#which works perfectly well for me! as a dyke!

[ratcash-wasgud]

Tragicomedy

okay gang, hear me out. ik most ppl who follow me are here for bes but PLLLLSSSSS

this came to me in a dream and i feel like i would fail as prophet if i didn't deliver it

anyways, enjoy.

art major!ellie x reader vs rugby player!abby x reader.

a.n.:Okay, before we start, the reader will get a little specific (like in my other works, lmao). plus tw for homophobia.

Part 2 is done!!!

"Ellie Williams"

Ellie started at her own signature under a painting in the hall of the school. Her college had a small exhibition of the art major student's works, and she submitted a painting of a flower she saw in the nearby park, and the butterfly which is supposed to symbolize...well, you. When other people ask, it symbolizes love and freedom though, but it's wings are strangely the same colour as your eyes, and it's spots are the same as your hair.

She only chose this painting because she somehow hoped you'd come, compliment her painting, then she'll ask you out on a date to her favourite cafe, then boom! Marriage. Or that's Dina's plan, actually. Ellie knew it was stupid. You'd never like her. Why? Easy. Abby Anderson has her eyes on you as well, and who wouldn't chose the female rugby team's captain? Exactly.

Even if Abby is straight, Ellie sees the was she looks at you. You are the that cute girl who hangs around campus alone, reading a book, wearing headphones, or just casually taking pictures of flowers and bugs. Nobody could resist your cuteness, and Ellie feels like the whole thing is a personal attack towards her. She tried talking to you a couple times, and turns out you're also very friendly. She has a couple common interests with you, like comic books. Life was good for a couple days when she could just randomly bump into you (tottaly not on purpose), holding a comic you purposely talked about, then she could blow away almost two hours for you and her nerding out about said comic. But then?

Abby came in the picture. She suddenly started to appear next to you on multiple occasions, throwing her meaty arms around you, doing that stupid, cocky smirk of hers. And what do you do? You giggle at her stupid jokes.

What Ellie didn't know, on the other hand, is that Abby was nothing like how people precieved her as. Yeah, sure, she was a rugby player who was kind of a jock, but she wasn't cocky. If anything, she was more like a big puppy, who happened loved hamburgers and tackling people. It's not her fault it's fun. She also happened to like pretty girls.

Not the girls the rugby team would usually get associated with, the ones with short skirts, perfect hair or long, clack-y nails. She did like those things though, but she learned that she has a type.

A type for cute girls with a nose and eyes that wrinkle up when they smile, who paint cute shit on their nails, and the ones who still own, and name their stuffed animals. And surprise surprise, you fit that type perfectly.

Abby knew that too. That's why she got attached to your hip out of the blue. She found out about you through Mel, who was her roomate and your coworker at your partime job at this rundown diner.

But Abby knew she had to stay in her lane. She comes from a small town, full of old fashioned people, so she knows how little the chance is of you actually being into women. She never did anything risky or too touchy. Plus, she was kind of knew into this whole gay thing. She realized stuff kind of late. She has a disadvantage against all the cool gay women she say around campus, proudly wearing their pride pins, or holding hands in the halls.

She thinks if she did anything like that, she'd just get called a dyke by her teammates and her family. She never even did anything with a woman before. She knows how to do it, obviously she has internet, but still...just the thought of actually owning a strap kind of makes her nervous.

But Ellie knows what's up. She had a girlfriends before. She even owns toys just for the purpose of pleasing women. She's even out, so most people know about her lesbian intentions when she talks to a girl she finds attractive. But not withouth a price though. She did get called slurs before, and by Abby's circle too, so she has solid reasons to hate the whole friendgrounp. Even if Abby herself never said anything, she still stood there, arms crossed and eyebrows scrunched up. And now, she tries to cling to the one girl Ellie had a genuine crush on since highschool? That's not fair. It's targeted, even.

It has to a be a hatecrime or something.

"It's the library, not a gym, Anderson. You must be confused, get lost." Ellie says with a scowl as she puts her finger between the pages of a comic book she has been explaining to you.

It's the first time she had found you alone in weeks, and she just has to spawn herself into the situation. Of course.

"Oh, get fucked, Williams." Abby shoots her a glare before putting her hand on the table you two are sitting at, and looming behind you. "Sorry, I was rudely interrupted before I could...you know, say hi." She says to you with a corny smile.

Ellie can't help but roll her eyes.

"Hi to you too." You smile lightly, putting your own comic book into your lap. You're especially pretty today, Abby thinks. She wonders if it's because of someone.

"So...you know, I was wondering if you'd wanna...uhh..." Abby takes a deep breath as she rubs her arm, but doing as casually as she can. "Come with me to that cute lil' diner down the street. I actually have a cupon for free milkshakes."

Ellie purses her lips and glares.

"She works at a diner, dumbass, I don't think she wants to spend her free time in one too," She says, now the page of the comic is forgotten as she crosses her arms. "I'm sure she'd like a place like...the amusement park more. It just happens that I have tickets for the weekend." Boom. Ellie smirks internally.

"The amusement park?" You perk up, cute bambi eyes widening. You seemed to like that idea. "Yeah! We should go together." You smile and Ellie feels like a whole storm just blew a bunch of flowers into her face. It's lovely, really. Until, "Right, Abby?"

Huh? You meant...all three of you?

Abby looks just as shocked as Ellie, and does her best to act nonchalant. "Yeah, sure. But I won't carry you after you die on a rollercoaster." She snickers, shooting Ellie a siteating grin.

Both women knew they couldn't decline this stupid three-way date, since they couldn't actually invite you anywhere on their own. So, amusement park it was.

The weekend came, and to you, it was such a nice day. You didn't have friends ever since you started college, but now, you actually felt appritiated. Like you belong.

It started with you meeting Ellie at the diner, then Abby coming to pick both of you up with her truck. The day was spent with you convinving both of them for silly rides you wanted to try. The problem was, that there were usually 2 people fitting seats. You didn't want either of them to feel left out, so you made them sit together, and you sat before them. The whole day felt like a damn comedy.

"Look, churros!" You cheer as you spot a booth with one of your favourite snacks after not really eating anything that day. Ellie, almost throwing up after that last ride, grimaces at the sight, while Abby steps forward, already reaching for her wallet.

"Want me to buy you some?" She asks, standing beside you as she points at one of the flavors. Meanwhile, Ellie suddenly perks up, not wanting to get left behind. "I could get you a slushie to go along with it. Churros here are usually pretty dry." Abby rewards this attemt with a side-eye.

Then a pair of men, holding hands, also approach the booth, smiling to eachother and discussing what they should get. Abby glances their way, seeing their way of holding eachother's hands, and she reaches out slowly, her hand brushing against your's, just when a middle aged man walks by the booth, and sadly opens his mouth. "Fags nowadays. They're everywhere, damn it. There's kids here."

Abby suddenly freezes. Her hand imidiately back in her pocket, and she just stares at her wallet. She feels her feet grow roots into the ground, and suddenly she hears the same phrase in her father's voice. This is a random Saturday, the sun is shining, there are people in love, but it's still...

"Your breath is everywhere too dude. What a stench" Ellie's voice brings her back to reality, and her snaps at the auburn haired woman, fearlessly, glaring at the man.

She didn't know Williams could be...brave? Mmm, not the right word. Proud? Maybe.

Meanwhile, Ellie is fuming. This random ass dude tries to ruin her only chance she has with her crush by ruining the whole mood. She's not having that. She sees the two guys glance at her, and send a smile her way as she flips the middle aged bigot off one last time before he disappears.

She quickly jerks her face back to you, and what she sees it...Abby with tears shimmering in her eyes, and you standing befor her, cupping her face and stroking her arm. It's a horrible sight. Your soft hands don't belong on that burly surfice. Ellie feels like she's left behind.

Meanwhile Abby is panicking. It's over, you saw her cry, she must be the lamest person ever right now. She has embarrased herself before the first girl she has ever liked just because she's a coward, because even the hint of being judged that way scares her to death.

In the end, both women's worst fears somehow came true.

Ellie losing to Abby, while Abby losing to her fears. What a tragedy.

But you? To you, this day was the realest thing you have felt since college started. You have learned that the nerdy art student is fierce, and that the captain of the rugby team can cry. You are attached now, and there's no escape.

Meanwhile Ellie and Abby feel like sinking into the ground with broken hopes, they don't know that you will ask to hang out again pretty soon.

[docholligay]

A relevant question was asked by @tallangrycockatiel about my love of Interview With the Vampire: "Um, why are you into something that is all about dudes, all the time? Is this us not being a bitch's bitch?" Only, she is English so she said it in a more polite, suggested sort of way.

A very fair question! It is extremely true that, by and large, a thing with men only is less interesting to me by far and it takes a lot more for me to get into it. But she was not put off by this, for she had developed a theory:

My two initial theories are that either it hit you early enough that that hadn't become such a strong preference, or that it has something to do with the fact that despite being 95% men the entire cast seems to be having what I can only describe as dyke drama the entire time.

She both knows me and is smart, so there we are. The answer is basically: YES.

I started reading the Vampire Chronicles when I was something around 13, and so I didn't really have an idea that it was kind of fucked up that men we treated as the only default interesting people on earth. I pretty much took it as an implicit truth, where I never would have SAID that, but, I was very much in what can only be described as a 'masculinity k-hole' where of course I wanted to be a 'tomboy' and the only way for a girl to be tough and cool was if she was 'just like a boy' and this whole idea that men and masculinity were superior vomit vomit vomit whatever I am perfectly capable of beating someone's ass in red lipstick but that line of thinking did not occur to me at the time.

So I had NO sensitivity to the idea that stories whose ENTIRE UNIVERSES centered around men might be even, annoying. Anne Rice straight up does not care about or like women, and it is absolutely reflected in the way she writes her female characters. I cannot IMAGINE someone reading these as a fully grown adult who thinks women are neat, actually, and not coming away going, "My god, what is happening in these books?" But when you grow up with something, it changes with you, and the ways you think of it aren't COMING from adult you, they are, at least in part, coming from YOUNG you. And, in much the same way A Song of Ice and Fire, which I read at a similar time, gave me what I wanted from fantasy and wasn't getting, this did as well. I did not know that it would have been what is now called urban fantasy, and I didn't know that was a thing I liked (I very much know that now) all I knew was, I liked it. It was batshit and felt dangerous and it was unhinged and very gothic, though, again, not a way I could have expressed it.

So I'm carrying all that --I'll say baggage even though that has a negative connotation--when I come to the work. I already pre-like it.

This can of course backfire, but it didn't, so, I'm not gonna get into that.

NUMBER TWO: The 'all dudes' thing is not insurmountable. It's a quality issue. I love Dan Simmons' work and his women are basically nonexistent. There are plenty of things I like that don't center women. But, the bar to entry is MUCH higher. I would never in my life willingly watch something like "sailor moon but boys though."

What Interview has, that I love, is a very rare thing: Well written, EXPLICITLY gay, and everyone is fucking terrible. It is an adult show for grown-ass adults where people fuck and murder and abuse each other. Armand is the physical manifestation of gaslight gatekeep girlboss. Louis rewrites an entire personal history to make himself look better and emotionally manipulates everyone he comes into contact with. Lestat is a hot tempered, vain dilettante who does shit without thinking and then has the audacity to go, "Oh no, the quencies!" Everyone sucks, everyone is abusive in one way or another, all the fucking exes overlap, and I LOVE IT. Anyone looking for a hero or victim is watching the wrong fucking show and I am SO HAPPY ABOUT IT.

I'll close with my response when we were talking about how fucking great Sarah Waters is, in relation to the above:

it took me forever to realize that I didn't actually want recommendations for lesbian fic, what I was actually asking is: So who is doing it like Sarah Waters? Which unfortunately is no one. The woman is my own personal oasis in the desert.

And God, it has taken me YEARS to convince people that I care so much less about whether or not something is gay than if it is GOOD. Does it say something TRUE, you know? Is it messy? Is it sometimes uncomfortable? I would fucking LOVE if it could be gay on top of these things, but I'll real here:

l'll read a good straight thing versus a bad and especially a fluffy gay thing

I LOVE that shit like REd, White and Royal Blue or coffee shop Aus or whatever exist for people who want them, but I am out for blood ahaha

I have a happy, boring, domestic gay life, i do not need to imagine what a life where your biggest argument is about the quantity and variety of fucking breakfast cereal (We have EIGHT. BOXES.)

[mrsmarlasinger]

OH. I forgot to tell a story that I have already told everyone in my physical vicinity! The drama of it all.

So my on-and-off childhood sweetheart from age...like...eleven to twenty-something—okay, scratch that. We met for the first time when we were toddlers. So let's call him my on-and-off childhood sweetheart of basically twenty years. My first kiss, first love, so on and so forth.

You get the gist. I don't have to explain this to you.

Well, in August 2023, he pleads for me to take him back and asks something along the lines of "What would it take?"

🤨

Seriously.

Keep in mind, this is a return missionary of the Polite, Inoffensive Young Mormon Boy™ genre. My parents wanted desperately for me to marry him. (Sorry, Mom and Dad! It was never gonna work!)

This dude is a cishet who won't TECHNICALLY misgender your partner, but will refer to them exclusively by name to avoid using any pronouns whatsoever. He's a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Republican. You wanna know how Roe v. Wade got overturned? Lol. Lmao, even.

Me? I'm a pierced, kinky, polyamorous, weed-smoking, whiskey-loving, goreno-watching, foul-mouthed, slutty-attired, dyke-sex-having

🏳️‍🌈🌈QUEER🌈🏳️‍🌈

Sin central. Remember when "hellmaxxing" was a word? I quaff fucking cough medicine to get high. Sometimes. Doesn't matter. Anyway.

So he and I are incompatible, natch, but that was so not even relevant. Because in August 2023, I WAS LITERALLY A YEAR INTO A LESBIAN RELATIONSHIP.

"What would it take?" Bro, I hadn't dated a man in nearly half a decade! I still haven't! In fact, I am currently in a relationship with a lesbian!

What do you mean, dude.

What do you MEAN.

So I tell this boy he'd have to leave the Mormon church. Don't get me wrong, that wasn't a challenge or an ultimatum—I think he's having a great time being Mormon! Didn't work for me, but shit, man, it's working for him!

And okay, fine, do I think he gives bi-guy-with-internalized-homophobia vibes (I've dated one, I would know) and should at least give bisexuality the good ol' college try? Yes, but it's not up to me!

I just meant that, ultimately, it was the Church which drove such a divide between us. I don't believe in it—I can't believe—and neither of us would be happy compromising our beliefs for the other. And even if I compromised mine for him, I'd still be haunted by the hurt of everything he said to me when I left. All the judgment he spewed in the guise of humor.

So that's what I said.

In that moment, he looked at me with his big, sad brown eyes, and I think we understood each other perfectly.

And god, it was sad. I did use to think he and I would end up married. For ten years I thought that. Hell, everyone told us we would.

But...ohmygod. What a movie moment. For bitches who live their lives like cosplay (I'm bitches), that is like one of the top five wish fulfillment moments you could experience in your interpersonal relationships.

Honestly. Honestly. I can't stress enough that a man BEGGED FOR ME TO TAKE HIM BACK, and then I TURNED HIM DOWN.

I'm sorry but like...that's crazy. That's glamor.

So anyway, he goes off into the starry dark (yeah, and of COURSE it happened on the front porch at night. Me on the very edge of the porch step, him on the ground—vaguely Romeo and Juliet-esque. Like...the poetry. You cannot get more cinematic than that). I watch him leave, then go inside.

The next time I hear from this man, I'm drinking wine on my gay partner's couch (gay) (we are gay) (lesbians), and this man invites me to his wedding...reception. Cuz of course, I couldn't get into his temple wedding even if I wanted to.

And yes, I cried over the lame-ass cishet boy! The death of childhood sweetheartdom does, in fact, require a mourning period.

N e wayz, here's the kicker: in true Mormon fashion, the timeline from him getting rejected by The Great Love Of His Life (blushes cutely 🤭) to getting engaged was...FIVE MONTHS! Yes, folks, my nosy ass did the math!

Timeline from the big rejection to his upcoming wedding reception (in Pride month, of ALL months for straight marriage 😒🙄😤)?

🥁🥁🥁🥁...Ten months, folks!

Well, Jesus, man, I didn't want you to rebound with a marriage! Bit sick, innit? Not to inflate my already-ballooned ego, but Lord help us both, you were crushed that night on the porch! Don't saddle your poor fiancée with that baggage, mmkay?

Anyway. That's my tale. I'm genuinely happy for them (provided the marriage works well for both), and I am going to his reception in a couple weeks, though I don't expect we'll keep in contact afterward.

(She seems lovely, btw, can't wait to meet her. Here's hoping they enter the Utah Mormon swinger circle; I'm not opposed to a road trip. Kidding, obviously, and I know that that's a distasteful joke. But, like, if THEY were down—)

(KIDDING. CONSERVATIVES ARE ETHICALLY UNFUCKABLE.)

Moral of the story: I Am That Bitch 🌝🌝

[inphront]

in honor of my partner successfully making this whole room smell overwhelmingly of sweet corn, i am going to tell you all a story.

to set the scene, i would like you to imagine a very anxious fifteen year old in a closet made of glass so thin that light rainfall would do it in completely, desperately trying to make it to pride with their friends while maintaining plausible deniability to their parents that they are the biggest dyke who ever walked the earth (no denial would ever have been plausible, but as this is a story, i will request that you suspend your disbelief). this presents many challenges, of course.

one such challenge is that of attire. since this is their first pride, it is of the utmost importance that they wear thematically relevant clothing. they are *not* about to show up to the biggest event of their lesbian career looking like a straight person (this is impossible for them to do, but again, suspension of disbelief). unfortunately, they have no access to a vehicle or any real means of shopping for clothes without asking their parents, which they cannot do without explaining that they were looking to buy pride gear. you see the dilemma? fantastic.

our protagonist’s crafts closet contains a plain white t-shirt from god knows when. it will not be missed. they decide on a design to spray paint on the shirt (a very ugly design that acknowledges their status as a theater kid, but we’ll chalk it up to overzealousness). they would usually undertake this project in the garage, but that wouldn’t give them time to hide everything in case of their parents getting home early. they set up some cardboard in their bedroom and get to work one afternoon when no one else is home.

the spray painting itself is done in plenty of time to shove the end result into the closet to dry (this closet was not made of glass and would be perfectly capable of hiding its contents) and put away the crafts supplies. however— and herein lies the central obstacle our unlikely hero must surmount— spray paint produces a lot of fumes. their room does not have nearly large enough windows for those fumes to dissipate before anyone else’s return home. is this, in and of itself, a disaster to a level-headed person? probably not, but you’ll recall that we’re working with a very anxious fifteen year old here. the smell of spray paint would inevitably lead their parents to ask what they painted, and why in god’s holy name they didn’t paint it in the garage like any sensible person would, which would, in turn, lead to the destruction of their closet once and for all. they could not allow their parents to smell the spray paint. they needed to take action.

in our protagonist’s arsenal is a diffuser, for which they keep several kinds of essential oil. the diffuser by itself would do precious little against the paint fumes, which were really quite overpowering and may have accounted for some of the decision-making at play here. our hero may have done well Not to use spray paint in an enclosed space, but desperate times call for desperate measures, which is why our desperate closeted teen decides to use the oils without the diffuser, knowing their parents could get home any minute.

so that’s how i dumped almost an entire fucking bottle of lemon essential oil on my floor, completely on purpose. you could smell that goddamn citrus all the way down the hallway for the next four days. it smelled like every lemon on the face of the earth had been juiced all over the carpet. it kept me up at night. *i* probably smelled like lemon the next couple days of school. but goddammit, my mom never learned about my spray-painted gay pride shirt. thank you for your time.

[whoslaurapalmer]

top five black and white movies !! 👀

I Love Being Asked About Movies And Yet I Suffer Because I Must Pick So Few. alas.......

black and white specifically........hmmmm.......................okay so once again this is perhaps not The top 5 but certainly A top 5 re: movies, a top 5 i have scraped around in my brain for to shake up my default picks

-the night of the hunter has some extreme light and shadow, especially shadow, and i don't think it would have worked, i don't think it would be the same movie, without those extremes.

-les yeux sans visage has some really striking and haunting shots, and a bit of blood that i think would have read as weird in color, but is perfectly acceptable in black and white. and the face mask, too!! i don't think it would have been the same if it wasn't so, fuzzy and muted and gray. almost blending into her face until the light hits it right and you really feel the sadness and horror of it.

-inherit the wind. i never want to say a lot about inherit the wind bc i feel it speaks for itself but i think it's a gorgeous movie, AND it has gene kelly in a non-dancing and non-singing role, which i love.

-GOD I SHOULD REALLY PICK A COMEDY OR SOMETHING. one of the things i find fascinating about black and white is that, well clearly it was filmed in color (never forget the story of carl reiner being asked 'so how do you feel about the dick van dyke show being colorized? won't it be strange to see it like that?' and he said 'well, we filmed it in color. i saw it in color. while we were shooting.'), but i just cannot imagine it in color (like, myrna loy's christmas party dress in the thin man. it's probably like, red and white, like a candy cane, bc it was christmas. but to me it is gray and white, bc that's how it shows up on the screen, and i love it like that.), and i think that becomes really funny and charming in a movie like, mr. blandings builds his dream house. it's a light and fun little time with cary grant and myrna loy, uh, building their dream house, and there's a moment where myrna loy is describing the super particular paint shades she wants. and it's in black and white. does she ever get her robin's egg blue?????? but it also still doesn't matter that it's in black and white!! you still haven't lost anything!!!

-the gazebo. for some reason it took quite a few watches for this movie to grow on me, like when i first watched it i didn't think it executed everything right but i loved the idea of it so much i still just kept watching it, until it became a movie i go back to with relative frequency. it's just such a fun little black comedy with like, all the pieces of a noir, you could say, murder and blackmail and a man turned to the darkest act by circumstances, at times shadowy and dark, just played entirely as a comedy, bc it's also so fucking absurd. there's a pigeon!!!! there's a phone call with alfred hitchcock!!!!! the murder victim is wrapped in shower curtains!!! lo and behold, carl reiner is here!!!!!! my all time favorite character actor, john mcgiver, is here, pronouncing gazebo as gaze-bo!!!! debbie reynolds gets some of the best dialogue in the whole movie!!!!!!!

[whiskey-bumblebee]

Disorder

Characters: Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi (platonic/professional), no romantic pairing in this one because it's more of a character study :) also hotch is bi <3

Word Count: 1175

Warnings: Homophobia, transphobia, use of outdated LGBTQ+ terminology/slurs (fag, dyke, transvestite, homosexual, fruit) - but within the context of teaching Rossi that these things aren't okay. Starts right under the cut. Also Rossi is kind of OOC but I personally think he's an asshole so.

It's a familiar scene, the team reviewing photographs and case files from the latest case they've been assigned. This time, they're preparing to fly to San Francisco.

Rossi huffed a laugh. "Of course it's San Francisco."

The team largely ignored him, not sure exactly what he's trying to get at, and thinking it's probably better not to ask him to elaborate. Rossi was a helpful part of the team, but sometimes...

"So it seems like the unsub is targeting members of the LGBTQ community," Spencer said slowly. "Does anyone have the file on how the victims knew each other?"

"They all volunteered at a community clinic," Emily responded, sliding the file over the table to Spencer, who scrambles to catch the papers before they slide off the table.

"What did they do there? Anything that might make people angry?" Morgan asked, walking around the table to peer over Spencer's shoulder.

"STI testing, peer counselling, outreach, increasing the accessibility of contraception and medication. Maybe controversial to an out-of-towner, but within San Francisco..." JJ trailed off, shaking her head.

"Maybe someone had a test come back positive? Started taking it out on the staff?" Spencer suggested.

"That makes the profile easy," Rossi said. "The unsub is a sexual deviant, so we look for signs of assault, run a DNA test, case closed."

The team fell silent, avoiding eye contact with each other.

"What makes you think that, Dave?" Hotch piped up.

"Well, all of the victims are homosexuals, so the unsub is likely a homosexual, or some sort of transvestite-"

"David," Aaron interrupted. "That isn't the preferred terminology-"

"Preferred terminology," Rossi threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "What does it matter? Dykes, fags, homosexuals. We know what we're looking for."

Rossi jabbed a finger at one of the victim's pictures.

"Could David and I have the room, please," Hotch said firmly. He crossed his arms. Everyone filtered out quickly, eager to be out of the tense room.

"They," Aaron slipped the photograph out from under Rossi's finger. "-are one of the victims. Not the unsub."

"You know what I'm getting at."

"No, I don't, David. Homosexuality hasn't been included in the DSM since the 1970s. You're being offensive."

"It's deviancy! You can't stand there and tell me that homosexuality is typical behavior." Rossi stood up and walked away from Hotch, turning his back to the taller man.

"It's perfectly acceptable 'behavior'. What if someone on the team was queer, Dave? How do you think that," Aaron gestured around the room, referring to Rossi's outburst. "Would make them feel? Safe?"

Rossi scoffed. "If one of them is a fucking fruit, they shouldn't be working in this unit in the first place."

"Dave," Aaron said, his tone dangerous. He was clearly considering his next move.

"Hotch," Rossi parroted. "What's your problem?"

"My problem," Hotch said, "Is that there's a 'fucking fruit' in the room with you right now. And he just so happens to run this unit."

Rossi shook his head and walked to the door, which someone had wisely closed behind themselves as they left.

"Sit down," Aaron said calmly, although there was a clear edge to his words.

Rossi turned around, walking to stand behind a chair and resting his hands on the back. He held eye contact with Aaron, clearly defying his request.

"Once we're finished, I'm going straight to Strauss' office, and I suspect she'll agree with me that a suspension is in order. Right now, you're going to listen to me."

Rossi's eyes finally dropped to the conference room table. Aaron took advantage of his moment of compliance.

"In the 21st century, we refer to members of the LGBTQ community with the terms they prefer. We do not say homosexual, fruit, or fag. Gay men are gay men, and lesbians are lesbians. Trans people are just trans. I'm sure you'll have time to catch up on the terminology during your suspension."

"So you're a fag, Aaron?"

Aaron took two steps across the room.

"I'm what you call a bisexual." He took Rossi by the upper arm, not caring if his vice grip left bruises, and dropped his voice to something just above a whisper. "And because we're at work, I'm going to walk out of here and call Strauss. But if you try this shit outside, I know a couple of 'fags' who would have broken your fucking nose."

Aaron let go, perhaps a little more aggressively than he needed to. He jerked his chin towards the door. "Get out."

Rossi left the building without even going to his office to fetch his coat.

Hotch walked out of the conference room, knowing all eyes would be on him.

"We can talk about this in a few minutes. I need to make a phone call."

Derek laughed and clapped his hands together. "Rossi's in trouble."

____

"Right," Aaron said. "I'm glad you agree. Okay. Thanks, Strauss."

He hung up the phone and walked out of his office.

"Okay, everyone," He said, walking into the bullpen. "Rossi's been suspended for four weeks, or until he can pass a quiz on the updated terminology. Is everyone okay?"

Garcia looked kind of startled, having been in her cave while the team were in the other room. Judging by her tearful expression, someone had caught her up on the afternoon's events.

"We're okay," Emily replied. "We debriefed while you were on the phone."

Hotch nodded. "If anyone feels like they need to talk, I'll leave my office door open, or you can send me an email if you want to keep it private."

"Are you okay, Hotch?" Spencer asked.

Aaron cleared his throat. "I'm fine."

Penelope frowned and he softened.

"Rossi said some inappropriate things. It's important to me that you all feel safe at work. Of course, you don't have to disclose anything..." He trailed off. "But I'm..."

He sighed, starting to rub his fingertips together.

"It feels important that you know that the person running this unit is... I'll have your backs," He said finally, swallowing noticeably.

They all nodded.

"We know, Hotch," Derek replied.

Penelope offered a warm smile.

____

The next morning, there's a noticeable difference in the office atmosphere with Rossi gone. But there's also something... else.

Hotch has adhered a small, rectangular sticker to the outside of his office window:

Everyone is welcome here.

And if Penelope has stuck a pride flag to the glass door which leads into the BAU's office space, nobody says anything about it.

And if Spencer starts wearing a he/him pin on the lapel of one of his cardigans, nobody says anything about it.

And if Derek starts adding "or lady?" when he asks "is there a special man in your life?" Nobody says anything about it.

And if JJ encourages the police stations they work with to refer to unsubs with gender neutral pronouns, nobody says anything about it.

And if Emily has lipstick on her cheek one morning. And if it looks a little bit like the shade JJ was wearing, nobody says anything about it.

[kingstylesdaily]

Harry Styles and Florence Pugh Get Hot and Heavy in Olivia Wilde’s ‘Don’t Worry Darling’ Sneak Peek

Olivia Wilde brought the 1950s to CinemaCon, showcasing the first look at Harry Styles and Florence Pugh in the psychological thriller “Don’t Worry Darling.”

Movie theater owners at the annual exhibition trade show got a sneak peek of the trailer, which isn’t yet available to the public. The footage opens on Styles and Pugh’s characters snuggling in bed. They play a husband and wife living in an idyllic experimental community, lined with perfectly placed palm trees and fancy cars.

“You and me?” she asks her husband. “Always. You and me.”

Pugh plays a happy housewife, one who becomes increasingly suspicious that her husband’s glamorous company may be hiding disturbing secrets. He’s working on something called the Victory Project, which promises to change the world.

“I don’t trust him, and I don’t want to be here anymore,” Pugh says at one point.

Other scenes in the trailer show Styles screaming in a car, and later getting intimate with Pugh on a dining room table. They may not trust each other, but they certainly have no problem getting it on. In another sequence, Styles and Pugh are hot and heavy against a sink… never mind that Chris Pine’s character is in the same room. Later, Styles shows off his signature moves on top of that well-appointed dining room table.

On stage at Caesars Palace, where CinemaCon is currently taking place, Wilde shed a little light on the idea behind “Don’t Worry Darling,” which is inspired by “Inception,” “The Matrix” and “The Truman Show.” She calls the movie “a love letter to movies that push the boundaries of imagination.”

“I want you to imagine a life you had everything you could possibly dream of,” she told the crowd of theater owners. “Not just a perfect house, cars…”

“What would it take for you to give up that life, to do what’s right?” Wilde asked.

Wilde also highly praised her actors (who were not in attendance during Warner Bros.’ presentation on Tuesday night), referring to pop sensation Styles as “an up-and-coming actor with no other career that I am aware of, and he is nothing short of a revelation in this part.” Of Pugh, who is best known for “Black Widow,” “Midsommar” and “Little Women,” Wilde says her actor is “brilliant, sexy, fierce and tough.”

Along with Styles, Pugh and Pine, the cast includes Wilde, Gemma Chan, KiKi Layne and Nick Kroll. Katie Silberman wrote the screenplay from a spec script by Carey and Shane Van Dyke.

“Don’t Worry Darling” is Wilde’s follow-up feature to 2019’s coming-of-age comedy “Booksmart.” Prior to stepping behind the camera, she acted in movies and on TV shows such as “Tron: Legacy,” “Drinking Buddies” and “The O.C.”

Warner Bros.’ upcoming slate also includes “Elvis” (June 24), “DC League of Super-Pets” (July 29), “Creed III” (Nov. 23) and “Shazam! Fury of the Gods” (Dec. 16).

via Variety

[gatheringbones]

Tristan Taormino, My Father’s Eyes, from His Hands, His Tools, His Sex, His Dress: Lesbian Writers On Their Fathers, edited by Catherine Reid, and Holly K. Iglesias, Alice Street Editions, 2001:

["When I was fifteen, I spent the whole summer at my dad's, and my dad happened to live in Provincetown. I got my first job that summer, working at a leather shop, and spent my free time hanging out with drag queens and being crushed out on a dyke bike messenger named Nina. I remember grinning a lot whenever she made deliveries to our store. She had muscles and jet black hair and looked like a tough tomboy all grown up. It never occurred to me that my friends back home on Long Island weren't having a summer like mine. The summer when I wore perfume for the first time, and a transvestite named Lola helped me choose it— it was her favorite scent and I loved the way she smelled, like spiced apples and vanilla. It was a summer of lesbian potluck dinners and five o'clock tea dances at the Boatslip.

It was a summer of walking down Commercial Street hand in hand with my father. In my memories, we are dressed in some hip outfits on our way to see Jimmy James at the Pilgrim House. Jimmy James was a performer my dad was close friends with who impersonated Marilyn Monroe. They called it "female impersonation" but it was really more than that. Jimmy was the most exciting, most glamorous person I knew. Unlike the tired queens with the cheap shiny dresses who couldn't even lip sync very well, Jimmy sang Marilyn's songs and talked to the audience in Marilyn's voice. And his nightly transformation was magical. When I saw him during the day, he was always cute and perky and witty. When he got himself in that peach-pink sequined dress and blond wig and diamond bracelets, he embodied her. She was gorgeous and sexy and naughty and brash, and I wanted to be her. Not the Marilyn I'd seen in All About Eve with my dad, not the Marilyn on posters and t-shirts everywhere. I wanted to be the Marilyn that Jimmy was. 

I also spent the summer watching my dad cruise other men on Commercial Street. He'd stop to flirt with some guy or another on the way. I can see him moving his hands a lot when he talked, fingering a guy across the ribcage, looking him right in the eye. I can see why men fell in love with him. It never felt that strange to see him with men, and even that first summer in P-Town, no one told me my dad was gay. They just assumed I knew.

I remember sitting at his kitchen table one afternoon with the younger brother of one of my father's friends. His name was John, but everyone called him Boomer, and his brother was a gay priest. "So, what do you think about your father being gay?" Boomer asked matter-of-factly.

It all came together at that moment in my head. Right, my dad is gay. Of course, everything makes sense now. My dad is gay. Because, even through all the male roommates, the absence of any women lovers, his impeccable taste in clothes and decorating, it just didn't occur to me that my father was gay. And I was a pretty savvy fifteen year old. There was never any moment with either of my parents which began, "Honey, I need to tell you something...." But my mother had gay friends whom I adored and it seemed perfectly fine that my dad was gay. Besides, he was not a typical father to begin with, regardless of his sexual identity.

[...] There was a recurring, unspoken ritual my father and I had which is one of my most treasured memories. When I packed for a visit with him, I always brought my best clothes, the hottest outfits, something brand new I bought just for the trip, just for him. The first morning I was there, I headed for the bathroom, showered, primped for a long time, then dressed for him. I emerged from the bathroom, strutted into the kitchen or the living room, and stood there in front of him, posed for a proper look, poised for approval.

Without missing a beat, his eyes followed my body into the center of the room, lit up with glee, and he bellowed in a loud, expressive voice: "You look fabulous!" He'd say how much he loved my dress or ask where I got the shoes, and elaborate on his appreciation. It was my moment to shine, to be the beautiful object to him. It was our moment. I relive those times now with lovers, dressing up, anticipating the moment she will arrive at my door or I will emerge from my bedroom, and she, usually a handsome butch, will survey every inch of me, drink me in with her eyes, smile and say, "You look incredible."]

[bisluthq]

I don't get this obsession with wanting to prove that everything Taylor has said about her life is a lie and every relationship she's had publicly is fake. It's the superiority complex that these people have to think that they are smarter than everyone because they have cracked the case and found that Taylor is a goldstar lesbian. It's like they will twist everything as proof for their hypothesis and call everyone else dumb for living in reality. She can very well be gay but no she did not make up elaborate lies about her relationships to cover it up 💀

I mean if she’s a lesbian she’s living THE WORST case of comphet society has ever seen and we should 100% leave her alone? Like I don’t think she is - I personally think she’s essentially straight but maybe kissed some girls at parties in like slutty curiosity and for attention but hey maybe she is bi and identifies that way whether or not she’s kissed girls like who tf knows - but like she’s comfortable with the chatter and finds it funny which tells me tbh she’s not likely to be… a lesbian lmao.

If you DO think she’s a lesbian who’s confused and closeted and like repressed and shit how on EARTH is yelling “Taylor Swift is a dyke” gonna help her? Did ANY OF YOU come out after people yelled “hahahaha you’re a dyke!!!” like was that your origin story? Because for most people I know, myself included, it was the fucking exact opposite scenario.

For a public example of that, see Phil and Dan.

I think speculating on if someone famous dates or hooks up with the same gender is perfectly valid man like I don’t think it’s any more invasive than idk speculating about anything else. Which is like… invasive right but whatever like that’s the nature of celeb gossip.

But there’s a difference between “huh I wonder if these two single women are an item - let’s not bother them but I do wonder” or “huh I wonder if she has the range for it” and “THIS PERSON IS AN F SLUR/D SLUR!!!!” and like harassing people over that.

Like if you GENUINELY think Taylor Swift is a lesbian idk how tf you think you’re helping her by idk dragging her out the closet. I don’t know how a fandom that was - rightfully - mad when gay teenagers got doxxed in Bettygate feels like it’s okay to drag people out the closet.

But wait - you say - she’s not in the closet. She said “gay pride makes me me” (woo girling imo but okay) and she likes lite Gaylor content and has invited Gaylors to like M&Gs before and she stuck a bi wig on her head and shit. Okay. So if she’s not in the closet, according to you, then she’s also not lying about her relationship which she has… confirmed… multiple times?

So then either she’s like bi and proud of it or just a non homophobic woo girl or somewhere in between where it confuses her a bit and she’s like “wait but do I want to kiss her or do I want to be her lol?” but she doesn’t mind and she’s perfectly content sucking her English uncut dick so it’s not a big deal for her?

But if that’s NOT the case and like she’s WORKING THROUGH COMPHET like then by YOUR OWN LOGIC y’all should leave her - and the people in her life - alone???

[poppysimp]

Desperation [ Poppy x MC ]

Part two here

Warnings: Homophobia, internalized homophobia, mentions of sex.

a/n: hi everyone !! i wrote this based on a fanfic written by @nightwhite13 please go read theirs. i was feeling angsty so i thought i’d make y’all sad too 😌 i might do a part 2 if y’all want me to 👉🏻👈🏻 you can say it in the tags

Sex and sweat. That’s what Poppy’s room reeked of. She gripped her expensive bedsheets as Bea’s nails dug deeply into her back as she worked her fingers deftly against her.

“Fuck, Poppy!” Bea yelled after one last, deep thrust, grabbing a handful of Poppy’s hair as she rode her hand.

Poppy wiped off some drops of sweat off her eyebrows and reached over her nightstand for a clean shirt. “You can leave now, Farmsville.” Her voice hoarse and icy.

“Gee, princess. Let me catch my breath first.” She said jokingly trying to reach for Poppy’s hand, but retreated as soon as she caught a glimpse of her serious expression “Fine, fine. I’m leaving now. But, can I least get a kiss before I go?” Poppy hated it when she pouted, she looked so fucking adorable and made her feel things, it just wasn’t fair.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so annoying. Fine, but then you leave” She begrudgingly kissed the other girl. Though, she couldn’t manage to hide the smile creeping up on her lips for much longer.

Luckily, Bea was already reaching for the door “Good night, Poppy” She smiled warmly, unbothered by Poppy’s attempts to push her away.

“You know, here’s a crazy idea.” She blurted out right before stepping outside “What if I actually stayed for more than one minute after we have sex” She whispered that last sentence as if it were the most escandalous of proposals.

Her rivals effort to actually get close to her warmed Poppy’s heart to a boiling point. Of course she’d never admit it to anyone, not even herself “We’ll discuss it another day. Now, out”

And just like that, her bed was cold and lonely once again. Hooking up after one of their big fights in front of everyone had become some sort of tradition for them. It always went the same way; they’d spit out venomous insults at each other, put on a show for the zombified crowd of drama-hungry college students who seemed to get off on their stupid feud and went back to Poppy’s place to blow off steam.

She absentmindedly ran her perfectly manicured nail across the love bite left behind on her pale neck while laying on her back. Who did that bitch think she was? No one gave her the right to look so fucking perfect all the time, to have intoxicating kisses and a gentle touch. How dare she look at her with that godamned smile? How dare she make her feel this way?

Tears began to sting and her heartbeat began to increase. Warm droplets of salty tears flowed from her cheeks, all the way down to her collarbone.

“Girls are not supposed to like other girls. That’s just sick, an abomination”

Her father’s penetrating voice boomed in her brain. She was only 14 the first time she heard him say those words.

They were on one of their usual trips to the jewelry store to get her mom a diamond the size of her face, which he only did after screwing his secretary, when she saw it. Two girls locked in an embrace she’d only ever seen in couples formed by a man and a woman.

She was curious, enthralled, even. Could a girl and a girl really be together the same way a boy and a girl were? Well, girls certainly smelled better than boys. She never really understood the appeal of boys the way her girlfriends seemed to. They were loud, smelly, annoying and definitely not as cute as the other girls said they were. She just didn’t get it.

Of course, that curiosity was immediately shot down by her father.

He scoffed “Dykes” was the first word that came out of his mouth in a despective tone “Those sick people. Showing their depravity in public as if it’s something to feel proud about. Let’s go, Poppy, a good girl like you shouldn’t be exposed abnormalities such as them”

That wasn’t the last time she’d hear those words come out of his mouth. Her developing years were filled to the brim with lectures from both her father and her mother on what being “a proper lady” meant.

“Girls are not supposed to like other girls. Please, baby, promise me you’ll never be one of those sickos” She’d never forget her mother repeat those words as she brushed her hair. A gentle, motherly gesture filled with venom and bigotry “You’re way too pretty, just like your mommy. I’m sure you’ll find a nice boy in no time”

The truth was, Poppy didn’t want a nice a boy. Who she wanted wasn’t particularly nice, or a boy, for that matter.

She wanted the girl who defied her ever since she first stepped on campus. She wanted the girl everyone kept trying to pin against her. She wanted a girl, period. Her dad would be so disappointed.

She felt angry, trapped and desperate. This was all Bea’s fault, she was supposed to marry a nice man and take over her father’s company. She was supposed to think about her future, but right now, the only thing on her mind was Bea’s soft lips over her neck, her small hands running all over her body. The way her arms felt, the way her kisses felt. She was the only thing on her mind.

Sex, sweat and desperation, that’s what Poppy’s room reeked of right now.

[artificialqueens]

Devoted: Garden Hose (Katlaska) - Kamylove

V posted a prompts list just when my brain had given up on lesson planning at the end of the semester. So, I have some ficlets.

They're short and self-contained, they don't take place in either of my fictional universes, and I don't know how many I'll post. But here's one to start!

I will keep this ship alive if it kills me, which it might.

They didn't even want a yard. They hadn't been looking for a yard. All they'd wanted was a little patio for eating and sunning. But when they'd decided, after sharing an apartment for a year, that it was time to upgrade to a rented house, well.

It had the perfect layout, was in the perfect location, and was perfectly in their budget. It was just the place to land while they debated buying. And it had a backyard as green as a golf course. 

"Grass is such a waste," Alaska said.

"It's wasted on us, that's for sure," Katya said.

But their landlord, Mrs. Handy, who lived next door, loved the grass. ("Handy. Heh," Katya had said before they'd even met the woman. "Thank you, Beavis," Alaska had replied.) Mrs. Handy's dearly despised mother had planted the lawn and the rosebushes 46 years ago. Mrs. Handy had a line in the lease that said the tenants were responsible for watering the lawn. Mrs. Handy was not a person they wanted to piss off.

At least, they'd decided, they wouldn’t be the ones paying the water bill; it was included in the rent. They were out of town half the time anyway, and Mrs. Handy's fourteen-year-old daughter was happy to earn a few bucks watering it for them when they weren't home.

It was clearly a racket. But the daughter was a baby dyke with a bass guitar and a wicked sense of humor, and they'd decided she could use a pair of guncles.

So they had a backyard, and sometimes they got to use it.

"Aren't you too fucking hot?" Alaska asked. "I'm too fucking hot."

"Yes," Katya said on an exhale, without breaking the rhythm of her burpees. "Because you're lying in the sun."

"But you're working out!"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

Alaska preferred to exercise in air conditioning. Katya preferred to exercise differently every day, because if she got bored, she'd stop. Today it was traveling elbow cross to knee burpees, back and forth on the little lawn.

Anyway, Alaska was adorable in her little purple kaleidoscope Speedo, no matter how much she complained. She sat up to reapply her sunscreen and said, "So fucking hot."

Katya grinned, finished all her reps, and walked back to the patio to grab her towel. "I stink like a shitpile," she announced, still short of breath. "I need a shower so bad."

"Can you bring me another water when you go in?" Alaska asked. Katya couldn't see her eyes, under the sunglasses, but she was sure Alaska hadn't opened them.

Throwing the towel over her shoulder, Katya decided she didn't want to leave this view. Her boyfriend was sweaty, glistening, unshaven, and wearing next to nothing. So she walked over to the hose instead of going inside, and started unfurling it from around the valve.

Alaska sat up on her elbows, only far enough to see at Katya. "What are you doing? It's Wednesday." In Los Angeles' permanent drought, they could only water the lawn, after 6:00 PM, three days a week. Wednesday was not one of their days.

"I'm not watering the lawn," Katya said. She turned on the hose and held it to her mouth, taking a few gulps. "I'm watering me." Then she drenched herself with the spray, rinsing off the sweat but more importantly, cooling down.

Alaska laughed at her and lay back down on her lounge chair.

Katya kept watering herself, intending not to stop until she shivered, but the guilt of wasting water got to her first. On the other hand...

She approached the patio and took aim.

"What the fuck?" Alaska yelped, and laughed, when the water hit her. "No! Stop!"

"You said you wanted water," Katya said.

"A bottle of water!" Alaska stood and ran from the spray. "Stop it!" She cowered at the corner of the house, still laughing and yelping.

"You said you were hot!"

"My sunscreen!" She took off and sprinted to the fence at the far end of the grass, which wasn't actually far. Katya, also laughing, gave chase.

Alaska got smart--like she was ever not smart--and ran towards the hose valve. Katya saw where she was going and headed her off, wrapping her free arm around Alaska's waist.

That was when she remembered that she was wearing only running shorts, and Alaska only her Speedo. One of them was slippery from water, one from sweat, and when their chests touched, Katya finally did shiver.

Alaska felt it, too. She stopped laughing and looked Katya in the eye. They stared at each other while the water kept falling on the grass. They both licked their lips at the same time.

"You're making a mess," Alaska pointed out, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "Have we ever fucked in a mud puddle?"

"Let me turn the water off first," Katya said, but she traced the top of Alaska's swimsuit with one finger before she went.

[the-hopeless-haze]

Rebel Rebel (Part 1?)

Pairing: Janis Sarkisian/reader

A/N: okay this has been sitting in my drafts for months and I have no idea if I’m gonna continue this but fuck it???? Sorry for all the people who followed me for Barba lmao (I am continuing that don’t worry) but idk I just figured I may as well post this??? I have more of this written and I know how I wanted it to end but the middle is just not working and that’s why I never posted. But I just listened to Dead Girl Walking and I was reminded how gay I am for Barrett sooooo 😂 here you go? You’re welcome?? I haven’t edited this or looked at it since March so this may be a mess but... yeah

It was eighth grade, nearing the end of the year and you were anxious, unsure of why. Would your friends still be your friends next year? High school was going to be a lot different, you could just tell.

You saw your two best friends, Regina and Janis talking to each other down the hallway, where their lockers were, so you headed down there. Regina was probably inviting Janis to the end of year pool party she’d been planning. It was going to be so great to at least be with all your friends one last time, even if high school might take them away.

As you got within earshot, though, you realized Regina was being anything but nice.

“But are you a lesbian, Janis? I can’t have a lesbian at my pool party,” you hear Regina’s high pitched voice chirp. “You understand that, right?”

“Regina... I—“

“What? So are you?”

“Why are you asking me this? Did I do something?”

“I need to know. Don’t you get it? You not wanting to answer is pretty suspicious.”

“I am a space alien and I have four butts!” Janis yelled and ran down the hallway, leaving Regina to laugh. She makes eye contact with you. “Wow, I dodged a bullet with that, huh?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Don’t you get she doesn’t fit in? I mean, she likes girls, first of all. Second of all... she doesn’t get this stuff. Don’t you want to be popular in high school? I can get you there. We’re on top here. Everyone knows us. But this is child’s play.”

“But that was mean, Regina!” you said, your tone accusatory.

She shrugs her shoulders. “Sometimes you have to be mean to get what you want. And we’re not going to get it with her.”

“But she’s our friend!”

“Was...our friend. Don’t you care that she’s a dyke?”

You sighed, defeated. You wanted to tell her, no, you didn’t care... but you knew she’d stop being friends with you too. And her talk of being popular and being on top of the world... it sounded good.

You had many regrets about this day, and if everyone has a couple turning points in their lives, this was your first.

——

Regina was right, though. She got you everything you had thought you’d always wanted, but you never felt good enough and a lot of the time, you’re miserable. You’re constantly worried about your weight, whether you got enough instagram likes on your 1000th picture with the plastics, as you’d been dubbed, and whether or not you were dating one of the hottest guys at school.

Who would’ve thought the hottest guys were so dumb? You didn’t like any of them, really, and the second they asked to get in your pants, you dropped them like flies. So you’d gotten a rep for being somewhat of a prude, which Regina would sometimes scold you for.

Regina just got meaner as time went on, and sometimes you regretted not turning on her the first day she showed her true colors, when she’d sharpied all over Janis’s locker “SPACE DYKE” and even included it in the burn book she made over the summer once yearbooks came out. Regina would flirt with boys that she thought you or Gretchen liked, just to show you she could have them. Jokes on her, you didn’t like any of them, but you had to pretend or there wouldn’t be any gossip or any of the infighting that Regina seemed to love. It was the beginning of sophomore year now, and it was beyond exhausting.

And oh, the parties that started now! You hated them, just an excuse for everyone to get shitfaced and girls to make dumb decisions that made boys so happy even though everyone was too drunk to really remember them the next day. Regina is hosting one tonight, and here you are, in your skimpy, skin tight blue dress that you had to buy with babysitting money— since there’s no way in hell your mother would buy that for you. A sophomore hosting a party was unheard of, but Regina has a huge house and her parents went on vacation for their anniversary. She’d use whatever she could to her advantage.

All she wanted was to climb that ladder, and she didn’t care who got hurt in the way.

But here you were, dancing with the hockey player you were dating now... or was it football? You didn’t even care. You vaguely remembered his name was Mike and you told him you needed to go to the bathroom. You headed to Regina’s room and locked the door, thankful you got there early enough that there was no one trying to hookup.

You got lost in your phone for a while, and you found Janis’s Instagram profile. It was private, but there was her profile picture. She was so pretty now, not the awkward girl who tried to dye her hair blonde and wear pink just to fit in. She wore dark makeup in the picture and she wasn’t looking at the camera, and it fit her so much better. Even her hair, which she had let just grow out from the blonde she’d dyed it, looked great. You nearly send a follow request and then think better of it.

You remembered having hobbies, painting at Janis’s house until your hands were covered in paint, and you remember laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.

Sometimes Regina was a good friend. Sometimes she was a great friend. She was there for you when your grandmother died over that first summer without Janis, and she held you while you cried... and you cried a lot. But sometimes she was mean to even you and it was exhausting. You know she cares about you, but you know she’d turn on you, too, if you gave her what she deemed enough reason to.

You can’t remember laughing like you used to in a long time. You can’t remember being passionate about anything for a while, either. The only time was in your classes, really, you loved chemistry but you had to keep it under wraps because if it got out you were too nerdy... well, that’s social suicide.

The thing about being a plastic was that you couldn’t be anything or do anything too extreme. You had to just be a shell of human being, a shell of a hot girl, just to appease everyone. The money you spent, or had your parents spend, on your bleach blonde hair and your makeup and your hot clothes and your nails and your purses and your shoes... and the hours you spent at the salon and the mall with Regina and Gretchen and Karen, it was completely exhausting. And then you weren’t allowed to have a personality outside of all of this, it was just, clothes! Makeup! Shoes! Boys! Parties! Popularity!

All things girls were supposed to care about, but really, there was no girl left in you to care anymore. You slip off your heels and lie down on the bed, remembering Regina holding you. That felt nice, her slender arms around you, her chin against your shoulder, and she smelled so good, like a hair salon and vanilla and cinnamon and... you just wanted to cry. Why couldn’t she be like that all the time?

The pillows smell like her shampoo and you inch up to place your head on them, ready to fall asleep, the bass from the speakers downstairs lulling you.

You awake twenty minutes later with your phone blowing up from Regina. “Where’d you go? Party’s not fun without you 😘” her most recent text said. Your eyes burn from the makeup you fell asleep in and you blink a few times before replying, telling her you were in her room and not feeling well.

“Bummer! I’ll be up in a few xo” she texts back.

You answer the door when she knocks, and you smile when she hugs you immediately. “(Y/n)! I’m sorry you’re sick! Did you drink something Kevin made? Because don’t.”

“No... I just... I don’t know. I’m sick of the parties,” you grumble as you pull away from the hug and sit back on the bed. She follows you, her pink dress clinging to her every curve, riding up a little as she sits down.

“Why?” She laughs. “This is what high school is about! You’ve gotta have fun. You’re only hot once.”

“But this... it’s not fun to me. It’s not fun to get wasted and have guys try and get in my pants and watch girls throw up.”

“But we can get everything we want. It’s what I always told you,” she says, rubbing your back, but her voice is hollow.

“I don’t have everything I want! I don’t even know what I want anymore, but I’m not happy. Are you? What are you getting out of this because I don’t understand.”

“Respect. Love. Fear. It’s all I ever wanted, really,” Regina says. “People either love me or hate me but they think about me. They think about you, too. Everyone who’s a sophomore knows us, and most of the upperclassmen do too. Doesn’t it feel good?”

You sigh. “I guess, sometimes, it does. But most of the time it doesn’t! I don’t like it, feeling like I have to do everything perfectly because everyone’s watching. And it’s only going to get worse because next year we’re juniors...”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not entirely happy either. I don’t like Jack.”

“Then why are you dating him?”

“Because. Free popularity and all I gotta do is be seen with him.”

“But... doesn’t he ask for more?”

She laughs. “Sure he does! But you have to be strategic with that.”

“Right..." you say, slightly sarcastically. You didn't really know what she meant.

Regina places a hand on your knee. “I know it’s been hard for you. But it’s going to be okay.”

“Do you wanna... just lie for a minute? I know you have to go back to the party—“

“No, I can stay for you,” she says, smiling softly. There was the Regina you wanted to be friends with all the time.

You both lean back on the bed, and her arms wrap around you tightly, her chin nestling on your shoulder. Here, you were happy.

“It’s all worth it, all the fighting to just get to the top to sit like this with you,” she says quietly. “We could never be made fun of for this because we can’t be touched.”

“What?”

“Don’t you get it? I... I don’t know how to say it. Just... trust me, okay?” You nod, not sure what she meant, but then she’s leaning over and turning your cheek toward her and she’s kissing you.

Regina George is kissing you.

It’s a quick peck, probably because she’s not sure how you’d react but it’s still the best kiss you’d ever had in your life. You don’t make any rational thoughts in the next few moments and you’re not sure if she kisses you again or you pull her back in, but all of a sudden she’s on top of you and kissing you harder, and slowly, the confusion sets in.

It almost feels too good to stop, but eventually your brain starts working again. “Regina... I... are you okay?” you ask as you pull away. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No. I wouldn’t get drunk at my own party, what kind of slut does that? No, (y/n)... I want you. Didn’t that feel good?”

“Yes... but... you kicked Janis out of the friend group for being a lesbian. Why would you do that if you were gay? You always said she had a crush on you. Why would that have been such a bad thing?”

Regina sighs and flops over to the other side of the bed. “I’m not gay. I mean. I don’t know. I definitely didn’t know back then but I knew Janis just didn’t fit in even if we took away all of the gay stuff. But if we talk about the gay stuff... then yeah. I was confused. Super confused. I didn’t know if I liked you or her and I knew I wasn’t supposed to like either of you. And then I saw the two of you together and you just... you had something I didn’t have, just genuine friendship, and maybe she had a crush on you. Either way I was jealous. And I had to get the two of you apart.”

“Regina... that’s awful,” you say.

“But then I tried to be nice to you! I just wanted to be friends. I mean, I didn’t think I wanted to sleep with you or anything. I just wanted to be friends. Karen and Gretchen are just stupid and I just don’t feel comfortable enough around them to be like this. To let go of the persona.”

“You haven’t been entirely nice to me, Regina. Plus you started this off by ruining my friendship with Janis.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have done that, but I was so... angry whenever she was around. I just... we could pass for straight. No one would know.”

“Regina... I can’t,” you say, biting your lip and trying not to cry.

“Do you... do you not like girls? Is that it? I’m so stupid,” she says bitterly.

“No, Regina, it’s not that, I mean... I don’t know if I do. But it’s just... I’m tired of living like this and I don’t want to have this secret to worry about. All we need is for Gretchen to find out...”

“But she wouldn’t. And even if she did, do you think she’d cross me? Cross us?” She grips your wrists. “Please.”

You start crying and you know you’re not going to be able to stop. If the circumstances were different, you’d love to date her. You think. “Regina. I don’t want to be popular anymore, and for that to happen, we can’t be friends and we... can’t do this.”

“But—“

“If you want to drop it... then... if you want to give up being popular, being fake... then... then yes. Come out. Apologize to Janis. But I’m leaving, and I’m not leaving with baggage.”

She nods. “I... I understand. It’s okay. But I need this! They’d tear me apart if I came out and I can’t be... I can’t be outcasted. I’m exhausted, too, you know? But it’s... it’s better than the alternative. I hope you don’t come to realize that.”

“Regina...”

“No, it’s fine. I really get it,” she says, smiling. “But I’m going to have to spread a rumor, something so they don’t question why you left the group.”

“I know. Just say I’m gay. It’s your trick.”

She starts crying then, sobbing, really, and your heart lurches. You lean over to hug her.

“You don’t have to be so mean.”

“Yeah. I do. Because if I’m not it’ll turn around on me. My mom... she’d never understand! I just... okay. I understand we can’t... be seen together if this is really what you want. But can you at least text me once in a while? So I know how you’re doing?”

“Of course,” you say. You hug her one last time, and she kisses your cheek. You leave the house with your head held high but your heart sinks as you realize this is the last time you’ll step foot in there.

——

Regina is meaner without you. She is hostile to Gretchen and Karen, and you can tell if they adored her at all before, that’s completely gone and they follow her out of fear that she’d make their lives a living hell.

Maybe it’s because she did go on and start the rumor you were a lesbian. Fair enough. You weren’t entirely sure about that label yet but it gave you enough freedom to maneuver this without having lame guys hit on you anymore. That may have stopped anyway since you weren’t competing with Regina for hottest in the sophomore class... but at least it stopped.

“So... looks like she did the same thing to you after all, bitch,” a female voice says as you slam your locker shut. You jump and look to your left to see Janis there... and your breath catches. She was all the more beautiful in person.

“Yeah,” you frown. “But hey... are you mad at me?”

Janis scoffs. “Kinda. But I know you weren’t to blame now. I mean, she did the same thing to you! And I hate Regina more than I could ever hate anybody. Also Damien made me talk to you.”

“Damien?” you ask. “Wait... that guy in musical theater?”

“Yes...” Janis says slowly. “How do you know?”

“He’s really good! I’ve gone and seen every play. Like, and sat in the back. But I’ve gone.”

“Wow. That surprises me. But you did used to love that sort of thing in middle school.”

“I think I made you listen to the Mamma Mia soundtrack at least 80 times.”

“Oh yes. Wait... did you know that they’re putting it on this year? It's the spring musical."

“What?”

“Yeah. Maybe you could audition now that the plastics aren’t holding you back. You have like one day to make up your mind though. I do scenery. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Where do you sit at lunch?”

——

It was an awkward reintroduction and the words are never spoken. Is Janis gay? More importantly, are you gay, or bi, or something? Does wondering if another girl is gay make you gay?

But aside from the utter confusion of possibly having a crush on your ex best friend, you’re enjoying life as an ex-plastic. You’re auditioning for the role of Donna, but even if you don’t get it you’re going to get a part since so few people actually signed up to audition. You’re drawing again, too, even if you were never as good as Janis.

Regina hasn’t texted you yet, but you’re thankful. If she did too soon you’d get pulled back from the progress you’ve made. But you’re also worried about her, and your heart lurches whenever you make eye contact with her at lunch and she looks away quickly.

But this was how life was going to be from now on, so it was time to get used to it.

[heli0s-writes]

DEADCRUSH

Summary: Deadcrush, a game played based on the question “what historical figure would I want to take on a date if they were alive today?”

A/N: 4k word count because I can’t be brief about anything. Also mentions age difference, and questionable internet humor. Also now with Part 2! Oh my god and Part 3!

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

It’s in the middle of receiving a blow to his jaw when Bucky hears your voice whistle through the air above him.

“No way!” You’re yelling, “That’s sick, Peter!”

He glances up for half a second to see you swinging against the New York backdrop, left hand raised and entombed by a thick knot of webbing from Parker who’s launching you and himself across the skyline. Bucky dodges another fist and by the time he’s knocked out the thug trying to get fresh with him, you’ve already finished your trajectory and bowled over a cluster of bodies. The ground’s cracked where you made your descent in the distance, and Parker lands softly next to you.

“Come on!” He cries, pitch rising, “You picked Rasputin!”

You respond with a maniacal giggle. “He’s Russia’s greatest love machine!” With a flick of your wrist, you condescendingly scoff. “Dude, Anne Frank? She was twelve.”

“Rasputin was like a million! And insane! Anne Frank is close to my age, at least. And this is entirely hypothetical—I'm imagining a future with her where she’s older than me. I think we’d totally get along, I read her diary and everything- I mean, we’re so close! Fine--” Parker crosses his arms.

“Marie Curie.”

Your eyes catch Bucky looking and you give him a wide smile and a small wave before you pivot back to Peter. Bucky’s brow furrows even deeper before he turns and heads towards Steve who’s winding down at the end of his own fight. Kids are fucking weird, he thinks a little bitterly, as you and Parker squabble on in the distance.

-

In the middle of dinner, as he’s twisting a ream of spaghetti onto his fork, you and Parker stand on the balcony eating what looks like a whole baguette smeared with jelly. Through the glass door, Parker crunches into it before handing the baguette off to you. He’s gesturing wildly and brushing crumbs off his suit.

You take a bite too large for your mouth and the crust crumbles down your chin, chased by a dribble of jelly. You level your palm and start measuring Peter’s height much to his indignance, and Bucky has to turn around before he loses his appetite completely. He hears your laughter muffled through the door. Your hand is clasped on Parker’s shoulder in an attempt to hold yourself up.

You’re a funny one. Always joking and cheerful. You’ve been a part of the team for the past six months and you’re closest to Parker both in demeanor and in age, but sometimes Bucky finds you up late at night and the two of you sit at the table over a cup of tea.

You show him inexplicable and strange images from your phone and try your best to explain to him why the frog is on the unicycle and what the hell “yeet” actually means. Once, you showed him a video about twerking but when you jokingly proposed that you might teach him instead, he nearly knocked the table over by jerking up, ready to take off.

It always ends with joyful tears in the corners of your eyes.

It makes him a little bit angry with himself because he really has no right to even be talking to you. Cryrosleep aside, he’s almost old enough to be your father. But when your laughter lights up the room, it burns those harsh thoughts from his brain.

He’d never admit it, but when he’s awake after tossing for hours, he hopes you’re in the kitchen.

The door swings open and in-between mouthfuls, Parker is baffled, “Who is that?”

“Ancient poet.” You answer, popping a finger in your mouth, “My girl! Island of Lesbos. She definitely knew how to...” You waggle your eyebrows, make a V-shape with your fingers, and lewdly run your tongue up and down between them. Bucky thinks he sees you looking at him, but he feels himself flushing at your comment and pretends like he’s enthralled with spaghetti.

“Dude. Stop it.” Peter moans.

-

In the middle of movie night, another showing of Mary Poppins, you and Parker once again tuck away into the corner of the Stark auditorium with a shared blanket and chatter vehemently. Bucky doesn’t know which is more irritating—Van Dyke’s terrible accent, or the fact that the two of you are attached by the hip today.

“Marilyn Monroe!” Parker whispers.

From the corner of his eye, Bucky watches you contemplate your reply before leaning in impossibly close to Peter. The young man’s jaw clenches as his eyes widen like saucers. He shoots Bucky a look, as if catching him eavesdropping.

“What!?” Peter shrieks.

The entire room turns to look at the two of you. You clamp your hand over Peter’s mouth, bury your face into the side of his head.

“That’s the safest one!” You say.

“No! No, it’s definitely not safe!” He responds back, voice cracking slightly and pushing your face away when your hair tickles him. “Gettoffa— God! Are you serious!?”

“Okay, what the hell is this conversation?” Natasha pauses the movie and leans over the back of the recliner.

Peter pulls the cover over his face and you start giggling again.

“We’re talking about our DC’s.” You finally admit, pausing enough to calm yourself.

“DC’s?” Steve questions.

“Dead crushes.” There it is again- that little look you send his way. He thinks three times is at least one too many to be just a dream.

“Dead-what-now?” Sam is incredulous.

“You guys have never played this game before? You know, pick one person from history who you’d take out to dinner if circumstances made it possible.”

Peter pokes his head out, “And look, please tell her that all of my choices are perfectly reasonable! Anne Frank? Marilyn Monroe? Marie Curie? She picked Rasputin! And not because of that weird old song.”

You scoff because Boney M is a fine example of industry-bottled pop music and beat Milli Vanilli as the façade of genuine artistry by miles.

“Rasputin’s a bit dark, isn’t he?” Steve shakes his head.

Sticking your tongue out at him, you land your gaze on Natasha with a sly smirk.

“Who would you pick, sexy international Russian spy? Let’s get a peek into that gorgeous red head of yours.” She licks her lips at your overt flirtation and flips her hair over her shoulder.

Bucky folds his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair he’s on. This was your game—saddling up to people with effortless compliments and humor, reading a personality so well and maneuvering yourself to fit just right into their expectations. Who else could be so forward with Natasha, joking or otherwise? Who else would suggest teaching him how to twerk? Fuck.

Natasha mulls the question over for a second, “Stalin. I’d take him to dinner. And then to his grave.”

There’s an exasperated sound that escapes your lips. “Okay, that’s not really how the game works. This is not supposed to be a political commentary- it's a genuine display of �� attraction!”

“To corpses.” Bucky mutters.

“Okay, that’s dark.” You and Peter exhale in unison. The giggles that escape both of you as you start calling “jinx” on each other before wrestling on that tiny fucking sofa chair makes him bite back a growl. From the couch to his left, Steve notices.

-

In the middle of pouring scalding water into a plain white mug, Bucky feels a tap on his shoulder.

“No.” He greets the finger. “Nope. Steve. Goodnight, jerk.”

“You’re actin’ like a kid, Buck.”

Bucky huffs as he sets the kettle back down with a clatter on the stovetop.

“No.” The problem is that I’m not the kid, Bucky scolds himself for even having the thought surface.

Steve half-heartedly sighs because Bucky is so smitten it’s almost painful to watch. It’s obvious to him and the rest of the team that the two of you dance around each other under the pretense of professionalism, but he knows that the laughter coming from down the hallway late at night is more meaningful than a work relationship.

The first time Steve had seen Bucky lean into a friendly touch was when you had placed your hand on his back, steadying yourself as you fixed your shoe. It was such an offhanded gesture, and Bucky tensed briefly before holding out his arm for you. You didn’t realize his intention and took his entire vibranium hand with a firm squeeze before waltzing off, leaving him to gaze after your disappearing trail. That was three weeks into Bucky’s time at the compound, and your fourth month. It opened Steve’s eyes to a possibility he hadn’t yet entertained.

Steve thinks part of how easily you had infiltrated Bucky’s stonewall demeanor is, in fact, your age. You were right on the cusp of balancing maturity and immaturity, often teetering into the immature waters out of habit. You stayed up late for no reason, played video games for hours, ate all sorts of odd meals with no care for your health, and always gladly shared anything that made you smile. It was infectious. You lacked the exact type of self-awareness everyone else had that made them so careful with Buck— and he let you slip through the cracks effortlessly.

It’s your childlike happiness that’s done it for Bucky. Even though it’s now become a point of uneasiness for his friend, Steve is thankful that you’re exactly how old you are. It’s helped him more than harmed him so far.

Bucky takes a sip of his peppermint and lemon tea and leans against the counter. Steve watches with amusement as his shoulders tense when your chortle bounces into the room. You’re telling Peter goodnight as he heads back home to Queens.

“Hey!” You call, “Sunrise tomorrow?”

A faint affirmation is heard before Parker’s whooping whips faintly in the distance, swinging away. The front door closes and you pop into the kitchen wearing nothing but a swimsuit cover-up, full of diamond-shaped holes. A tiny pink bikini peeks out from underneath the pattern. Bucky averts his gaze because the women of his time did not dress like that and he’s not even sure looking in your direction is legal.

“Night swimming?” Steve asks with a smirk at his friend, who turns around to hide the red creeping up his cheeks like vines.

You nod eagerly before opening the pantry and grabbing a box of Oreos from the top shelf. Tucking one into your mouth, you crunch through it and swallow before closing the pantry door and placing the container under your arm. Crumbs fall down your chest and you curse under your breath as you swipe bits of cookie from your top, oblivious to why Steve suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.

“Hey me and Double-P are gonna watch the sunrise on top of the Chrysler building tomorrow- you two wanna come? He’ll swing you right up! It’s fun! I’m gonna make breakfast!”

They both shake their head and you mutter something about their loss for a free roller coaster and good view. Bucky and Steve follow your path out the door and hear the patter of your feet before you crash into the deep midnight water with a tremendous cannonball. They watch as your head breaks the surface of ripples before you lean back and squirt water from your mouth like a fountain. Music surges from the outdoor speakers— a seductive Latin Pop tune with hints of reggaeton. You float over to the pool’s edge and throw another cookie in your mouth, bopping along to the groove enthusiastically, shoulders winding to the ebb and flow of water.

“C’mon, Buck.” Steve urges, motioning his head to where you float lazily, watching the moon, nodding to synth beats and timbales drumming. “Forget age… she woulda been your kinda girl back in the day.”

Bucky swallows and turns to his steaming mug, “There were no girls like her back in the day.”

-

It’s in the middle of his nightmare when Bucky jerks awake and smells buttered toast and coffee. It’s still dark out, only four-something, but he stumbles to the restroom and brushes his teeth anyway. When he arrives at the kitchen, you’re standing at the stovetop wearing athletic shorts and bunny slippers. There’s a frilly orange apron tied neatly to your waist, covering a shredded crop-top, and you’re flipping a hearty slice of bread with an egg in the center.

“Hey Sarge.” You smile, “Help yourself to an eggy. Yolk’s runny and dippable, just like God intended.”

He shakes his head no because he knows you’re preparing it for Peter, but sits down on a stool anyway, leaning over the counter to watch you with interest. When one piece of toast cooks, you move to crack fresh pepper and sea salt over another. You also slice tomatoes and rinse fresh basil leaves, tunelessly humming the whole time. When you stifle a yawn with your shoulder, Bucky squints at the tell-tale blue bags under your eyes.

“Again?”

You rub your neck with a guilty smile and take a sip of water, “Got stuck on the internet… reading about… I can’t even... I know I started with Kennedy… but the last browser is bee swarming and royal jelly...”

He laughs when you go off on a rant about how bees communicate with each other, even demonstrating for him something you called a “waggle dance”, and he’s not sure if you’re just making shit up or not but it’s cute as hell when you bend your elbows and shuffle in figure eights on the tile.

“So then, me— a bee— would show you— another bee— this dance… and then you would go find the yummy flower! And did you know bees would dance with excitement depending on how convinced they are about the quality of the flower!? They get excited!” You repeat the same figure eight this time accompanied by elbow flapping and happy buzzing. The sound vibrates between your teeth and sizzles over your lips.

Bucky’s laughing so hard he has to put his face in his hand. Finally, you settle down.

“Now your turn.” You tease. He shakes his head defiantly, eyes still brimming with amusement.

You pour him a steaming mug of coffee and slide it next to his hand with a small smile. There’s a strange light in your bleary eyes as you bite your bottom lip.

A flush suddenly sweeps across your cheeks.

“What?” Bucky asks, taking a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste as it rolls down his throat.

“It’s stupid...it’s nothing.” The awkward laugh coming from your throat makes Bucky shuffle in the stool, wary and slightly concerned. Before you can continue, Steve pokes his head in and announces he’s going for a run and asks you to save him some breakfast when he gets back. Bucky checks the time on the microwave. Almost five.

Something dings on the bar counter and you move to grab your phone, frowning and placing your hands on the ruffles against your hip. A disappointed noise sputters from your mouth before you tear off the apron and turn off the stovetop with a quiet fury. “He cancelled!” You cry, disappointment darkening your features. “I made all this crap!”

Bucky looks over the countertop arrangement of perfectly crispy thick multigrain toast, shiny fried eggs, tupperware containers of tomato and shredded basil, and two thermoses of coffee and juice. Your shoulders slump as you place your hands on your hips and lean back to pop your neck and crack your knuckles. You pick up the trash can and kick off its lid, placing the edge of the gaping dark maw against the counter, holding your arm out to sweep the food in. Your generally pleasant features are stained by a scowl.

He forgets how impulsive you can be.

“Wait!” Bucky yells, reaching across the counter. “I’ll go. I’ll watch the sunrise with you.” When you stare at him in surprise, he quickly glances around the countertops, “Let’s not waste all this. You worked really hard on it.”

A squeal escapes as you drop the trash can and clasp your two hands together in a cheer. “Bucky. You are…” you suck in a deep breath and hold your hands over your heart, “just the best. My number one… Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the one-oh-seventh.”

His heart leaps just a tad as his former title rolls off your tongue almost wistfully. Bucky opens his mouth to ask you what you mean but you’re balancing two containers of foil-wrapped toast, another one of tomato slices and the thermoses are hanging precariously on your middle fingers. Bucky leaps from his seat and takes the food from you, leaving the thermoses in your hand.

“To the roof, Sarge!” You smile, leading the way. He follows closely behind and raises his eyebrow curiously when you keep looking back at him every few steps.

It’s in the middle of biting into the most heavenly piece of toast he’s ever had that Bucky hears you giggle shyly. You’re rarely bashful— usually too sharp-tongued and unfiltered is how most people would describe you. It’s why your best friend is Peter Parker: boy genius, mile-a-minute-mouth.

“What is it?” Bucky’s teeth crunch against the crisp brown edge, the bite of egg sliding over his tongue.

You’re leaned back on your palm, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as you chew pensively on a slice of tomato. The sky is a blackened bruise behind you, disappearing into the balm of a soft, glowing orange.

“You were my deadcrush back in the day.” You mutter, hiding your lips with the tomato. Bucky stops mid-chew and freezes completely, unsure if the confession is just another trick his mind is playing on him. Maybe a breeze in the wind just sounds like your voice. “Not to make this weird…” you supply almost fearfully.

“Oh…”

“I mean— you know, it was totally normal. All the girls either liked Captain America or Sergeant Barnes.” You stuff the tomato in your mouth and reach for another just to busy your hands. Bucky’s face heats up like the morning, and he takes a sip of orange juice to calm it down.

“Sure,” you ramble onward, tomato flinging around between your fingers as you gesture back and forth, “I mean, most of them liked Cap— golden lion boy and all—hero’s journey kind of thing… I guess I felt, closer to you.”

You exhale deeply, “When you first came to the tower, I thought I was dreaming. Can you imagine? I felt like I was in the sixth grade.”

His brow furrows as he ponders your question. “Is that why you’re so nice to me?” It slips out before he can catch it, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“Probably at first,” You admit with a little shrug, “But eventually the schoolgirl crush thing went away, and I started liking you way more. Genuinely, y’know? Not under the thumb of a paltry, fleeting thing.”

He forgets how unexpectedly introspective you can be.

The tomato in your hand is only a shimmer of juice on your fingers now and you reach for something else to occupy yourself lest you become reduced to just weighing your hands together out of nervousness. You pause when Bucky asks, shocked, “You l-like me?”

Then, a smile, against the warming backdrop, he thinks you look like something out of a painter’s imagination—a delicate page from Steve’s notepad. A gentle breeze picks up your lashes, makes you squint a little.

“Yeah. I like you a lot.”

How does someone say such a heavy thing so easily? Bucky turns hot all over, heart beating too fast from your statement and the coffee made too strongly. “Thank you.”

You laugh and throw your head back for a second before shaking your hair wildly and sitting up, as if you’re discarding something. Light bounces off your cheeks as you catch your breath and take the coffee thermos from him. “You’re welcome, Bucky.” Then, softer, “Look.”

A streak of yellow opens up the sky in the east, melting away the ink around it into flames of blood orange and cerise. Still twinkling are the stars entrenched in deep blue further away.

“I’m not dead anymore.” He states plainly. “I can’t be your deadcrush if I’m not dead anymore.”

A chortle escapes- snorts and scoffs and not at all what he expects when you push your hand to your face and laugh in such a way that he might for a split second find it unattractive. But he doesn’t. He finds it so truly endearing that his heart swells like clouds over the morning sky.

A part of him quiets with the settling feeling of disappointment. Your silence gets swirled around in the next bitter mouthful of coffee and Bucky kicks his heel aimlessly against the concrete rooftop. To his left, you scoot a little closer, reach over and take the thermos from his hand. Your fingers linger, and then you put the container down.

“Bucky,” You say. His name so sweetly rolls off your tongue he can taste it—spun sugar and molasses in his mouth. It’s orange and yellow and blue behind you. Your eyes glisten with promise, as sure as the sunrise.

“You can want things, like love.”

It’s so forthright it punches the air right out of him. Before he knows it, you are leaning forward with a smile, planting a tender kiss on his cheek as he stares on open-mouthed and in awe.

And then, you break the moment with a yawn covered by your hand and groan as fatigue slips over like a blanket. “Oh fuck, I am beat, Sarge. Why’d you let me stay up so late?”

He only smiles before he puts his hand over yours for just a moment. “Come on,” He says, “I’ll help you clean up.” But the moment changes again, and he finds himself crawling past the containers of egg and toast, nearly knocking over the juice to hover over your mouth.

Coffee and cream linger between hesitant lips. Then there is a feverish clash-- you, clambering to sit up, to match him in enthusiasm-- him, bold enough to meet your surge with two large hands. He snakes them around your waist, crushing your torso to his.

Your fingers create a separation between your stomachs as you ruck his shirt up, gripping his chest and back and digging into his shoulder. A sharp breath escapes before he comes to snuff it out, licking your mouth, sucking on your tongue.

“Jesus.” You mutter when you break away for air, eyes still closed, “God. Okay. This is happening.”

Bucky laughs and sits back, places his hand on your bare thigh, shaking his head. “I—yeah, well maybe not here.”

“Yeah- yeah, of course… I .. get so caught up.”

He laughs again, because he knows. It’s why you haven’t slept all night, why you made a feast for just two people watching a sunrise, why you ramble on about the most mundane things but somehow still enrapture him, and it’s why he likes you. Your cheeks burn when the first ray of sunshine shoots over the tree scape.

A ding next to your hand catches his attention—a text from Steve.

You peer at it curiously before opening the message. Bucky looks too, and sees the image of the same sunrise he’s witnessed, but over the familiarity of the East Side sprawl.

A second message appears, Steve grinning, Peter winking.

A third one with a single, cheeky question: You and Buck doin’ good?

Bucky slips his shirt back down his golden torso while you tap out a furious response, groaning at the way you’ve been set up by your friends. Before you can send it, he takes the device from you and places it face-down on the roof with a smile. “Are we?” He asks, suddenly shy. “Doin’ good?”

Quietly, you nod.

In the middle of a second kiss, Bucky knows he’s done for. He’s falling hard and fast and can’t stop.

In the middle of a third kiss, you’re there next to him, all smiles and wonder as the two of you plunge together.

Part 2

[alfvaen]

Okay, so I have literally never posted on tumblr before (well, one post on a different blog but it’s all abandoned now so whatever); I’ve been using it to read but I still never really got the hang of it so whatever.  But I am a sucker for certain types of memes, and what somebody called an Ask Box Game, seen chez @lianabrooks and unspecifically tagged.  So let me actually my personality a bit.

Favourite colour: Purple, I guess. It doesn’t define my identity that much, and it’s not like I can ever find clothes in this colour, but yeah, purple.

Last song / album: Ha. So I am nearly constantly listening to music and almost as constantly buying music, so it depends what you mean.  Last song I listened to was part of my chronological relisten (currently I am up to 1987), “Cool Love (Cooler Remix)” by Alta Moda.  Last full album I listened to was “Haven’t Got The Blues (Yet)” by Loudon Wainwright III (2014), which I just bought a few days ago.  But the most recent album I bought looks like it was “Cosmic Wheels” by Donovan off of eMusic, I haven’t processed it yet so it’s not in my library.

Last movie: “The Prestige”, which I watched on Disney+ on Sunday night (while my wife is out of town).  I’d never seen it before, but I knew a few things about it, including one of the major spoilers.  It was pretty good.

Currently Reading: Yesterday I finished a reread of “With A Tangled Skein” by Piers Anthony (I haven’t reread that series in, like, decades, and I’m not sure how it’s holding up now), also finished Alison Bechdel’s “The Essential Dykes To Watch Out For” (from the library; I’d only heard of the Bechdel Test, I had no idea she had a long-running comic.  As an allocishet guy I found it really interesting, though in the W Bush years it seemed to get a little strident--perfectly understandable but not as fun to read).  I’m also reading some comics on Marvel Unlimited, going past where I stopped in my teen years; I’m up to December 1991, just finished the original Infinity Gauntlet series.  And today I’ll be starting a read of “Wool” by Hugh Howey, which I downloaded as a free ebook at some point.  (ETA: Oh, yeah, and I had started Ed Yong’s “I Contain Multitudes”, a nonfiction book about bacteria, before I got library books a while ago, so now I’ll be getting back to it.)

Currently Watching: A few weeks ago my eldest son was craving a rewatch of the “Planet Earth” documentary series, so he got it from the library.  I was only really interested in a couple of the episodes, and last night I joined all three kids for the Deep Ocean episode.  (I am fascinated by ocean creatures though in general I find the ocean extremely disturbing and if I ever fell into it I would probably die.)  Meanwhile I have been cycling through a number of shows, a few episodes/one disc at a time, and am currently rewatching the first disc of Season Two of “Friends”.

Currently Craving: I’ve been playing a Europa Universalis IV game with the Extended Timeline mod (so you start back in like 48 AD instead of the 1400s), where, as my wont, I cheat to give myself free money and rapid technological advancement and see how it takes to colonize/conquer the world.  This time I started as the Visayan Empire in the Philippines and just entered the 9th century; I have conquered Asia up to about the middle of India, have discovered cannons, have pretty much explored the entirety of the world’s oceans and coastlines, and am just starting to colonize Africa; haven’t actually started on the Americas yet.  So what I am craving is: playing more of that.  Instead I have to work today.

Coffee or Tea: Tea.  I rarely bother to make it for myself, but I will drink it; I never drink coffee.

TAGGING: I don’t know that anyone who’s not a sexbot is following me, so if you see this consider yourself tagged.

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part seven Word count: ±5570 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part seven summary: Zoë goes undercover to find out more about the murder she saw in her dream. Little does she know, that Sam and Dean do the same. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Confident, Zoë bends down in order to fit under the yellow ‘crime scene - do not cross’ ribbon. She takes out her federal agent ID and flips it open before the officer guarding the perimeter can ask her about it. He steps away respectfully and lets her through. 

     It’s about 10 AM and the sun is already out on this relatively warm November day. Marching up the driveway with her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, Zoë unbuttons her black suit jacket to let in some air. The Stars and Stripes hasn’t been taken down yet and still flutters from the top of the mast, located in the center of a perfectly landscaped garden. The fallen leaves drape parts of the neatly mowed lawn in different tones of orange and brown. Not only does this particular estate look amazing, the entire street is brochure perfect. It is obvious that the families living in these homes on Reynolds Park Road, are wealthy ones. However, the ambulances and police cars blocking the street and the officers scanning the area, indicate that something is terribly wrong. What would seem like the last place on earth for a murder, is indeed a gruesome crime scene.

     Two officers are having a conversation by the front entry. They pause the discussion once they notice the unfamiliar face approaching them. She captivates them instantly. Determined strides, head held high, clearly a woman who stands her ground in the men’s words that is law enforcement. There’s not a single trace of doubt noticeable when she flashes her ID once more.      “Agent Evans, FBI,” she states.

     “Detective Lee. This is officer Sanchez,” a tall man, with a serious case of a receding hairline, introduces his colleague a little reluctantly, clearly not happy about the presence of a fed. He holds out his hand anyway and Zoë makes eye contact, giving him a powerful handshake.      “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved,” he comments with an Upper South accent, common for the region.

     “Well, if you had paid attention while investigating the crimes in your own county, detective,” the specialist returns without missing a beat, facing the two man with enough arrogance to shut them down immediately, “- you might had noticed that there has been a murder similar to this one, making this a serial killing.”      “Still don’t make this a federal case,” Lee returns, standing his ground.      “What does, is the fact that there’s a whole string of deaths leading from Alabama up to your lovely little town.”

     Of course she just made that up on the spot, just to back up her reason to be here, but no one would be able to tell without doing some solid digging first. She is so convincing that the two men fail to counter her.      “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you could be so kind to show me the way, that would be neat,” she requires, throwing them a fake smile while narrowing her eyes.

     The two officers glance at each other, it being clear as day that the detective is not amused by the way he’s spoken to. Nonetheless, he gestures to the FBI agent to get into the house. She seems like a person not to be messed with.

      They enter the villa with Zoë in tow, who nods approving while taking a look around. She glances up to the high ceilings, which are decorated with beautiful alto-reveilo, carved into the white plaster. Roman pillars support the level above, and in the back two staircases circle up to the second floor. Every square inch of the floor underneath their feet is made from marble. Renaissance paintings, portraying country sides in the 19th century and battles from the Civil War hang from the walls, a gold plated chandelier floats overhead. Flower pieces, amongst them an expensive bouquet placed on the mahogany round table in the center of the main room, gives the house a finishing touch. Zoë knows the lifestyle of the rich and famous, but this place looks more like a palace than a principal’s home in a town called Paragould.

     “As you can see, Mr. Van Dyke lived the good life. His father owned a Dutch shipping company and made millions,” Officer Sanchez explains, having noticed the federal agent’s impressed expression. “We believe the fortune he passed on to his son might have something to do with Van Dyke’s death.”

     As they climb the stairs, Zoë chuckles, but doesn’t say a word. These oblivious bastards... they have absolutely no clue, do they?      “You think something else is going on?” Lee questions, noticing the sarcasm in her little laugh.      “Money is not the motive,”  she returns, curt.

     An awkward silence follows and Zoë can feel the hostility between her and the two police officers. She has experienced it before, especially in smaller communities. Most cops despise the feds, simply because the cases they work quite literally hit close to home. The FBI is no stranger to barging in and taking over entire investigations, without sending a ‘thank you’ card. A lot of hard work for the local coppers, without any credit. Zoë can’t say she blames the police for being reluctant.

     “This way.” Sanchez beckons them after climbing the stairs to the second floor, where he turns left on the vestibule.      The closer they get to the crime scene, the more crowded it gets. The Crime Scene Unit has already arrived and forensics dust for prints, take pictures and search for evidence. When Zoë enters the room and finds Mr. Van Dyke, she frowns. 

      In the corner lies a man, probably in his mid fifties, half into a shattered exhibition case, his eyes open, death evident. It’s not the first time Zoë has seen a dead guy, but she wasn’t expecting such a violent killing committed by a ten year old. Apparently his head got smashed into the showcase; glass is scattered all over his body. He has bruises and cuts on his arms and face, but most peculiar is his probable cause of death. His neck is broken; the head at a 90° angle. 

     Zoë scans the room, which shows several signs of a struggle. One thing is certain; Van Dyke really got his ass kicked before he died. As she takes a look around, a woman wearing white latex gloves updates Lee and his partner. Zoë glances over, notices the CSU logo on her jacket, and walks over to tune in.      “- time of death was between 6:30 and 7 AM. No prints found so far,” the forensic states.      “Look at this place. There must be something,” Detective Lee ponders, his gaze panning over the crime scene.      “Not even a fiber,” she sighs. “I have to admit; I’ve never seen anything like this.”

     “Seems like the suspect has left no trace,” Zoë intervenes, mixing into the conversation.      “Someone just did a good job covering up,” Sanchez scoffs, not finding her remark relevant. “We’ll find something.”      Dude, you have no idea, Zoë thinks to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. She doesn’t cut in on him, although she has about a dozen smart curve balls ready. Never get too smart around cops, who knows what she might need them for later on.

     “There’s one thing, though, but it adds more confusion than it clears up.”      The forensic walks over to the body of Mr. Van Dyke and points out the way his sweater is pulled down. It uncovers his left shoulder, the sleeve seems too long at the end by the force that was used.      “Looks like someone pulled him down. As if the killer wanted to level his victim with him or her,” she clarifies.      “The murderer was shorter than the victim,” Lee concludes.      “Not just a little shorter, I’m talking about round 4 ft. 5 here, looking at the angle and location of the bruising,” the forensic adds up.      “About the height of a ten year old, right?” Zoë fills in, as the clues sum up.      “Yeah, that would be correct, but that’s impossible. Even if a ten year old could be capable of doing such a thing, they wouldn’t have the strength,” she rules out.

     Impossible isn’t in Zoë’s dictionary, but she has seen enough. The forensics might be on a dead end, Zoë is a hundred percent sure of who Van Dyke’s killer is. She is dealing with one furious ghost child here, but two questions remain unanswered: why isn't Laura at rest and how is she able to relocate?      A cursed object is the first thing that comes to mind. Being on the clock, Zoë decides to leave and have a talk with the family.      “Thanks very much, I’ve got everything I need.” She gives both the forensic and the members of the PPD a nod, before she exits the room.

     While Zoë walks down the corridor towards the staircase, the undercover huntress goes through the things she just learned. It almost seems like Laura is trying to put her victims through the same horror she experienced before she died. She simply shows them who’s boss, just like her father used to teach her. It’s violent, not suited for viewers under the age of eighteen, and yet a girl of only ten years of age, is behind these murders. 

     Back on the first floor, Zoë can hear soft wailing coming from the dining room. For the third time this morning she shows her ID, this time to the officer guarding the shielded off private space. The door is slightly ajar, when she pushes it open further in order to enter, the investigator finds the Van Dyke family, gathered together. A woman in her early fifties with blonde pixie hair has her arms around a teenage girl, who Zoë presumes to be the principal’s daughter. The son, a few years younger than his sister, stares outside, his empty eyes gazing out over the lake, quietly grieving in his own way. Instantly, Zoë feels sorry for the family. She wouldn’t wish this upon anyone.      “Mrs. Van Dyke?”

     The woman looks up with tears in her eyes and lets go of her daughter, but not before sweetly stroking her hair. Zoë shows Mr. Van Dyke’s wife her identification.      “I’m Special Agent Evans, you can call me Sharon. I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”      The mother of two nods her head as she wipes away her tears. “Of course.”      “Your husband’s passing took place between 6:30 and 7 O'clock this morning. Where were you at this time?” Zoë questions calmly.      “I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast,” Mrs. Van Dyke replies, having crossed one arm over her chest, her hand covering her mouth as she breathes out with a shudder.      “And you heard nothing?” the huntress wonders, her voice gentle, not wanting to upset the poor woman even more.      “Not a sound,” she shakes her head. “Heather was in her room next to Bill’s office, she didn’t hear a thing until the dog started barking, that’s when she found him.”

     Zoë nods at that, aware that dogs have a better sense of the supernatural than humans have. She glances past the woman before her, noticing the kind Australian shepherd, who has laid his head in Heather’s lap, watching up at her with worried eyes while trying to comfort his owner. The dog seems calm now, a good indication that Laura isn’t anywhere near.      What the huntress does find strange, though, is that their daughter didn’t hear a thing. The article in the newspaper yesterday about Robert Shire’s murder comes to mind. His family was home during the incident as well.

     “That will be it for now, thank you for your time,” Zoë notifies, smiling sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”      Mrs. Van Dyke turns back to her family with half a nod, still in complete shock after this morning’s events which turned her world upside down. Zoë would like to take more time to talk to the children, but she simply doesn’t have a minute to spare. Hastened, the huntress exits the house, stepping out into the warm sun as she takes out her shades and puts them on. 

      It all makes sense now. Laura isn’t just getting even with the people who are directly or indirectly connected to her death. She’s recreating how she died. What Zoë remembers from her flashback, the poor girl was a punching bag for her father’s fist on a daily basis, but it’s not just that. No one around heard a thing, not even a single sound, like the victims were isolated from the outside world. The vision of Laura’s mother stoically continuing her dinner while her older brother watched TV. As if they couldn’t bear the abuse and therefore shut out the sounds that came along with it. 

     Pondering, Zoë strides down Reynolds Park Road, back to her bike, which she parked near the water. Unlike the police, the huntress is everything but stuck, she knows exactly where she needs to go. Next stop; The Shire residence.

     “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

     Dean has been complaining ever since they pulled away from the In-N-Out, when Sam came up with his newest masterplan. Their usual jeans and several layers of plaid have been replaced with black suits, the sharp dressed men now approaching Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, leaving the Impala in the parking lot.

     “We are doing this, so get used to it,” Sam returns, getting tired of his brother’s whining. “You have the ID’s?”      Dean takes out two leather wallets and flips them open, showing him the fake identification. Sam stares at the ID’s, his jaw falling open.      “FBI? Are you nuts, Dean?”      “Dad and I do it all the time. No sweat,” Dean shrugs, not that worried about getting caught.

     “What if they look up our badge numbers? This is suicide!” Sam hisses, keeping his voice down when they pass people at the entrance of the hospital.      “You wanna know what’s suicide? Meddling with Zoë’s case,” Dean counters.      Sam huffs. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”      “You should have seen her in Rochester when she found out we rang Cliffer and blew her cover. That wasn’t even intentional, and now you actually choose to get involved?” Dean argues.

     He gives his brother his new identification, which Sam studies carefully as he mumbles his fake name. Dean watches his brother closely, curious if he will detect the little gimmick in their aliases, them being Angus and Young. But Sam doesn’t know enough about rock music to notice that the two names combined is the full name of AC/DC’s lead guitarist. Nonetheless, Dean is proud of the inside joke.

     “She might get a little annoyed, but she won’t get mad. We’re helping her,” Sam assures, hoping his brother will stop being dramatic.      “Exactly! I’m dressed like a fucking penguin while I know she won’t ever thank us, even if we have a major breakthrough.” Dean loosens his tie a bit, smothered by the tightness of his collar.      “Look man, we can sit on our ass and waste this day or--”      “- I prefer that actually,” the oldest intervenes.      “Or--” Sam continues, sternly, “- we can do something useful.”

     With that being said, he walks through the revolving doors of the governmental facility, followed by Dean, who mutters something unintelligible; stubborn fucker. Dean might be the older sibling here, but when Sammy has got his mind set on something, he can’t be reasoned with.      Heading straight for the main desk, the Winchester brothers get into character. Sam especially looks somewhat young to be a federal agent, thankfully his height makes up for that. They both need to sell this in order to gather new information on the case.      Confidently, Dean flashes his FBI identification to the woman behind the counter. “Agent Young, this is my partner Agent Angus. We’re here to see a dead body.”      “You came to the right place,” she comments, apparently not impressed by their badges.      She calls for an older physician in a long white coat who just passed by.      “Dr. Hughes? Could you escort these two agents to the morgue?” she asks him.      “Of course, I’m heading over there anyway,” he agrees, beckoning Dean and Sam to walk with him.

     The hunters follow the doctor through the long hospital hallways. White ceilings, mint green vinyl floors and random photos and Picasso rip offs on the walls every now and then; the typical hospital decor the Winchester brothers are more familiar with than they would want to be. They’ve been inside medical centers plenty. To investigate a case, but also as a visitor whenever someone in their close circle got hurt on the job, but also as a patient. Hunting isn’t just a profession prone to injury, it’s worse than that. It’s a profession prone to death.

     Dr. Hughes eventually breaks the silence when they reach an elevator. “Who are you here for?”      “Ronald Shire,” Sam informs.      Unpleasantly surprised, Hughes looks up at the tall agent. He halts by the elevator, calling it down to the first floor. It takes a second to arrive, the doctor uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. Dean and Sam have noticed it, however, exchanging a look.

     “I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes when he realizes how his behavior might come across. “Ronald was a colleague of mine, but he was also a close friend.”      “Our condolences,” Dean says, knowing all about Shire’s death after Sam filled him in earlier.      Hughes pushes the button to call the elevator down, accepting the sympathy offered by the agent. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? We see death every day and yet when it hits close to home, you never see it coming.”

     Wise words, applicable to everyone. He has been there on many occasions when the final hour struck; of hunters, of people they were trying to save. One would expect all this experience to give him thick skin, since he’s used to the violence and killings. But when Jess was murdered, it hit him harder than a wrecking ball.

     The younger Winchesters train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the bell, announcing that the elevator has reached their level. He clears his throat and directs his attention to the doctor again. “Do you have an idea what happened to Mr. Shire?”      “I did the autopsy myself; it left me stunned,” Dr. Hughes tells them as they enter the elevator.

     Again the doctor presses a key and the doors close. As they slowly move down to the basement, Dean tries to find out if Hughes knows more about the case then he’s willing to let go at this point.      “We think his death might have something to do with the murder that took place in the Van Dyke residence,” he fills in.      “I heard about that on the news. CSU is still on that, though”, the physician says.      “We have one of our agents at the scene,” Sam returns, with the short statement explaining their suspicion.

     The doors open and the three enter the morgue of the hospital. It’s cool in this section and an unpleasant scent fills the area, chemicals almost masking the lingering smell of the dead. The doctor walks over to the furthest wall of metal drawers. He pulls out one of the many trays and puts on a pair of latex gloves before he zips open the body bag.      “What’s so stunning about this case?” Sam wonders.      “See for yourself.” Hughes unfolds the bag and both boys raise their eyebrows.      “Ouch,” Dean comments.

     The body of Laura’s father is badly bruised and battered, as if he got beaten up by a street gang in a bad neighborhood. His jaw is demolished, his neck broken; this is some serious abuse. The ‘Y’ shaped incisions on his torso indicated that a full autopsy has been performed on Ronald Shire, but the large stitches barely stand out between the black and broken skin.

     “That’s not all,” the doctor adds as he takes out the file. “I searched every inch of his body on the in and outside, but there is not a print, not one single fiber on him that  could point you fellas towards a suspect.”      Dean gives Sam a look without the physician seeing it. Dr. Hughes might have never seen this before, the hunters certainly have. Ghosts never leave any trace on their victims, unless they want to.

     “This caught my attention, though.” The doctor points out the bruises. “See how they run out upwards? That indicates that these injuries were caused from a lower angle. Or the killer was on its knees - which would be most unlikely - or the injuries were inflicted by someone shorter than 4 ft. 7. Someone with a growth defect, dwarf syndrome. That’s the only way I can clarify this.”      “Have you considered a child?” Sam questions, carefully.      “I have for a brief moment, but it’s theoretically impossible for a child to throw punches like this, even when it would use an object to create some kind of leverage, which I found no indication of,” the doctor explains. “Honestly, I’ve never seen damage done like this, not even by trained fighters. The evidence doesn’t add up in the slightest. This shouldn’t be possible.”

     The boys exchange another glance; the evidence adds up just fine for them. Sam tilts his head and nods to the door, giving Dean the signal that they are leaving.      “Thank you for your time, doctor.” he rounds up their visit. “If there is anything else, let us know.”      “You’re welcome, I hope you’ll get this one,” Hughes mentions while he cleans up.      “We’ll do our best,” Sam ensures.

     The two hunters leave the morgue and step back into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, the oldest of the two turns to the other.      “Laura, definitely,” the youngest brother states, determined.      “Unless this town is haunted by two frustrated mini spirits, yeah, it’s Laura.” Dean agrees, watching Sam take his phone out of his pocket as they arrive at the first floor again. “Who’re you gonna call?”      “The other Ghostbuster,” Sam replies, as he looks up Zoë’s number and presses the green button as soon as they step outside the hospital.      “Shouldn’t we get to the bomb shelter first?” the oldest suggests, snarky.      “This information could be useful”, Sam replies, but before Dean can respond to that, Zoë answers her phone.

     “Sullivan.”      “Hey Zoë, it’s Sam. Listen, I’ve got some info on Ronald Shire for you,” Sam cuts to the chase.      “Why would you have info on Laura’s dad?”      Sam cringes slightly, detecting the suspecting tone in her voice. Oh well, here goes nothing.      “We went to the Medical Center to see Shire’s body.”

      Complete silence, but Sam can almost hear Zoë’s blood boil on the other side of the line. Dean pulls his sleeve and gestures at him, frustrated.      “What are you including me for?” he hisses, making sure Zoë can’t hear him.      Sam waves him away, without making a sound he hushes his brother to be quiet, turning away from him in order not to get distracted. He takes a breath, gathering his courage. 

      “Zoë?”       “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just tell me that you deliberately messed with my case, even though I told you VERY clearly not to get involved?”      The huntress’s voice trembles with anger, Sam can hear she tries to keep calm.      “We figured we could spare you some time by going ourselves--”      “- You FIGURED?!”

     Sam cowers, her voice so sharp and loud that he doesn’t have to put her on speaker for Dean to pick up on the conversation. He did move closer to his brother, invading his personal space in order to tune in.      “Better take cover,” Dean advises his brother.      Annoyed, Sam pushes his brother away and focuses on Zoë again.

     “We didn’t mess anything up if that’s what you’re worried about”, he states defensively.      “I wouldn't give a flying fuck if you solved the fucking case! You didn’t listen!”      “You’re not my boss!” Sam makes clear, not having her raging attitude, no matter how intimidated he feels by the fiery woman.      “I am the boss when it comes to MY cases, damn it! This is not a fucking candy store I’m running, Sam! You can’t go do my job without telling me, you almost got me killed last time!”      “It was an innocent morgue visit!” Sam exclaims while making a wild gesture, even though Zoë isn’t there to see it. “And honestly, would you have said ‘yes’ if I asked you first?”

     “No of course not, you fucking asshat! That’s the fucking point!” she returns, clearly furious. “I swear to God, Sam, if you and your brother cross my path again…”      “What? You’ll kill us?” Sam huffs. “Listen, Zoë. Ronald Shire was attacked by Laura, without doubt. He was a mess, his jaw was wrecked and his neck was broken, all injuries inflicted from a lower angle. That’s all the info I’ve got for you, you do with it whatever the hell you want.”

     Before Zoë can return an answer, Sam ends the call. It’s only now that he notices Dean opposite of him, his arms crossed in front of him. He nods, appreciating.      “No more Mr. Nice Guy. I like it,” he comments, then continues his way to the Impala.      Without responding to his notification, Sam follows and catches up with him, still angry with the ungrateful attitude of the huntress. He cannot believe he saved her at least an hour and a half and this is what he gets in return; so much for gratitude. 

     Together they walk over to the classic Chevrolet without speaking about it further. Yet Dean can’t help but  smile as he opens his door. Sam notices the grin and rolls his eyes.      “Just say it,” he mutters.      “Say what?”      “You know what.”      Dean looks at him over the top of the black Chevrolet and ponders, still deciding if he should say the words which he longs to say. He can’t help himself, he has to enjoy the moment and rub it in.      His smirk grows even wider. “Hate to say I told you so.”      “No, you don’t,” Sam sighs, sits down and closes the door.

     Dean does the same and turns the key, starting up the Impala’s V8 engine, which lets out an enthusiastic roar. People Are Strange by The Doors is playing on the radio while Sam stares through the windshield, still bummed about the call.      “Why doesn’t she just drop the act?” Sam wonders.      “I’m not sure if it’s an act, Sammy.” Dean checks in both directions before steering his precious car onto the road. “I sincerely think her soul is pitch black.”

     But Sam shakes his head, not buying it. “This can’t be her persona. You said it yourself; she was different when you first met her.”      “So? People change,” Dean simply declares, shrugging his shoulders.      “Maybe, but this is just stupid. We’re in town, bored out of our skull while she is working her ass off to finish up on time. It can’t be that hard to accept our help.”      “Apparently she’s socially disturbed, Sam. Let it go already. If she can’t appreciate a helping hand, she’s not worth the effort,” the older brother suggests, not wanting Sam to be bothered by the matter. “Let’s go to Texas and hunt some wolf, huh?”

     He considers the advice for a moment as they drive by Linwood Cemetery. As soon as he spots the place, he glances across the road at the Hampton Inn, but there is no sign of Zoë; she must be at the crime scene.      As they pass through, he decides he wants to stay. “No. We agreed to stay in town till tonight. Zoë will leave, case closed or not. It’s almost midday, so what difference will it make if we leave now or tonight?”      “Half a day,” Dean answers smartly.      “Denise? Or did you completely forget about the fact that you are meeting up with her later?”

     The driver of the black car raises his eyebrow at that, contemplating, because Sam is right; he did forget about his ‘date’ later today for just a second. Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but Denise is a very big plus to stay in town just a little while longer. A silence follows after Sam’s mention while his brother thinks through his options.

     “Point taken,” he gives in. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Zoë is not gonna come around.”      “She will, believe me. She’s not as bad to the bone as she pretends to be,” Sam states, sure of his words. After all, last night she was friendly for letting him crash in her room and transferring all that lore to his computer.      “I know her better than you do,” Dean weighs up.      “I don’t believe that's true,” Sam counters, shaking his head.      “Wanna bet?” Dean looks aside as the argument is starting to turn into a ‘do not, do too’ fight. “Burgers for a week.”      “I rarely eat burgers. How’s that gonna benefit me?” the younger sibling brings to mind.

     “Okay, well… If I win, you buy me burgers for a week. If you win, I won’t give you shit for ordering a salad in every fast food joint we eat at.” The green eyed hunter wiggles his eyebrows, his arrogant grin confident, spread wide on his lips.      “I’m not settling for that.” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You can buy me whatever I order for the next seven days if I’m right.”      “Deal.”

     Before Dean can assure him that this is a bet he will win, his brother’s Blackberry rings. Surprised, he checks the screen for the number, his long chestnut hair falling in front of his eyes when he looks down, then he raises his eyebrows and smiles. Victoriously he shows the screen to Dean; it’s Zoë. Sam picks up his phone and puts her on speaker.      “What?” he snaps, still mad at her.      “What are you up to?”      The youngest of the Winchesters isn’t sure if she’s asking him if he’s still intending to mess with her case or that she’s asking if he has some spare time.      “Depends,” he answers, curt.      “You said Shire broke his neck, so did Van Dyke.”      “So?”      “Might be something.”

     Sam keeps his mouth shut, warning Dean to do the same with only a look and a slight shake of the head. An unpleasant silence follows. Obviously, it irritates Zoë.      “C'mon, Sam. Knock it off!”      “No, Zoë! We’re helping you out and this is what we get?” Sam returns.      “You two nosey dickwads went behind my back! How can you expect me to be--”

     They can hear her sigh and swallow down the rest of the sentence as she collects herself, trying to keep her temper in check.      “I don’t like working with others and I certainly don’t want to abandon this case. I’ve never passed up a job, it’s not my style. But if I don't finish up by tonight, I don't have another option.”

     “I get that, but wouldn’t it be better if we just work together now and make sure that you’ll make your deadline?” Sam suggests, calmer than a moment ago, now that the woman on the other end of the line has done the same.      “Look, Zo,” Dean interrupts, adding his two cents. “I know you’re not particularly happy about teaming up - and hey, neither am I - but you’ll be able to cover more ground that way. You can’t expect us to leave town knowing you might have to face a dilemma. The sooner you close this case, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”      “I don’t know...”      Again a sigh while Zoë considers her next move. Sam allows the silence, granting her the time to think it through. The way he sees it, she doesn't have much of a choice. The Winchesters are the best option she’s got.      “Okay, fine,” she eventually gives in. “But this is still my case. I call the shots and might we stumble on trouble, we stick to the plan. I can’t settle for anything less.”      Dean has already opened his mouth to object, but Sam elbows him hard, shooting him a warning glare.      “Agreed,” the youngest quickly answers, ignoring the quiet muttering from his left.      “Dean?”

     The older Winchester brother grinds his teeth. Shit, he does not want to bow down to her, because he knows the second he does, she will without a doubt step up to become Evil Queen Bitch. He’s never going to live it down. One case, he tells himself. One fucking case and he will never have to deal with her again.      “Fine,” he utters, barely audible.      “One other thing. I need to leave town tonight, case finished or not. We have to try or take care of this today, okay?”      “We will,” Sam assures. “And if we run into trouble and can’t manage to wrap up, you don’t have to worry about this case. We’ll make sure to have it covered and that Laura will be put to rest.”      “So, do we meet up or what?”      “Yeah, sure.”      “Where are you at?”

     Before Sam answers he checks the name of the road they are on.      “W. Kings Highway, going west. We’re staying at the Ramada Inn,” Sam tells her.      “Shit motel.”      He scoffs a chuckle, glad the tension has lifted. “Tell me ‘bout it.”      “I'll see you at In-N-Out,” the huntress decides. “I want an Animal Burger.”      “Have you had that 4x4 burger?” Dean says, his mouth watering. “The amount of meat, hmm.”      “Are you kidding me? I grew up in California; In-N-Out is my jam!”      “Their food is fuckin’ amazing, ain’t it?” Dean agrees.      “Oh my God, yes! How they grill their cheese—”

     Stunned, Sam stares from the phone to Dean and back. Did the unthinkable just happen? Did Zoë and Dean actually agree on something? Remarkable, but truly, here is the one subject they can’t fight about; food.      “Zo?” he interrupts.      “Yeah?”      “See you at In-N-Out.” He chuckles and hangs up.

     The Ramada Inn shows up in front of them and Dean pulls up into the parking lot, turning off the ignition once he has found a spot close to the entrance. Before he gets out of the car, he registers Sam, who’s wearing a boyish grin on his face. His eyes sparkle through the curtain of his bangs, his pearl white teeth on display; it’s clear he’s very much amused.      “Hate to say I told you so,” Sam nags victoriously, and pushes the passenger door open.

     With a confused expression upon his face, Dean gets out of his car himself. He then glares at younger Winchester over the top of the Impala, the words sinking in. Fuck, he lost a bet; Zoë came around.      “No, you don’t,” he mutters, following his sibling inside. Looks like he’s going to have to live through the embarrassment of ordering and paying for salads the coming week. Oh well, at least he doesn’t have to eat them.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).   

Read part eight here

[azuwulastan]

Azula (of cooourse)

omg <3 ofc

Why I like them

she is like, the perfect mix of tragedy, comedy, and skill ... so much fun to watch and even more fun to try figure out wtf she’s thinking. like in some ways she is so aged above her years but also so immature like a child bc of this bizarro upbringing she has. she just has this enormous depth and complexity like.. she is an awful person in many many ways - in particular the way she threatens ty lee to recruit her, the way attacks zuko’s insecurities in their first encounter shown in the show, the whole burn down the earth kingdom thing . but then she’s so fragile and naive in some ways? broken relationships, broken family and no one to love her. my heart. she thinks she’s unloveable and it just hurts to see a 14 year old think that way.

i think its these many sides of her that makes me love her- because there are always things to think about her.

also imo she is funny? why didn’t aang laugh??

Why I don’t

cruelty, manipulation, controlling tendencies, the way she is mean to ty lee and makes her cry. she also enjoys fucking with zuko a lot which is still uncomfortable to watch but at least she’s not ranked higher than him so the power differential is less pronounced. also... imperialist monarch who loves her status and is a fire nation nationalist? ya hate to see it

Favorite episode (scene if movie)

i mean.. the beach is excellent for obvious reasons. but crossroads of destiny is one of my favourite episodes like.. her mind

Favorite season/movie

ugh can’t choose! bk 3 bc it humanises her but bk 2 bc she’s such a bad bitch lolll

Favorite line

“Oh, sounds like the firebending is back on!” also - when she admits to ty lee she’s jealous.. girl........

Favorite outfit

im partial to her b2 look. so comfy? and the earth kingdom look , and the heavy arnour from bk 3? and the fluffy socks she wears in the comics? okay i like all her looks

OTP

tyzula duh. but with caveats. kazula is a close second in an au

Brotp

tophzula brotp is something i wanna see. toph would neg on her and she would hit back. they’d be very well balanced .

also lo and li. i wanna see her hang out with them

Head Canon

she’s got a bad stealing habit - she likes the thrill and feels terribly entitled to everything around her.

she has a somewhat secret love of theatre and romances she just pretends she doesnt

she has a very complicated relationship with femininity - partially bc she wants to emulate her father and strength and can’t do that by being traditionally feminine, partially bc of the way ursa enforced feminity on her, partially bc she’s a baby dyke

she absolutely used to make ty lee play the dragon emporess when they were kids. mai would watch and zuko would play the water spirit

the best time of her life was when she was kicking around the earth kingdom with her girls

there are large parts of her childhood she totally doesn’t remember

ursa really did resent her and did not truly love her (it happens :( )

she actually likes mai a lot more than mai likes her

she would be really bad at drawing or painting or free form sculpture but really good at something like ceramics or screen printing or like... embroidery

Unpopular opinion

ummm idk? i like to pretend she’s nicer off screen but thats probably wishful thinking. its hard to have an unpopular opinion when im in my own little corner of atla tumblr where we are all azula stans. although i think plenty of ppl find tyzula objectionable (fair)

A wish

she learns to love and works to heal her relationships w people, she finds a creative outlet, she undoes her fire nation brain washing and works to undo the harm of her ancestors on the world, she chills out for five mins

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen

i mean she did kiss chan so... what worse could happen? also like.. the entire events of the comics set after the events of the series

5 words to best describe them

perfectly broken (fic title up for grabs), hardened, beautiful, mean

My nickname for them

she is such a bitch