “It’s ok, baby, take us out of flashtime, you’re tired.”

Even though he knows he should, he still tries to argue with her. “No, I’m ok Iris,” 

She gives him an unimpressed look. Some things never change. Barry yields to her good judgement pretty quickly. Now they can hear the rustle of the trees and music from the tablet. Iris leads Barry to the couch and she goes to get some milk and a power bar.

“The lasagna will be done in 25 minutes.” Iris handed him the powerbar and glass of milk. Barry took the milk from her and put it on the nightstand. He pulled Iris to his side and took a bite out of his bar. She rested her head atop his chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was it’s usual quick pace which she found comforting. Barry ran his finger through her hair methodically. His thumb started to caress an old scar on her hairline. 

“Do you ever miss when we used to be heroes, out on the streets catching criminals, helping people?”

“We still do, help people I mean. Playing card games with Cynthia, baking with Kara, trading books with Diggle, meditating with Wally, it keeps us all sane. As for the first part, it was a thrilling life with a lot of rewards, but it wasn’t the safest life. You know we’re lucky to have lived so long.” The green arrow mask on the mantle and other knick-knacks from other dead heroes was a big reminder of that. 

“Time has been good to us,” Barry remarks. He doesn’t say that not everyone has been so lucky, but she knows. He knows she knows when she curls closer to him.

“Time, the speed force, life’s been good to us all, let’s hope the next generation has the same luck.”

“Let’s hope.” The rest of the night was relatively quiet. The lasagna was delicious and completely gone by the end of the night. The wine and ice cream made them a little more giggly than before. After two glasses each they called it quits and headed to bed. After readying themselves for bed, Barry and Iris curled themselves up in bed. A small part of her head was the only thing peeking out from under the mattress, resting by his chest. Blankets were piled on top of her. Barry squeezed Iris’s hand.

“Goodnight, my love.” As he was about to turn off the light he saw a photo on his nightstand. It was a photo of them, their parents, their kids, their spouses, and their grandkids. The other photos around them were of their friends throughout the years. Time has been good to me, he muses. Turning off the light cocooning himself around his wife, they drift off to sleep, at peace.