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party-gilmore · 3 years

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This is still just a half formed thought but @pebblesrus got me thinking bout The Pool Scene and Eliot viewing his body/safety as something to physically exchange for that of others, combined with the commentary about how Eliot was counting the seconds Hardison was without air, like

There's still the thrum of angry tension stretching out from Hardison between them through the night, during Flores's call, on the way in and through the airport... Eliot isn't avoiding Hardison's angry gaze, but he's not seeking it out either. It burns under his skin, a hot coil of discomfort and the sinking sensation of having ruined something unless he manages to make things even.

At some point midflight, Hardison gets up to pace near the bar (because it might have been last minute, but he's NOT gonna make the team fly coach - even though he's still upset with Eliot and may have thought about it for a minute). Eliot follows a few seconds later and catches Hardison on the way back, quickly shoving him into the small lavatory and locking the door behind them.

"Man! What the hell! If you don't get your hands off me, I-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Hardison stops flailing against Eliot's grip around his wrists and just... stares, incredulous.

"...what?"

"You were without air for one minute, nineteen seconds."

"...you were counting." It feels a little like a question, although it isn't. Not really. Eliot's grim expression softens often imperceptibly. Hardison would've missed it if they weren't crammed so tightly in the small bathroom. Eliot answers the non-question anyway, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"Course I was."

Hardison tumbles that around in his head for a bit. Of course Eliot was counting. Probably to know when it was too dangerous anymore to stay in character. Hardison knows how important it was to gain Moreau's trust at the time. In his head, he knows that. Knew it, even then. He was just... so afraid, at almost drowning, and angry at the secrets Eliot was keeping... but he was counting. He would've gone in for him, if he needed. Blown the whole damn thing.

Yeah the situation just sucked all the way around, sure, and yeah Alec's still a little pissed - why wouldn't he be! He's got the right! - but Eliot was counting. That means even though he'd had to put Hardison's life at risk, he was willing to risk even more - his own safety, the entire con - to pull him back out if needed. That was something, right? That was still-

-Hardison's too busy turning the pieces around in his own head to notice Eliot shifting his grip from Hardison's wrists to his hands. Tugging them closer. Pulling them up.

Alec snaps back to the present when his fingertips graze the warm, flushed skin of Eliot's neck.

"What-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Eliot suddenly presses Hardison's hands tight around his throat, guiding his thumbs to the appropriate hollows beneath his jaw.

"You... you can't be fucking serious!"

He tries to pull away, but Eliot's grip holds fast.

"Damnit Hardison," his growl comes rough, grating, as he puts pressure on his own windpipe through Hardison's palm. "You were right! Okay? I risked your life. For one minute and nineteen seconds. So that's what you get. Just... just do it, man! Get it over with, then we're even!"

"Even-... man, do you not realize how fucked up this is? I'm not... I'm not doing this!"

With a growl, Eliot tears his hands away from Hardison's, and Alec snatches his newly freed palms back to his chest. Eliot clearly wants to pace, but can't in the cramped room, so he settles with carding his fingers through his hair.

"Then what the fuck else do you want from me, man!" His voice already sounds ragged, even with how short of a time Hardison (or rather, Eliot by way of Hardison) was pressing around his throat.

"I just wanted you to be honest with us! With me!" Hardison slumps back against the far wall, anxiously rubbing his jaw as he tries to find the words. "Alright, look, I get it, what you had to do at the pool. I do. That doesn't mean my being upset about it is just gonna... go away!"

"I know that!"

Hardison flinches as Eliot slams his fist against the side wall. He knows the strike wasn't meant to be pointedly 'at' him, that in such a small space there's not a whole lot of room to safely lash out in when feeling cornered, but it was still too close to him for comfort. Eliot clocks the flinch, and for a moment the frustration on his face morphs into a clear expression of the guilt he's been masking since the pool.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't... fuck, I'm sorry," he pulls away, shrinking in on himself like he does on the grift, trying to consciously make himself seem smaller. "I just... I just don't want to have ruined us, man. Whatever is we've got... you and me, this team... I just wanna fix what I broke. I want us to be good."

"We are good, man," Hardison cautiously steps forward. He thinks to put a hand on Eliot's shoulder, but that's too close to his throat at the moment, so he goes for the outside of his arm instead. "You don't gotta... let me hurt you to make things even. That's... I don't know where the hell you learned that, but I don't like it. I'm not gonna do it. You just... you just gotta let me feel my feelings for a bit, okay? We'll get Moreau, and that'll feel fucking great, and have a little party, and everything will be fine. "

Eliot looks up at him and the ragged, raw desperation in his gaze about knocks Hardison back against the wall.

"...that's it?" Eliot's almost laughing, with a dry sarcastic bite behind his tone that makes him sound unhinged... well, more unhinged than usual. Although, he did just ask Hardison to choke him, so Alec figures we're not exactly working with the usual state of mind here.

"It's that easy, huh? You just... say we're good, and we're good?"

"Uh, yeah." Hardison shakes his head, tightening and loosening his grip on Eliot's arm in what he hopes is a soothing pattern. "That's how normal feelings work when somebody you care about pisses you off. You talk your shit out, it hurts for a bit while it heals up, then you're good. I don't know who fucking taught you you had to pay for-"

Oh. Oh but then it hits him. The dots finish connecting and he's looking down at Eliot, who's been strung tight and volatile as a clumsily stripped live wire ever since they closed in on Moreau, and in that moment Alec knows who taught him that.

He steps in close, carefully taking the back of Eliot's neck in a gentle grip, and ducks slightly to even out their gazes. Eliot’s whole body is tensed so hard he's almost shaking with it, but his eyes start to lose their sharp edge with Hardison's easy hold.

"I need you to hear me, Eliot. If I say we're good? Then we're good. No strings attached, no games, no doing any 'favors' for me first to prove any kind of loyalty or whatever. You know I don't play that shit. Yeah? You hearing me, man?"

Eliot's body starts to lose a bit of it's tension. A hesitant nod starts, but stops early. Hardison's seen Parker do that before, when she's too nervous to fully commit to a new idea even if she wants to, so he softens his tone and backs up a bit like he does with her.

"You hear me, babe?"

"I hear you," the reply is soft, almost embarrassed, and Eliot's eyes dart away. Hardison let's him go, indulging the gruff 'pretending to shake off the touch' Eliot does a second too late to be any kind of believable, and respectfully ignores the clearing of his throat and wiping at his eyes.

"We, uh..." Eliot turns to the door, fidgeting with the handle for a moment. "So, we'll talk. In San Lorenzo. When it's done?"

"When it's done."

Affirmation granted, Eliot darts out of the room. Hardison takes a few more minutes. Washes his face. Processes all the data thrown at him in the past few minutes as much as he can before filing it away for later. For 'when it's done.'

BONUS:

I feel like later, when they have their actual talk and Moreau is dealt with and both parties are a little more calm about it, Eliot is still like okay, I hear you, I understand that you don't need this to feel like we're square... but I do. Please.

And this time, knowing a little more of the whole story, Hardison is more comfortable accepting that like you know what, okay. If this is what you need, now that we've talked it out in a much less charged scenario and I can trust that you're in (more of) your right mind about this, okay. So long as you know I don't need this, that this is for you, and that if you need to stop early you swear you'll tell me.

Eliot probably rolls his eyes a bit at that like c'mon not even a full two minutes of getting choked out? He's had to go [absurd amount of time] without air in [equally absurd situation] in [obscure country], he'll be fine.

So Hardison sets a timer, and gently presses Eliot up against a wall, hands wrapping round his throat, Eliot's hands around his wrists - the deal is that he holds on for as long as he's good, if he let's go then so does Hardison - and he starts pressing in.

The whole scene is far softer and more intimate than either of them expected. They keep crazy intense but somehow still gentle eye contact almost the entire way through - the only exception being when Eliot's eyelids start to flutter a bit near the end, his grip loosening but not letting go - and when the time's up Eliot almost doesn't want Hardison to let go. He didn't even know that was a Thing for him. It had never been like that before, and like he said it's hardly his first time being choked... but something about trusting Hardison with that level of control... it makes him realize he maybe likes it a little too much. Putting his actual life in Hardison's hands in such a very physical, tangible way.

It kind of scares him, to be honest, how easily he'd be willing to let him do it again. And thinking about Hardison always leads to thinking about Parker, and thinking about Parker always leads to thinking about Parker's hands, and he realizes that he'd even trust "I hang off buildings by my fingertips" hand strength Parker to do it too... maybe even gets excited at the idea of it...

...and realizes he's well and truly screwed.

#eliot spencer #alec hardison #eliot spencer x alec hardison #precursor to the #leverage ot3 #Moreau's mindfuckery

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rafivadafreddy · 3 years

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Kissing Secrets

A fivr part story about our favorite ADA Rafael Barba and his FBI gf.

Summary: What happens when the SVU squad meets Rafaels’ girlfriend, but under not so great circumstances?

Word Count: 2,373 Warnings: Cursing, angry couple, Spanish, angst, talk of rape and drug case.

Dating never came easy to Rafael Barba. But when he found someone with a job as hectic as him. It was perfect. Neither expected much from the other, when one had to cancel the other would understand.

Of course, Y/N would be more than understanding. She had two bachelor degrees under her belt and after long days and nights with the 20 weeks of New Agent Training with the FBI at Quantico. She, just like Rafael, worked hard to get where she was. Trying to make a name for herself. Starting at twenty-five and becoming a special agent before her twentieth eight birthday, Y/N knew she would make it.

Y/N and Rafael met when she was looking for a job, needing to complete two years of work experience to become a special agent. Working as a rookie cop in a district in Brooklyn. Well, one night an angry cuban man walks into the precinct. His fancy three piece suit was a mess and he claims he was assaulted. Knife wound to his arm, Y/N was the cop to take care of him.

One thing led to another, Rafael left the precinct with a smile. Having left his number behind for the cop. To ‘call’ if she had any questions about his assault. Of course, Y/N was able to find the guy who assaulted the ADA and was able to get his phone back from the man.

Almost three years passed and they were still happy with the other. Dinners, nights in and a couple who were in love with the other. Y/N met his mother and his abuelita, things were perfect. So, when Y/N graduated, celebrating the fact that she made it through the FBI academy. Thankfully, Y/N was able to stay at the federal bureau of investigation in New York City.

»---------------------►

A few months into her new job, Y/N felt as if she was on a high. It was her biggest case yet and it was hers… well, her’s along with her partner, Agent Shawn Carter. Having been staying overtime the past month, getting together evidence and witnesses to take down an organized sex trafficing crime involving a drug lord that’s on their most wanted list, Y/N wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of her bringing every last one of them down. Especially when the last victim she was notified of was a thirteen year old.

“Hola mi amor…” Y/N smiled at the call of her boyfriend. Rafael had been her rock the past few years as Y/N worked on getting into the FBI.

“Hola mi corazón…” she heard him chuckle into the phone. “Dinner tonight? Think you can make it?”

Glancing at her watch, Y/N thought about it. “I think so yeah. We’re going to pick up a perp right now and if it all works out. I’ll be able to spend all night with you.” She told him and sighed. “I’m sorry for being super busy lately.”

“Hey, none of that. I understand. It 's your job. My girlfriend, the badass FBI agent.” the two laughed and Y/N smiled.

“My boyfriend, the hot shot ADA. I’ll get out early to have dinner with you. No matter what, you’ll come first tonight.” She told him, noticing they were nearing Manhattan.

“Now, now… You know you always come first when we’re together.” Y/N could hear the smirk as he spoke and she just laughed.

Saying goodbye with many ‘i love you’s’ Y/N put her phone away and sighed, the smile feeling permanent on her lips.

Ten minutes later, the black car pulled up outside the Special Victims Unit of the 16th precinct. Both Y/N and Shawn looked at one another before nodding. It wasn’t going to be fair and it wasn’t like they knew. But the SVU team had picked up a perp they had been watching and started an investigation on him. Something Y/N couldn’t let happen. No this was her case.

Walking into the building and getting directions to the SVU floor, Y/N walked with her head held high. The skinny jeans she wore, along with the blue button down shirt. She made sure to have her badge clipped to her pants. Gun in its holder and ID already out in her hand.

“Can I help you, agent?” a woman asked, making Y/N turn to look at a blonde who walked over. That caught the other detectives attention.

They were already wondering why the FBI was there.

“As a matter of fact you can. I’m special agent Y/N L/N and this is my partner, Agent Shawn Carter. I’m afraid I’m here to collect the perp you have in custody along with everything you have against him.” she told the women, except her eyes were on a brunette woman. Whom Y/N knew was in charge. She did her research before storming into the precinct this way.

“Why should we do that? This is our case, don’t see why the Feds want a low life like him.” another detective spoke up and Y/N looked over at him. From his voice and stance, it was obvious he was angry.

“Calm down, Amaro.” the brunette finally spoke up. “Olivia Benson.” she introduced herself and Y/N shook her hand. “Now, you say you need this guy. Why? From what we’ve gathered, he’s just a scum who likes underage girls.”

With a sigh, Y/N nodded. But she didn’t say anything when a familiar voice spoke up. “What’s going on here?”

“Ah! Barba, you’re going to love this.” The Amaro fellow looked amused. “The FBI is here to take our case.”

“Oh yeah? On what grounds?” Barba asked.

“On the grounds that he’s a suspect in an ongoing Federal case.” Y/N said, turning to look at the man she just told she loved, not even half an hour ago. “Miguel Hernández raped and murdered a thirteen year old girl three days ago. And I know you guys picked him up cause he was caught in the act of raping another victim. Now imagine my surprise when I found out that SVU caught him. Even though notice went out to contact the FBI if Mr. Hernández is picked up by officers or detectives of New York.” she spoke, informing all of them, even though her eyes stayed on Rafael.

“He also has information about Lorenzo Torsney.” Shawn spoke up for the first time.

“Wait, Torsney, the guy linked to the sex trafficking ring with the underage girls? The same Lorenzo who’s rumored to be the new Drug lord of New York?” some guy spoke up, his thick accent catching Y/Ns attention.

“That’s the one.” Both agents spoke at the same time. “So, Lieutenant. The case files and Miguel if you please.” Shawn said and followed Bensen into her office to grab the paperwork to make the transfer.

Y/N on the other hand went to look at the window that showed into the interrogation room. Hearing footsteps, Y/N smiled at the male and nodded to the detective seeing the coffee he got her. “Thanks…”

“Ah, Dominick Carisi, Jr. but everyone calls me Sonny.” the thick accent said and Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“I get the feeling, no one calls you, Sonny… Sonny.” she smirked and looked at Miguel again.

Thankfully he got quiet after that. Though what Y/N failed to notice was Rafael standing in the doorway. “Excuse us, Carisi.” he said, in his ‘this is my mad, but trying to stay professional” voice.

Sonny couldn't get out of the room faster, not that Y/N blamed him. She would have ran as well.

"You couldn't have told me on the phone that you were coming to pick up the guy from my case?" Rafael whispered, looking real mad.

Yet, Y/N just rolled her eyes. "Tu caso? Last I heard, you were still working in fucking Brooklyn! Que diablos, Rafael!" She hissed at her boyfriend. "You changed fucking districts and never told me?"

"Oh, that's rich. Coming from the one always canceling our dates!"

"¡Vete a la mierda!" Y/N narrowed her eyes. "Who canceled the last THREE dinners? Wasn't me, that's for fucking sure." She scoffed and pushed past him.

"Real professional Detectives.." Y/N rolled her eyes at the SVU team all scrambling back to their desks. Pretending like they wern’t eavesdropping on Y/N and Rafael.

"Y/N, vuelve aquí, ahora."

Only, Y/N ignored him. Pulling out her phone, she had to put in a call for another agent to come out to the district and collect Miguel. All while ignoring Rafael. Who was trying to glare her into submission.

'Good luck, papi. Not gonna work now.' Y/N thought and looked away from the detectives. Answering emails and texts on her phone. Already getting a location of where Shawn and her needed to go after leaving SVU.

»»---------------------►

As Miguel was getting put into cuffs, both around his wrists and ankles. Y/N watched, making sure nothing would go wrong. Turning to the detectives, she gave them a sad smile.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t let you guys have this case.” she told them, sounding sincere. “If he wasn’t important to catching Torsney, I would have let you keep the case.” she added, thanking Shawn as he handed Y/N her FBI jacket.

Hearing two different scoffs, but from two cuben men. Y/N rolled her eyes and shook Olivia’s hand. “It’s fine, at least you’re getting him off the streets… and something tells me, you interrogating him will make what we did look like preschoolers.” she smirked and Y/N shrugged.

“Let’s just say, the cameras are not on all the time.” Shawn spoke up and Y/N shook her head.

“Yes they are, thank you for giving me a heads up to watch all the interrogations you do from now on.” she narrowed her eyes and told him to go wait in the car. Saying goodbye, Y/N turned and made her way out.

Getting into the car, Y/N rubbed a hand over her face and told Shawn they were needed over in the Bronx.

“So… that was your boyfriend. Huh?” the male next to her spoke up after a few minutes of silence in the car.

Of course, with her telling him to shut up the car ride continued on quietly.

Hearing her phone let out a ping Y/N grabbed it and read the text from Rafael.

Papi: So, I guess we need to talk later.

Y/N: Yeah, I’ll tell you when I get off. Don’t know when that’ll be. There was a bomb over in the South Bronx. Was put on the case to deal with it.

Keeping the reply simple. Wanting Rafael to know she was mad at him. Not even replying to his ‘stay safe’ and not cause she didn’t want to. But because they had arrived and the scene they saw. It was a complete mess.

News crews were filming everything happening, people being put into ambulances and being taken care of.

“OK! What do we know?” Y/N asked, tying her H/C hair up into a ponytail.

As they were getting information, Y/N looked around. Not knowing cameras were pointed towards both her and her partner.

Turning to the officer telling them what had happened, Y/N frowned. “What time was the explosion? Exactly.” she asked and Y/N felt like she paled when being told it had been Nine minutes.

“We need every emergency vehicle headed here stopped outside the perimeter, and evacuate the building.” she commanded and stopped when the Battalion Chief spoke up.

“I got half a dozen guys inside checking structural damage, twice that many going door-to-door --”

Y/N just cut him off. “Have them grab anyone they see, and get out. Now.” her confidence leaves no doubt and the man nods. Talking to everyone he can and getting as many people out as possible.

With Shawn helping out on the other side, also helping people move away from the building the explosion went off in. It left Y/N to run after a woman who was running towards the apartment building. Crying about how she wanted her son's body

Y/N was able to get her away, but when the second explosion hit, both her and the woman were flown forward. Y/N being knocked out.

Rafaels’ POV:

He was getting shit for not saying anything to the team about his FBI girlfriend. Not like he knew if they were even going to be that later on when they talk. But still, he sat there and let them poke and joke around. The team had gotten takeout and were relaxing since there were no other cases. Rafael deciding to join them (not like they gave him much of a choice in the matter)

“Hey, Barba… didn’t you say Y/N was out in the South Bronx?” Rollins asked, causing Rafael to turn away from Liv and look at the blonde detective.

Moving his head to see what she was looking at, Rafael felt a chill in his stomach as he watched the News on the TV. They were covering the story of what was happening.

The team were all quiet listening to the man speak, the camera moving to where Y/N stood with her partner. Rafael watched as she took charge of the situation, he felt proud of her. But he had a nagging feeling, seeing everyone move quickly at whatever command she gave.

“By the looks, Agent Y/N L/N of the FBI gave orders to evacuate the building. Will there be another explosion, how does she know to get everyone out of the building? Whatever it is, everyone seems to be listening….” but Rafael turned the man's voice out.

In the background he could see Y/N running towards the woman and he shot up out of his seat when the second explosion happened. Cutting short the camera. No one was moving or saying anything as they just watched Rafael, who looked on the verge of a panic attack.

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart

#rafael barba #Raul Esparza #Raúl Esparza #rafael barba fanfiction #rafael barba fanfic #rafael barba fic #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x female reader #rafael barba x you #rafael barba x oc #rafael barba x fbi reader #law and order svu #svu

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a-simple-gaywitch · 3 years

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Resident Geniuses

Summary: When the BAU is called to NYC for a case, they weren’t expecting to have to pair up with the local Interpol team. Spencer wasn’t expecting to meet his female counterpart

Word Count: 1496

Warnings: Implied Sexual Content, Talks of Murder Case and Crime

Requested: Yes/No

“The measure of intelligence is the ability to change.” -Albert Einstein

The BAU team was in New York working on a case. The city had yet another serial killer demanding their attention. The team was set up in the FBI field office, trying to lay down a profile. Unfortunately, this unsub would dump the bodies in New Jersey, making him harder to pinpoint. The team was getting closer until the next body showed up. Same MO and signature, but the victimology was completely different.

Then the local Interpol team arrived. Hotch and the woman in charge of the other team went head-to-head almost immediately.

“The man who was murdered is an international art thief. That makes this our jurisdiction, Agent Hotchner.”

“But he crossed the state line into Jersey. That makes this our jurisdiction, Agent Langley.”

“Um, Maura, Agent Hotchner?” a shy woman towards the back of the group spoke up. “You’re missing the obvious solution of us working together,” she said. “Wouldn’t collaboration help us both reach our goal?”

Agent Langley looked at the woman. “You’re right, Doc.” She sighed. “Agent Hotchner, we should pair up our teams to combine what we know and what you know.”

After a bit of discussion, Maura and Hotch returned to the two gathered teams.

“Morgan, Prentiss, you are going with Agent MacKenzie and Agent Leavitt to the crime scene,” Hotch said.

“Lorenzo, you’re staying here with Agent Jareau to keep the media at bay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Reid, you’re staying here with Doctor (L/N).” Spencer’s head snapped up when he heard Hotch addressing him. Spencer looked over at you. You were sitting at a table, going through the FBI’s files. Spencer thought the way your brows furrowed in concentration was adorable. Just looking at you put butterflies in his stomach.

The two teams split up. Tanner MacKenzie, a man who was like your brother, patted your shoulder on his way out.

“Good luck, Doc.” He looked at Spencer. “I’m sorry man, she’s gonna drive you mad before the end of the day.”

You flipped him off as you took a seat and looked through the files. “Why don’t you bugger off and go catch up to Steph.” It was the first time Spencer was really noticing your accent.

After the other agents cleared out of the conference room, Spencer cleared his throat. “So, Dr. (L/N)-”

“Oh, (Y/N), please,” you interrupted him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just don’t like the formality.”

He smiled at you. Spencer found you so endearing. “Call me Spencer.”

You and Spencer got along like a wildfire. While the two of you worked, Spencer learned that you were from a small town in Northern England but that you went to Oxford for your degrees. You just about matched him, with 3 PhDs and 4 Master’s degrees.

He learned that your nickname was Doc, but only your team could call you that. He learned about your family and how hard it was for you to be an ocean away from them.

You laughed at all Spencer’s jokes, and you actually understood them. Spencer had never met anyone he got along with as quickly or as easily. You were intelligent, funny, and beautiful. And when the team finally got back to the hotel for the night, you were the only thing on Spencer’s mind.

Spencer looked up at the hotel ceiling, realizing he was truly, completely, unequivocally, fucked.

When Spencer arrived at the office the next morning, the Interpol team was already there. They were rushing around the office, functioning as a well-oiled machine.

“What’s going on?” Hotch asked.

“There was a double murder last night,” Agent Langley informed him. “Both were women. One has ties to a crime ring my team has been investigating, the other doesn’t. Both fit your preliminary profile for victimology.”

“This changes our whole outlook. We need to sit down, all of us, and discuss this.”

Once everyone settled at a conference table, Hotch said, “So, start giving me theories. Why the seemingly random kill before reverting back to his original victimology?”

“Was he a victim of opportunity?” Morgan asked. “Or he got in the way and needed to be eliminated?”

You shook your head. “No. Marcel Delacroix is -was- a recluse. He only left his apartment for jobs.”

“A hit job?” Prentiss suggested. “Maybe the unsub was hired by someone to take the art thief out?”

“That could be possible,” Agent MacKenzie said with a nod. “The world of an art thief is competitive, much like the world of the one making the art. Jobs can be hard to come by, especially if people know someone is good, like Delacroix.”

“But that brings up another question- what is this unsub’s true motive?” Jason Gideon asked.

You were muttering under your breath, looking at the case file.

“What’s going on up there, Doc?” MacKenzie asked.

“Can I see the information on the previous victims again?” Hotch slid the files over to you. The BAU watched as you arranged the photos around the table.

“What is she doing?” Prentiss asked.

“It’s her process. It only makes sense to her, but her genius always pulls through,” Langley said.

“Sounds familiar.” Morgan nudged Spencer, who was just watching you work. “Reid?”

“What? Sorry, I was trying to see if I could figure out what connections she made.”

“I got it!” you said. “None of these are random. They’re all linked to the same crime family.” You went on a spiel about how they all connect, and who the unsub was. “The only problem is, we don’t know where to find him.”

“Leave that to us,” Hotch said.

The two teams worked together to bring the unsub into custody. Thankfully, he didn’t make things harder for everyone until he was put in restraints.

“Well, good work, Agent Hotchner,” Maura said, holding her hand out to shake the man’s.

“You too, Agent Langley. It was nice to work alongside your team.

“Likewise. Well, I guess we should be going back to our own office. We have a lot of paperwork to fill out.”

Before your team left, you walked over to Spencer. “You know, Dr. Reid, that cell phone in your hands can be used for more than just work,” you said in a low voice. You handed him a card, brushing your fingers against his. It sent a shock through Spencer. “Goodbye, everyone! It was nice working with you!” She waved to the BAU before following her team out of the FBI office.

Spencer smiled as he watched her leave. He looked down at the business card you gave him, your personal number scrawled on the bottom. In Roman Numerals. He tucked the card in his pocket before his team saw.

“Hey, has anyone seen Reid this morning?” Hotch asked the team as they waited for the jet to be ready at the airstrip.

“No, I thought he left for the hotel with Morgan last night,” JJ told him.

“He told me he was riding back with you,” Morgan said.

“I’m here, I’m here!” Spencer said, running over to the team. “Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s not usually like you. Are you okay?” JJ asked.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just overslept.”

Gideon squinted at him. “You’re wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday.”

Spencer looked down at his rumpled clothes. “I, uh, I fell asleep reading last night and didn’t have time to change this morning.”

“Is that a hickey?” Emily asked him. Spencer’s hand flew up to cover the dark spot on his neck.

“No way, Pretty Boy has a hickey?”

Spencer’s face was bright red. “Shut up, Morgan.”

“So… Tell us about her!” JJ said.

“Yeah, who’s the lucky lady?” Morgan asked him.

“Um…”

“Guys. If Reid doesn’t want to tell us who he’s sleeping with, he doesn’t have to. As long as it isn’t interfering with his job.” Hotch gave Reid a pointed look.

He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Good. And I don’t want to hear any of you pestering Reid about it.”

The team climbed onto the jet. After everyone got settled, most falling asleep, Gideon took a seat next to Reid.

“So, how was your night with Dr. (L/N)?” he asked.

“How did you-”

“You’re not that discrete, Spencer.” Gideon gave him a soft smile.

Spencer smiled back. “She’s amazing. She makes me feel… normal. I don’t feel like I’m weird or just a brain with her.”

“She sounds like a lovely girl. Why don’t you want to tell the others about her?”

Spencer sighed, looking out at the clouds. “I guess I just want something for myself for a bit. I really care for (Y/N) and I know how invasive the team can be. I don’t want them to scare her away.”

“I don’t think they could scare her away if they tried. She’s perfect for you.”

“Never give up on something you can’t go a day without.” -Winston Churchill

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #em's fics

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jerrylewis-thekid · 2 years

Text

FBI, THERE'S A CAROGNE NAME EDGAR HOOVER

More or less we all knew that J. Edgar Hoover, the mythical director of the equally legendary FBI, was a heated reactionary, an eccentric man, a type not exactly favorable to blacks, homosexuals, Jews and women. Now, without fear of denial, we can say that J. Edgar Hoover was much more, and worse: a paranoid fascist, a blackmailer of presidents in turn blackmailed by the mafia. Anthony Summer, a brilliant "investigative journalist", already the author of investigations of great commitment such as those on the Kennedy murder or on the life (and death) of Marilyn Monroe, tells us his story. He tells us about it in a book (J. Edgar Hoover, pp. 528, 35,000 lire - Bompiani) which for the abundance of documentation and anecdotes, for the speed of narration and writing, I could define pleasant reading, were it not for the subject becomes repugnant from time to time. I admit, at the cost of sounding a bit provincial, that I didn't expect so much. I did not expect that the greatest democracy in the world would have been able to tolerate for half a century, at the head of a delicate and powerful body like the FBI, an authentic "son of a bitch", a "bastard fagot" (the definitions are president LB Johnson), a psychotic like J. Edgar Hoover. We too have and have had our "bastards" in this field, but I recognize that in the face of the magnitude of the violations committed by Hoover, the Sifar files disappeared, the specious "omissions" on state documents, the diversions of the Sid, the Piano Solo, Pazienza and De Lorenzo, become jokes. In his own way, Hoover embodied one of the souls of America, more precisely the soul prevalent in some rural and Midwestern areas. So while his tenure at the head of the FBI offended the enlightened spirit of the American constitution, on the other a man like him embodied, like it or not, the deep feelings of a large section of the people of the United States. When J. Edgar Hoover died (May 2, 1972) at the age of 77, he was still in service. He had become director of the FBI almost half a century earlier, in 1924. He had run that institute in the days of Dillinger, Capone and the gangsters of the thirties, was there during the Second World War and then again in the era of McCarthy and the war cold. He had spied on the clandestine loves between Eleanor Roosevelt and her young lover (she 58, he 33), and the brazen loves of the Kennedy brothers, he had woven relationships with the most powerful Mafia bosses, hindered the advancement of blacks and the birth of the commission of inquiry against crime chaired by Senator Kefauver. For those very long decades the guiding ideas of his action had been two: the FBI and America. Not all of America, of course. "His" America, the only one that, in his eyes, was worth defending, at the cost of violating the constitution, if necessary by placing a microphone under the president's desk, or in one of his bedrooms. His persistence in persecuting those he considered the enemies of "his" America bordered on ferocity. Charlie Chaplin, for example. A friend of the Jew Einstein, Chaplin was the embodiment of everything that triggered Hoover's fear and wrath. The FBI had judged Chaplin "dangerous" and his films "communist" even before Hoover took over as director. But it is curious to learn that many years after Chaplin was established in Switzerland, Hoover continued to keep his name in the "Security index", or the list of those who needed to be arrested in the event of a national emergency. How to say the "capturandi" of the Solo piano - in the Magnum version. Another of his victims was black activist Angela Davis. The officers watching her risked being fired because they failed to photograph her having sex with her lover. A fury surpassed only by what Hoover felt when Martin Luther King jr was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Hoover didn't know half measures. In Miami Beach, where he went to spend Christmas, he always went down (as long as there were) to hotels that displayed the "No jews, no dogs allowed" sign - no Jews, no dogs. When he became director in 1924, the FBI

had only three female agents. Two were fired immediately. The third ended up in a psychiatric hospital. He spent his days repeating that as soon as he was outside he would kill "that dog Hoover". His entry into the Bureau marked a turning point. Up until that point, the FBI had been a rather corrupt and ramshackle federal agency. In the headquarters there was a room, called the "cage of the vultures", where the agents without assignment spent their days drinking whiskey and telling each other obscene stories. Hoover fired most of them and had the room sealed. Summer writes: "From the beginning of his tenure to the present day, no one has heard of corruption among FBI agents". Hoover desperately fought the Communists and homosexuals by being himself, not a Communist, but a homosexual. That with Clyde Tolson was a very close relationship that lasted for a few decades, and to the end. But Hoover's homosexuality also had dangerous aspects and Summer actually traces back to this the weakness of his action against the mafia: "Starting in the 1930s, the FBI's war against the mafia became a mere formality". Various explanations of the phenomenon have been given over the years. Summer's idea is that Hoover was being blackmailed. He frequented the restaurants of the mafia in New York and Florida, he often played horse racing and indeed "The races put him", he writes, "in a state of overexcitement. One afternoon, after a lucky bet, he got into the car by mistake. someone else and used it to get back to Washington. " Gangster Sam Giancana's brother Chuck said that Hoover was no different from all the other politicians and cops, only more bastard: "Hoover didn't want a bribe a month, so we never gave him cash, but something better: straight on rigged races. If he wanted, he could bet ten thousand dollars on a horse being given twenty to one ... and he did. " But with this we are not yet at the heart of the blackmail. There is more. The man who really blackmailed Hoover, who "had him by the balls", to put it in the crude language of the gangsters, was the Jewish mafia boss Meyer Lansky. Lansky was a genius and in a safe he had pictures of Hoover in compromising poses with Clyde Tolson: "That was the reason, they said, they had nothing to fear, and for a while, from the FBI." Some of the most exciting chapters of the book concern the clashes between Hoover and the Kennedy brothers: John the president and Bob the minister of justice. They are also the chapters in which the mafia and the tragic and seductive figure of Marilyn Monroe appear, mixed together, that the two brothers took to bed and that Hoover had photographed and recorded. The war had begun at the time of the Democratic "convention" where Hoover, against Kennedy, wanted to nominate Johnson. When it was seen that Kennedy would prevail, they pressed why he accepted Johnson as vice president: "John Kennedy made that nomination, under the threat of disastrous sexual revelations that would destroy his image ... the blackmailers, according to this version, they were the same Johnson and Edgar. " It is difficult to summarize these chapters, you have to read them to decide which side looks worst. Source: La Repubblica @zivasanxiety

#j. edgar hoover #dean martin #jerry lewis

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overheardatthecontinental · 3 years

Text

Talk Chapter 16

AO3 Link

Thanks to @meetmeinthematinee for editing and reassuring me on this chapter <3

Mornings for John have become excruciatingly difficult. Driving away from Helen had always been hard. Leaving her office, then later her home always felt impossible. Each step away was like torture but nothing compared to the pain of leaving her at the cottage.

The drive to New Jersey isn’t much further than New York but every mile stretches on. What once wouldn’t have phased him now tears at his soul.

The only comfort he has is every hour he drives is an hour closer to the time he can turn his car around.

It’s a little after noon when he finally reaches the motel by the airport. He pulls into the lot, driving by the strip of rooms, looking for something to indicate which is Sofia’s.

He finds a window with a playing card in the window. The ace of hearts. She had used a sharpie to etch on the letter ‘V’.

His v-card. Hilarious.

John parks the car outside the window with a sigh, shaking his head as he does. He walks over and knocks on the door. It doesn’t take long for Sofia to answer.

Her hair is piled into a ponytail. She’s dressed inconspicuously. Blue jeans and a hoodie as she hides away in a sleazy motel.

“Hey, Sof.”

“Owe me big, John. This bitch is a talker.” She replies shaking her head, the start of a smile on her lips. She opens the door wider, allowing John to slip in. The motel room itself is shit but he knows that Sofia has slept in far worse conditions.

The room is adjoining, and an open door leads to a second room. John walks over, looking in. Isabella DeLuca’s are bound behind her, a rope leading from her hands to the headboard. Her head lolls in a way that tells John she is asleep rather than resting.

“She wouldn’t shut up, so I sedated her. Hope that’s okay.”

“Considering how many times Helen was sedated by her son, I have no qualms.”

That causes Sofia’s head to swing in his direction and it occurs to John that he never really went into detail with his friend.

“I’m sorry, what?”

John dips his head, “It’s a long story.”

“We got time.” She says without room for argument. Sofia shakes her head as she turns back to her room. She walks over to the small, two-person table and sits. “What the fuck, John?”

Having already sat for the past four hours, he remains standing, leaning against the wall as he does. “I should probably preface this with the fact Helen and I aren’t actually together.”

Sofia makes a face, “You’re kidding.”

John shakes his head.

She makes a large show of sighing, rising to her feet. Sofia walks over to the window and reaches just past the blinds, pulling out the card she had left in the window.

“Guess you can keep this.”

She throws it at him and John catches it with ease, placing it face down on the table as Sofia settles back into her seat.

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re hilariously disappointing.” She shoots back, “Here I thought I was helping you save the love of your life.”

“I never said she wasn’t that.”

Sofia narrows her eyes, “So you love her. But you’re not together.”

“That sums it up.”

She rolls her eyes, “So what are you? Friends? Neighbors? Confidants?” And like Winston, he can see the moment it clicks in her head, “Oh, fuck. She’s not your therapist.”

John changes his mind about standing in that moment, pulling out the chair and sinking in. “We met in a café about seven months ago. Gave me her card, introduced herself.”

“And you thought she was pretty. So instead of asking her out like most people would have done, you booked an appointment.” She shakes her head, “Jesus fucking Christ, John.”

“She was normal. And kind and pretty. And I knew she didn’t belong in our world.” John leans forward, desperately trying to explain where his thoughts had been all those months ago. “I didn’t mean for it to turn into what it did. I just wanted to talk to her one more time, get her out of my head. But, instead, it became addicting. Being around her.

“After two months, we were starting to run out of things to talk about. And I was more afraid of losing her than I was the consequences when I told her about the Underworld.”

Sofia puts her face in her hand, “You didn’t.”

“I did. In hindsight, I think I was looking for her to reject me. To force me to move on when I wasn’t strong enough to walk away on my own. But she didn’t reject me. She wasn’t afraid or disbelieving. And it was around there that I went from being obsessed and infatuated to madly in love with her. It was also around there when I got a little out of control.”

She looks up at him doubtfully, like she can’t believe it’s going to get worse.

“I started following her.”

“John!”

“I’m not proud of it. And God knows I’ve done worse things in my life.” He shrugs, “I—again, it started small. I told myself it was just curiosity that made me follow her home the first time. And then it became every Friday. Then every weekend. Then every day. But nothing stays a secret forever.”

“DeLuca.”

John nods, “Last Friday, Hels was taken from her bed in the middle of the night. I got a call not long after saying I would get Helen back, alive and unharmed, if I killed Lorenzo, Gianna, and Santino D’Antonio. At the time, I didn’t know it was DeLuca. I didn’t have a name, an organization. Just an order and a blind promise.”

“It was two days of hell, trying to find anything on who had her. Where she was. But Hels is nothing if not resourceful. She managed to manipulate one of the guards into sending me a text, letting me know who had her. Sunday night, I was able to get her out. Took her home.”

“And Monday the contract went wide.”

John nods, “One-part revenge, one-part manipulation. Mateo still wants the D’Antonio’s dead. Did you get the file that was scanned to you? On Isabella?”

Sofia nods back, “Yeah, got it before I even landed in Rome. Isabella’s mother was a D’Antonio.”

“It’s a whole lot of political bullshit that I don’t care about.” John admits, “The running theory is that Isabella thinks she can simultaneously get revenge on her family and strengthen the Syndicate by eliminating Lorenzo and his heirs.”

“But if you eliminate Lorenzo, the High Table and the Camorra come for you.” Sofia finishes, “That said,” she looks up at John, curiously, “I heard a rumor Santino D’Antonio is dead.”

“Good.”

“Did you kill him?” John pulls out his phone and finds the pictures. He hands it to Sofia. Her eyes widen as she looks back to him, “The Camorra is going to destroy you!”

“It’s staged.”

Sofia looks back at the picture, eyes narrowing. “It is?”

“Lorenzo and Gianna have agreed to do the same. Hopefully, it will be enough to convince Mateo. If not…” He gestures with his head towards the other room.

Isabella was the contingency plan. Unfortunately, she was the contingency plan for every possible thing that could go wrong.

“How’d you get Lorenzo to agree?”

“I agreed to testify in front of the High Table that Mateo was trying to commit treason. Reverse of DeLuca’s plan. Instead of the Camorra falling and the Syndicate reaping the benefits, Syndicate will fall. The Camorra will be strengthened. And the contract on Helen will be lifted.”

Sofia nods along, handing John back his phone.

“Not bad. I can’t believe you thought of it.”

“I didn’t.” John says with a shrug, “I was more than willing to just kill them and suffer the consequences.”

“There’s the idiotic bastard I know.”

“Helen wouldn’t entertain it as an option. She came up with faking their deaths. And the plan with Isabella.”

Sofia inclines her head, “Seriously?”

His lips twitch just thinking about his love, “Hels is incredibly good at what she does. She pieced together that DeLuca wasn’t working alone long before I did. Kept telling me that he was too self-absorbed to come up with that kind of detailed plan. Kept pushing me to look at his mom.”

The other assassin leans forward, eyeing John with blatant curiosity. Like she can’t quite decide what she thinks about it all. After a minute of not being able to find whatever it is that she’s looking for, she says aloud, “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“She’s smart. Pretty. Clearly cares about you if she’s willing to put up with you and figure out how to save you. You admit you’re in love with her.“

John looks away, “So?”

“So why aren’t you fucking?”

He shakes his head, still looking at the ground, “You’re worse than Marcus.”

“I’m serious. You’ve kept her around, despite the obvious dangers of our world. But you’re still keeping her at arm’s length. Why?”

John exhales a long breath. If she had only asked him that question a week ago, he would have been able to respond without hesitation.

It was safer for both of them to avoid intimacies. Of course, he can’t say he wasn’t attached to her already. The stalking negated that in itself.

But sex complicated things. It always complicated things.

Then there was the matter that she was, technically, still his therapist. And though Helen was right, they did have god-awful boundaries, enough had changed over the course of the week that he couldn’t use that as an excuse.

And, if he was already being honest with himself, he didn’t think Helen felt that way about him. She was always so professional, even when she teased him. It never occurred to him that she might have feelings for him too.

By the time he found out, they were already in over their heads with DeLuca.

And, truth be told, it didn’t matter that she held some kind of affection for him, too. She was still too good for him. And despite what she said and thought, he would always believe that.

“I thought I could keep her away from our world. That if I didn’t cross that line, no one would come for her.”

Sofia nods, genuinely looking sympathetic to his plight. “Relationships and the Underworld don’t mix. You can’t go to bed with someone when you’re both clutching a knife under your pillow, but you can’t date outsiders. You can’t walk in two worlds.” She inclines her head, “But her contract went viral. And now, for better or for worse, she’s in our world.”

John shakes his head. “No. No, Helen can’t stay in the Underworld.”

“People aren’t just going to forget, John.”

“She has a life. Family, friends. A career that she’s worked hard for. I can’t take that away from her.”

“I know it won’t be easy, but she’s already in. There’s no turning back from that.”

He blinks and licks his lips, considering a thought he had never allowed himself to fully entertain. “What if there was?”

“There isn’t.”

“Helen’s only tie to the Underworld is me.” John says aloud, “But what if I wasn’t tied here.”

Sofia’s eyes narrow, “You mean leaving?”

It was unheard of, he knew. A near impossible task, especially for someone like him. Someone who had so many ties to the Underworld and virtually none in the real world.

He nods, more to himself than to her.

“Could you really give this all up?”

“For her?” John asks, nodding, “Yes.”

Sofia shakes her head, pushing, “Don’t just say that, John. Really think about it. If you cut ties from the Underworld, you’ll be isolated in a way you never have experienced. You won’t be able to come and go from the Continental. The High Table won’t protect you from legal trouble or the police. Friendships will be compromised because you can’t just walk between the two worlds. All those markers you’ve spent years collecting will be worthless.”

“You’d have to blend into the real world. And the rules are different there. No more fights, no more killing. You’d have to follow the social rules that exist for outsiders. And it’s a whole lot of bullshit. If someone disrespects you, you can’t just snap their neck. You have to take it.”

“And you’ll be utterly alone. You may love Helen and she may love you, too, but she won’t understand. She won’t get that the rules you two live by are different. She won’t understand the extent of everything you stand to lose—wealth, status, privilege. Because you’ll be nobody.”

“And, John, you hate to depend on anybody for anything. But you’ll need to depend on her to navigate the real world. You’ll need to trust her implicitly. Have to learn to let her take the lead. You, who have spent your entire life alone, will have to figure out how to let somebody in completely.”

“Now, tell me, do you really think that you can do that? That you can give up your entire life and livelihood for this woman?”

For her to be happy? To have her life back?

“Yes.”

Sofia watches him, but he holds her gaze. He knows it wouldn’t be easy, but he also knows that he could do it. Without regret or hesitation.

After a minute, she softly asks, “Then what’s stopping you?”

“She deserves so much better and—”

“That might be the most misogynistic thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Sofia interrupts.

“What?”

“Your Helen, she’s smart, right?”

He nods, “Ridiculously.”

“Uh huh. And she’s emotionally stable?”

“She shouldn’t be, all things considered, but she is.”

“Then why are you doubting her ability to make her own damn decision about what she wants and what she deserves?”

The breath he has just taken now feels trapped in his chest. John is frozen in place as he realizes that is exactly what he had been doing. Not purposefully, but true all the same. Making decisions, calling the shots.

But that wasn’t his job.

Fuck.

“I have to go.”

…………………………………………………………………………

The drive is a blur and it’s a miracle he doesn’t get pulled over. He doesn’t touch the brake pedal until the moment he’s turning into the driveway of the safehouse.

Half his day has been lost in a car and he can’t bring himself to care as he throws the car into park. He slams the door behind him, hurrying up the stairs and into the house. Marcus looks up as John reaches the living room, eyeing him over a furrowed brow.

John ignores him, focusing instead on the sound of someone moving about in the kitchen.

Helen looks up as he rounds the corner and her mouth curves into a smile at the sight of him, “You’re back earl—mm!”

John places a hand on either side of her head, drawing her in for a kiss.

There’s a moment where she freezes, almost stunned, before Helen seems to realize what is happening. And then her arms wrap around him, reaching up over his shoulders as her lips part. She kisses back with fervor.

Her lips are softer than he imagined and, oh, he had imagined them a thousand a day for months.

He kisses her again, unable to stop himself now that he has begun. She tastes sweet and perfect and he can’t quite figure out how he’s made it this far without ever having done this.

Helen’s tongue brushes across his lip and he meets it, licking and sucking at her like a dying man.

And, fuck, he hopes he dies like this. Asphyxiated, drowning in her kiss.

Let this be how he dies.

He’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. Just release with her taste in his mouth, her body pressed to his. Oh, how he loves her.

Her hand winds its way into his hair, holding him to her. Unyielding. He growls in response, his own hands trailing down her body. Down her torso, his fingers digging into her flesh as he tries to learn and memorize the way her body feels under his hands.

“Fucking finally!” He idly hears Marcus exclaim but he literally doesn’t give a single shit.

His hands reach Helen’s waist as her teeth gently graze at his lower lip before sucking it into her mouth again.

John grips her hard, lifting her from the ground, pulling her body impossibly closer to him.

And his beautiful girl responds by tightening her arms around him, wrapping those perfect legs around him.

Good, he thinks, because they aren’t doing this here. Both for their sakes and for Marcus.

She doesn’t stop kissing him as he turns around to head back to their bedroom. Her wet mouth trails over his beard. Her lips press kisses across his face, his neck as he rushes down the hall before slamming the door behind him.

Helen unwraps her legs as the door closes and John, reluctantly, gets the hint and lowers her back to the floor.

Even as she stands, however, she doesn’t stop. Instead, she kisses him with renewed vigor. Her grip in his hair remains the same, pulling him down to her height.

He wants to get lost in her kiss.

Her warmth, her softness, her taste…

He needs to commit it to memory so he can never forget how she feels. To know what it’s like to kiss someone you love.

And no, this isn’t his first time doing this, but it’s like a puzzle is clicking into place. A realization, a moment of oh, this is what it’s supposed to be like when he kisses the woman he loves.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

He wants to say them but his lips are otherwise preoccupied. Helen controls the kiss now, as his hands rest, one on her waist, the other wrapped around her.

Her tongue circles his and John barely finds the strength to maintain his balance. They each vie for a better angle, deepening the kiss and he wonders, to himself, if she’s as weak in the knees as he is at the contact.

He wants to swallow her; to consume her.

To be swallowed and consumed by her.

Is that possible?

And he’s not making assumptions. He doesn’t want to presume that this is going in any specific direction but his heart just about leaps out of his chest when she breaks the kiss. She steps back half a step, placing enough room between them where she can reach down. He watches her tug her t-shirt over her head. She discards it without a care.

He barely has a moment to soak in the sight of her, the dark blue of her bra standing out against her creamy skin, before her arms are back around him. Encasing him.

Helen steps backwards and John finds himself kicking off his shoes as she leads him back towards the bed.

She releases his hair only for her hands to drop to his chest. Releasing the buttons on his vest, and his jacket. John’s hand goes for his belt, undoing the clasp to allow him to pull out the ends of his shirt. She pushes the shirt off of his shoulders, taking the vest with it, as she turns so that John is the one walking backwards.

His legs meet the edge of the bed and she gives him a guiding push. He lets himself sit on the edge of the bed as she has wordlessly directed.

He can barely process a thought before she has climbed onto his lap, a leg on either side of him. Helen catches his face in her hands and kisses him again.

John never wants this to end, he thinks, as she rises up on her knees so that she is a head above him.

How can she be so gentle while she is being so passionate?

She breaks the kiss, only for the sake of oxygen. Helen gasps for breath as she rests her forehead on his, her eyes flickering open to look down at him.

Dark, like a Belarusian forest, her eyes gaze at him with a mix of adoration and curiosity. But she doesn’t ask, instead, drawing her head up so she can kiss his forehead.

Affection blooms in him anew and he knows, he knows that he doesn’t deserve this.

But Hels didn’t believe in deserving or not deserving. And Sofia had been right when she had reminded him that this choice didn’t rest on him. It was Helen’s to make.

She kisses his nose and his heart skips a beat.

I love you.

The words that had been trapped in his head, his heart for months on end. Rattling around, growing louder and louder every time he looked at her or heard her voice. Every time she entered his thoughts, which was all the time.

“I love you.”

Her hand slips down to his chin, tipping his head up so that he meets her eyes. “I love you, too.”

Her lips descend on his again before he can even process her response. She deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around him to pull herself closer to his body.

And then, it clicks. Her words settle into his head.

John moves quickly, faster than she’s ever seen him. An arm comes around her and Helen is flipped from his lap onto her back. She gasps in surprise as John suddenly appears above her, straddling her.

He kisses her back, hard. His teeth graze at her lip before he demands, “Say it again.”

Helen’s breath hitches, her hand coming around to run over his chest, stopping at his heart.

“I love you.” She tells him, holding his eyes. Leaving no room for fear or doubt or disbelief.

His heart clenches.

No one, save her, had ever uttered those words towards him before. Not once in his life had that kind of affection ever been directed his way. Not in any language, by any person.

“I love you.” She repeats, bowing her head slightly to maintain eye contact as he starts to get lost in his thoughts. Helen pulls him back, like she always does. His life, his love, his anchor.

John kisses her again, keeping one arm wrapped around her. Her skin is warm and soft and he wants to touch and kiss every inch of it.

Helen presses a soft peck to his lips before her head veers to the side. She kisses his neck, licking at the exposed flesh. Sucking it between her lips and John feels his length aching and straining against his pants. He shifts to alleviate the growing tension. It only serves to remind him that he is atop her.

He moves his hands, trailing her torso. Feeling her curves under his palm. Her skin is soft and smooth, unmarred with battle wounds. Attesting to her innocence.

Her teeth graze at his neck and his fingers dig into her flesh. He can’t help but hold on to her at the sensation.

“Fuck!” He swears and he can feel Helen’s mouth form into a smile. She kisses the spot she had just grazed before kissing his mouth again.

She arches her back and moves her hands from his body, reaching under herself to the clasp at her bra. With nimble, practiced fingers, she undoes the latch. John pushes up to give her the room to discard the garment. Helen crawls backwards up the bed and he follows her, entranced by the sight of her breasts.

He feels powerless to stop himself, surging forward and kissing the swell of her chest. He licks at her flesh, dragging his open mouth across the soft mounds until he reaches her hard nipple. He swirls his tongue around the bud, reveling in the way she takes a sharp breath at the contact. She arches her back, pressing her breast further into his mouth.

He sucks greedily at her, his hand coming up to caress her untouched breast. His fingers do the best they can to mirror his mouth, squeezing her flesh and pinch at her nipple.

“John!” She gasps his name and it encourages him all the more. He nips at her tit, grazing his teeth along before he switches attentions.

He kisses her other breast as he switches hands, groping at her. He feels his own spit in his hand as he rubs her tender flesh.

She moans, her head falling back into the mattress. Her hips grind into his and it’s all he can do to not let his eyes roll back into his head.

Even still clothed, he’s harder than he’s ever been.

Helen reaches between them, her hand slipping into his pants, under the band of his boxers. He hisses as her hand brushes against his cock.

One hand weaves its way into his hair, pulling him up from her breast so she can kiss him again.

Is she as addicted as he is? He wonders, while her other hand wraps around his length.

Her hands are impossibly soft as she runs her hand up his cock and gently back down. He feels himself twitch in her grasp and he deepens the kiss. His tongue swirls around hers before he sucks the muscle into his mouth.

He loves her clever tongue. The gentleness that rolls off it in quiet, tender moments or the lashing of the storm in the moments she takes no shit. It tastes as sweet as her.

Helen’s thumb circles the head of his cock and he thrusts into her hand.

Is this real? He thinks. Is this actually happening? Or has he finally lost it?

He’d spent so long imagining what her touch would feel like, what her kiss would taste like that it couldn’t possibly live up to the expectations in his mind. But, fuck, she was better.

She pumps him in her hand and John shoots out his own to catch her wrist, to stop her, before it’s over before it begins. Helen whines softly at being stopped but releases him, only to reach for the edge of his pants to push them down.

He obliges, discarding them with the rest before hooking his fingers at the top of her leggings and dragging them down her body, along with her panties. He crawls down her body, kissing her chest, her stomach with every inch.

He can fucking smell her arousal. She kicks them off at the ankles and John parts her thighs, getting lost in the sight that befalls him.

And, again, he has dreamed of this. Of burying his face between her thighs and driving her wild with his tongue until she is an aching, quivering mess. A myriad of fantasies slip into his head where he has done just that.

He glances up at her, watching the harsh rise and fall of her chest as she tries to regain her breath. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches him.

His lips quirk into a small smile, holding her gaze as he bows his head. John’s tongue slips between her slick folds, tasting her essence. He growls at the tangy flavor, dragging his tongue up to her clit.

Her hips jolt and John smiles against her. He kisses the soft bundle of nerves before licking her again. And again.

John’s mouth dips to her opening, pressing his tongue inside as her wetness floods his tongue and coats his beard. Just like her very presence, he thinks of how easily it will be to become addicted to this. Her taste and smell. The way she grinds her pussy against him to alleviate the tension he knows must be growing within her.

And John has changed his mind. This is how he wants to die. Drowning in her pussy as she convulses around him desperately.

Her thighs hold him in place and he would be more than happy to remain here until he either asphyxiates or drowns in her.

He moves his tongue and Helen keens, her high-pitched moan egging him on. He swallows her down and nips at her lower lips before turning his attentions back to her throbbing clit.

He takes the bud within his mouth, teasing it with his tongue as a stream of swears and pleas escape Helen’s lips.

“Fuck, John! Fuck! Please… right there. Fuck!”

He rolls his tongue over the bundle and her please turn into a shriek. He doesn’t ease up.

Instead, he continues his ministrations, bringing a hand to her opening. He teases her with a finger. He coats it in her slick before sliding the digit inside her. She clamps down around him and John rewards her by sucking her clit.

She cries out again and John slips a second finger into her.

Helen’s leg comes up and around his shoulder. She uses the position to bring her pussy impossibly closer to his face.

John breaks away long enough to nip at the soft, sensitive flesh of her thigh as his fingers stretch her, preparing her. He turns his hand and curls his fingers up and Helen almost seems to levitate with the way she arches up into him.

Her words have lost meaning, slipping into a cacophony of non-sensical begging for his cock. His name on her lips drives him crazy.

He’s torn between tormenting her like this, riding his fingers while she grinds against his tongue, and giving her what she begs for.

John decides on mercy, if only for the sake they had both waited long enough.

He removes his fingers from her and sucks them into his own mouth, tasting her again. Addicted to the taste. Crawling back up her body, he rests himself between her thighs and he kisses her.

Her breath comes out in a stutter as he thrusts his tongue deep into her mouth. He forces her to taste herself on his tongue as he wraps his hand around the back of her head, his fingers becoming lost in her hair.

“Next time,” he promises as he breaks the kiss, holding her back from following him with his grip in her hair, “Next time, I’m going to fuck you on my tongue until your throat is too hoarse to scream.”

She tries to lift her head to kiss him, only for him to yank at her hair.

“John, please!” she rolls her wet core against him.

“Please what?” He kisses her jaw.

“Fuck me!”

His lips twitch as he presses his lips to hers, slanting his mouth to deepen the kiss as he reaches between them. John takes his cock in hand, leading it to her soaking pussy.

She brings her hips to meet him as he kisses her hard enough to bruise both their lips, and John slips inside of her.

Helen whimpers at the contact, again, wrapping her leg around him to take him deeper.

John chokes on his breath. He’d waited so long for this, for her. And now she’s here. In his bed, naked, beneath him. He’s buried inside her and he wants to savor it but he wants her to come undone around him even more.

He rolls his hips and Helen’s grip on him tightens all the more. He reaches down to her leg still stretched out and brings it up. Eagerly, she wraps it around his hips, like the other one. Clinging to him.

She was already close before they began and, already, she found herself on edge again.

He hopes she knows that he’s not letting her go after this. He can’t live without this now that he knows what it feels to be inside her.

His movements, which had started gently, slowly, pick up a pace. Become more frenzied.

Nails rake down his back.

He responds with a bite to her lip, grazing his teeth along. As they part, Helen curls her head into his shoulder. Her breaths come in quick, sharp increments.

Her mouth opens on his shoulder and she bites down, making John groan. His already frenzied thrusts start to lose control as he can feel pleasure building inside of him.

Helen screams, muffled by his shoulder, as she breaks apart. Her nails dig into his back as she thrashes into the mattress, but John doesn’t stop.

He reaches between them, pressing his thumb on her clit as he continues to thrust. The action prolongs her orgasm and he feels her pussy convulsing around him.

John feels dizzy, intoxicated as his own pleasure reaches a new height before he, too, comes undone. With a cry, he feels himself release, spilling inside of her as his hips start to slow, still rocking against hers.

He gasps for breath as her pussy milks him. He turns to kiss the top of her head, her face still buried in the crook of his neck. Her breaths are still uneven.

John swallows as he wraps his arms under her, holding her to him as he rolls to his side, taking her with him.

Helen curls into him, holding him just the same. He strokes her hair, still caught up in the stunned disbelief of what had just happened between them.

It occurs to John that he has lived his entire life with one foot in the grave. Ready for death, even if not expecting it. But as she holds him, clings to him, it breaks over him at once that he is not ready to leave the world behind.

Salvation found in her kiss; heaven is where he is still buried deep within her.

Can he stay here forever?

He feels her lips shift into a smile against his neck and he kisses her head again.

Hels looks up, her eyes twinkling playfully. She reaches a hand to his forehead, brushing back sweat-soaked hair so she can see his face.

“What took you so long?”

#john wick #helen wick #john wick talk #john wick fanfiction #john wiction #john x helen wick #helen x john wick #sofia al-azwar #marcus (john wick)

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astyle-alex · 3 years

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[Fanfic] Museum Mishap | the BatFam

I’m posting an older fanfic to kick off my attempt to be more involved with the Tumblr Fandom community!

Museum Mishap | Chapter 6/6

Fandom: the DC Universe, Batman & co. Pairings: Jay x Tim Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Rating: Gen Audiences Warnings: None

Total Word Count: 38,590

Summary:

Middle-School Tim Drake is on a field trip to the Science Museum, but with a WE exhibition of top-secret new technologies being staged in the basement, Tim separates from his classmates and breaks into the staff-only areas by using the skills he's developed over years of stalking Batman and Robin.

Current-Robin Jason Todd catches him in the act, but he's not there to confront Tim for trespassing or truancy - he's there because there's a rumor on the street that Tim Drake knows Batman's real name. And the rumor's gaining ground, quick, drawing in the wrong kind of attention.

When a Drug-Lord decides to take the rumor seriously enough to kidnap the little genius, Jason jumps into the crossfire. It all goes downhill from there. Fast.

(Jason is 14, Tim is 12)

|| Read on Ao3 | Read on FF.net | Follow my updates on Patreon ||

Museum Mishap Chapter 6: Safe

It’s five weeks after Jason disobeyed Batman’s orders to drop the idea of investigating the rumor that a random rich kid knew the vigilantes’ secret identities.

Five weeks since Jason let himself be kidnapped by the upstart drug lord Lorenzo Sabini in an attempt to protect the kid who was Sabini’s real target – the kid rumored to know impossible things about Batman and Robin.

Five weeks since Jason’s leg was broken – in the line of a duty he never should’ve been asked to shoulder, never should’ve been allowed to feel bound to carry – and Bruce Wayne rediscovered the impossible duality of being responsible for the life of a child that he’d somehow managed to forget. That had faded from his mind when Dick had grown up enough to go off on his own – without his Guardian having any legal say in stopping him.

Batman has been able to bury the raging concern, the guilt he bears for introducing Jason to such a dangerous lifestyle – for not doing more to discourage his interest. Batman is able to silence the voice that says Jason acted honorably, if stupidly, by insisting that Robin needs to do better, to be better, so that he can keep the boy inside the costume safer.

But Bruce is having trouble letting Jason heal.

‘Suffocating’ Jason calls his attentions, merely ‘stupid codling he doesn’t need’.

Jason submitted to three weeks of strictly bedrest – a godsend if Bruce could ever believe in such things. He’d offered only mild resistance to being benched for six weeks – to rigorous and thorough PT, and light, careful exercise and a slow return to the training regimen that kept shaping Robin’s growing body into something more heroic than the average simple human.

But there was no point in even trying to bring up the idea of retiring Jason’s pixie boots for good – of trying to convince him to stand down from the Vigilante fight.

Bruce knows that, but he still tries it – once, in a terse conversation that gets shut down before he even makes it to the first point of reasoning – and then he swallows the rest of the worry and buries it in silence alongside his fury at Jason’s constant reckless disregard for his own safety. Bruce knows he can’t stop Jason, can’t force him out of the cape, so Batman vows to train him harder, push him further, make him stronger, make him faster, more durable, more prepared – keep him safer.

It’s a compromise.

And it has to be enough.

Because Jason is already back on his feet.

He broke his own way out of the cast almost a week ago – refused to apologize or sit for another casting – and though Alfred’s managed to somehow force him into a sturdy brace, guilted him into maintaining his use of the crutches… Jason’s been back inside the Cave twice already while Batman has been out – at least twice.

The Cave’s security cameras have caught him on the Salmon Ladder the last two nights in a row – going through two sets his first night back, and four the next. So that was two nights, at least, that security footage showed Jason working out inside the Cave, but it was possible there were nights he wasn’t tagged on the Cave’s security footage. Dick had certainly learned to sneak down without being caught on camera. Bruce doubted that Dick would share his secrets with Jason – but it was not beyond possibility.

Bruce kept meaning to add more cameras, to ensure that every inch of the cave was covered by an unblinking eye equipped with filters in Starlight and infrared, but that project kept getting sidelined somehow. He kept getting distracted.

Because his kids kept getting hurt.

But it’s been five weeks since Jason got hurt.

He’s getting better, and his bullheaded determination is just the same as it was before the injury – the stubborn streak still apparent, now even more so if anything had changed.

But there’s something else about Jason that’s different.

Bruce almost can’t see it – almost convinces himself it’s not happening, because he’s so damn hopeful that it is happening that his chest constricts with this strange kind of joy or pride or something and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Because Dick and Jason are talking.

Not fighting, talking.

Alfred’s caught them playing video games. Together.

They were supposed to be doing homework – Jason’s been back at school for three weeks and while Dick’s purposefully selected freshman college classes don’t require constant attendance, they do give assignments that need to be turned in online – but still…

Dick and Jason are getting along.

His adopted sons are becoming brothers.

Bruce notices.

And wants it to be real so badly that it hurts.

Batman notices, too.

But Batman notices other things, as well.

Batman notices how the Wayne Boys have befriended the kid Jason got himself kidnapped alongside.

Batman notices how Nightwing volunteers to swing off on his own every night for a cursory once over of deterrence through Coventry and around the area in the Upper West Side where Sabini’s gang and the rumors they’d acted on had run amok – had being the operative word, seeing as how the entire area had been scared so straight there hasn’t even been a purse snatching in over a month.

Batman notices how quiet the supposed-civilian kid at the center of those rumors is when he’s home alone – which is often – how the only thing he talks about out loud, in range of Batman’s listening devices, is how much he admires the caped crusaders and how much he wants for their ramshackle team to work together as brothers and sisters in arms – to work through their issues and be a kind of family.

Batman notices.

And he watches.

And he’s concerned by what he sees.

So tonight, as Nightwing swings off towards Coventry – with a big smile and a wholly unnecessary flip – Batman decides to investigate the kid firsthand.

The civilian’s name is Timothy Jackson Drake and he is twelve years old, enrolled as a sixth grader at Gotham Preparatory Academy Primary Campus. His parents are Jack and Janet Drake, famed globe-trotting researchers and archeologists, and the second generation of Drakes to head up Drake Industries – a leading Wayne Enterprises competitor. The Drakes reside in the mansion that neighbors the Wayne Estate – another statement of how DI both complements and competes with WE.

Timothy Drake seems mostly unremarkable.

He’s skipped two grades, and his teachers say he’s got a remarkable mind, but he lacks significant social skills and spends most of his time alone – tinkering with some project or other. He’s never demonstrated a particular drive to be anything when he grows up, but he’s applied to the Wayne Tech summer camps three years in a row – despite being under the age requirement – and his bedroom is littered with DI equipment and half-finished robots he’s clearly engineered himself in the hours and hours he spends unsupervised.

Lucius Fox likes him.

In the way that some people like puppies.

Bruce isn’t even entirely sure how Lucius Fox discovered the Drake kid, but it’s in his files in the Batcomputer – Fox has his name on a recruitment list, circled in red sharpie with a smiley face next to it.

So, Timothy Drake is a smart kid.

But he’s just a kid.

According to all of Batman’s information, Timothy Drake is just a kid.

A civilian who happened to have a bad stroke of luck and got his name wrapped up in a rumor founded on nothing more than a junkie’s word and some evidence that the kid in question was a vigilante fan.

Is still a fan, somehow, despite the circumstance that admiration landed him in.

Timothy Jackson Drake seems like nothing more than a dedicated fan – a child, not a threat. But the evidence is so peculiar – there are ridiculously strong indications that the rumor carried truth, and yet… the notion that the child knows nothing is so convincing that Dick and Jason agree on it… which in and of itself makes the evidence seem suspect…

Thus, Batman is set on investigating the matter further for himself.

A twelve year old civilian would be in bed at this time of night, tucked safely into the labyrinth of the Drake Mansion.

So as Nightwing peals away to the west, Batman plots a course northward.

He’s planned this carefully. His choice of direction does not immediately alert Nightwing to his intentions. He’s been rotating where he patrols after splitting off from Nightwing, moving counterclockwise by a dozen blocks every few days. Now he’s pointed right towards the Robbinsville area, where he’s stashed one of his getaway vehicles – a rather bland, all-black motorcycle that’s nothing special, but is quick and maneuverable enough to get him to the Drake Estate and back before Nightwing realizes he’s deviated.

He even has Batgirl prepped to back Nightwing up if something happens – Barbara is visiting her father this weekend and doing research for her own case in Chinatown. She might not be actively patrolling, but Batman had been sure to give her warning of his activities.

He trusts her discretion, and he knows she would be as worried as him about Nightwing's probable – and possibly willful – oversight of the threat posed by Drake. Batman does not want to think Nightwing would be so foolish as to dismiss a threat simply because it doesn't seem actively threatening – or worse, because he wanted to curry favor with his adoptive brother – But it’s always better to be safe.

So, Batman is tracking north – from slightly further east than he’d originally planned, drawn off course by what seemed to be a mugging, but quickly resolved as Batman ID'd a drunk man resisting as his friend took away his keys – and he’s determined to get to the bottom of Drake’s capabilities and influence.

He’s about to swing down to the last tall building before the midrises and family homes of Robbinsville take over Gotham’s footprint when he spies a figure huddled on the rooftop.

Had Batman been approaching from his planned route, he wouldn’t have seen the figure until he touched down on the roof – within easy knife throwing distance of the stranger, with no chance to react if an attack was imminent.

Carefully, Batman swings around to the far side of the building and climbs silently up to roof level after landing on a balcony. He creeps close enough to ascertain that the would-be assailant is small – even with a massive jacket attempting to keep out the late January chill, the figure is miniscule… a child.

Concern leaps, unbidden, into his chest as he wonders what could possibly bring a child onto a freezing cold rooftop in the middle of the night. The apartment building is not the lowest rent residence in the region, but it has its fair share of alcoholics and abusers. It would not be unheard of for a child to sneak away for what respite they can get and the Bat knows that this situation takes precedence to his Drake investigation.

Batman is just about to announce his presence – From far enough away to hopefully prevent the kid from falling off the roof in fright, though he has his grapple gun ready just in case – when the kid shifts.

An eerie blue glow lights up the crouching figure’s face as his phone flares briefly to life.

It's Timothy Jackson Drake.

Batman frowns, continues to silently observe.

Drake curls more tightly around his knees. He huffs – breath turning instantly to steam that catches in the city's light – And mutters, “He should be here by now... There’s no sirens, no breakouts, nothing to keep him away… unless he’s not coming this way tonight… but he should be… he’s been moving north… but maybe I miss-counted the interval, or maybe I’m too far north… but this is the best vantage to check on Robinsv-”

His mumbled monologue – which Batman is certain he is not intentionally speaking aloud – is interrupted by a sneeze.

“Bless you,” Batman says, stepping from the darkest shadows.

“Thanks,” Tim returns.

A beat passes, and then Tim whirls around with a string of oddly pronounced Chinese curses spilling from his tongue.

“Batman,” Tim breathes, awestruck and a little bit fearful.

“Timothy,” Batman returns, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

It’s true, the kid had just mumbled as much. There was no one else he could possibly be waiting for here, not with the details he’d murmured about having tracked to find him.

“Um, kinda,” the kid admits.

He’s not as surprised by Batman’s recognition of him – of the Bat using his name directly – as Batman would’ve thought. He is nervous though, antsy. Batman scans him for weapons, but nothing notable shows up in any of his cowl’s filters and the coat is too cumbersome for any shapes beneath it to be positively identified.

Tim does have something in his hands, though – something he’s clutched close to his chest. Bare fingers glow ghostly in the night, tremble in the freezing air.

It’s not a weapon that he’s holding, or a camera – like might be expected and acceptable from a fan. It’s a set of note cards. Note. Cards. Like he’s practicing for a speech.

On an ice cold Gotham rooftop in the middle of the night.

Bruce Wayne is thrown by that. Far enough to make Batman pause.

Batman regards the kid standing before him in the darkness.

Timothy Drake stares back.

“Did you have a reason?” Batman asks eventually.

“Huh?”

“To be looking for me, did you have a reason?”

Timothy looks down at his hands, at the half-crushed note cards he’s holding. “Yeah,” he says slowly, quiet with the kind of resignation Batman knows is guilt.

“Well?” Batman prompts when Timothy offers nothing more.

The kid flinches, and Batman fights a wince of his own.

The obvious reasons Nightwing has for underestimating this kid assert themselves plainly. He is a child, small for his age and easily frightened. There seems no reason to suspect him of anything – except that he was waiting on a rooftop for Batman, intentionally. A rooftop even Batman didn’t know he would be visiting until about a week ago.

“I’m worried about Robin,” Timothy admits. “And Nightwing, and Batgirl, for that matter, but mostly Robin.”

“Why?”

Another flinch. Bruce Wayne consciously tries to reel back the Batman ‘grr factor’, as Dick has termed it. And yet… Timothy clearly knows more than he should. Perhaps the gravel and growl is worth it to extract that information.

“Because they need you to listen to them – that’s why you fought with Nightwing to begin with, right? You, um, you passed his mantle on without letting him explain why he didn’t want you to?” Tim’s actively struggling to make eye-contact.

Batman doesn’t verbalize a response.

He’s evaluating how this kid could possibly know what he does without knowing the names beneath the masks – it’s possible, he supposes, but extremely unlikely.

“I get why you didn’t, he was still a kid and not very good at making his important points clear, but when he went to California, he didn’t want you to let him go, he wanted you to bring him home,” Timothy rambles, losing his battle for eye-contact.

Batman scowls.

Timothy swallows dryly. Consults his notes.

“They need you to help them,” Timothy says.

Batman’s scowl deepens, and he must make some sound because Timothy doesn’t just flinch this time, he yelps and curls into himself. His cards get squeezed so tightly they pop out of his hands and scatter across the rooftop. Timothy dives after them, but the roof is wet with the afternoon's snow shower and the antifreeze that keeps it from becoming ice.

There is no recovering the careful presentation Timothy clearly had planned for this meeting. But Timothy isn’t willing to admit defeat immediately.

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Batman says as the kid in question scrambles with his wet paper, frowning at the smudged and ruined ink like he should have been able to plan for that – like he should’ve had a contingency.

At Batman's voice saying his full name, Timothy freezes and stares up at him like a frightened deer.

“Tell me how and why you have come to know so much about the relationships between the Gotham masks.”

“That’s not important,” Timothy says. Quick, dismissive, like the point truly doesn’t matter in his world-view, or to his understanding of his place in it.

“It’s not?”

“No. What’s important is that you’re not letting them do their jobs,” Timothy accuses.

And then he promptly freezes and stares up at Batman like he just then has realized not only what he said, but how – how direct and confrontational it was.

“They don’t have jobs,” Batman replies, level and calm. “They are children.”

“Not when they're wearing masks,” Timothy snaps back immediately. “When the masks are on, they’re vigilantes. Nothing else.”

Batman narrows his eyes at Timothy's temerity.

And fights himself to keep from agreeing with Timothy’s point. But his disagreement doesn’t make it any less true. No matter how much he wants to remember that under the masks the heroes who have joined his crusade in Gotham are children, he can’t ignore the truth of Timothy Drake's words: when the masks are on, they’re not children – They can’t be.

Batman cannot ignore that – can’t pretend it away.

But he can insist on one smaller truth. “They do not have jobs.”

Timothy glared – actually glared at Batman in full cape and cowl and scowl – and said firmly, “Their job is to make sure you remember why is it that you do yours.”

Batman blinked behind the lenses of his cowl.

“That’s not how it works,” Batman defends. Weakly – he knows.

But he’s not entirely sure what to do with this child, this strangely mature tiny human with hope and sweetness and innocence – and uncomfortably valid points – lecturing him like Batman is the errant child here.

“You can’t possibly be that stupid,” Timothy says – a moment later looking wide-eyed and horrified by his words, yet still going on with speaking as if his mouth had detached itself from is brain and was running on a will of its own. “They care about what happens to you, which makes you care about it. They need you alive, and you – on some level, at least – recognize that need. It keeps you safer. And it makes you be a better person, in trying to set a good example for them to follow. And that’s important.”

Tim pulls more air into his lungs, enough for another leg of his tirade, and goes on, “Without Robin, Batman is too violent, too aggressive… like Green Arrow starting to gain ground in Star City; you’re too much like the criminals you hunt to make a genuine, lasting difference. Without Robin, you’re just scary. Robin tempers you; makes you an inspiration – makes people believe that you aren’t just hurting bad guys, but also protecting good ones.”

Tim manages to close his mouth and keep it shut after that – if only by the simple force of his clear mortification sealing off his words.

“Timothy.”

Terrified eyes peer up at Batman.

“What do you know about us capes? There was a reason Sabini had an interest in you and I’m not convinced it was just a junkie’s word and evidence that you’re a fan,” Batman lays out simply – calmly, regaining control of this discussion.

“I know that you’re necessary,” Tim replies in a squeak.

Eyes narrow behind the lenses of the cowl.

Tim ducks his head, fully aware that he has not answered Batman’s question.

“I know that Gotham needs you,” Tim reiterates. “I don’t know who you are beneath the masks, and I don’t want to know. I just want to help you keep Gotham safe. Because I’m not a mask, I’m just a fan… but I can still help.”

Batman regards the young civilian carefully. He has Jason’s spirit and determination, Dick’s unyielding sweetness, and Barbara’s practical acceptance of humanity’s flaws.

“You don’t know our civilian identities?”

Tim shakes his head. “I don’t care about them.”

Batman does not believe him – does not believe that he doesn’t know, or that he doesn’t care. Timothy Drake knows more than enough to be dangerous.

Dick has always been a terrible judge of character – in some ways, he always sees the best in people, in their potential – so his support of Timothy Drake as a non-threat means little.

But Jason is the most astute observer of humanity Bruce has ever encountered – he can read a person’s entire psyche in a gesture, find their cracks and weaknesses and apply just the right leverage to break them. And he’s never thrown from thinking that a seemingly innocent person is capable of doing a great deal of damage – would never underestimate a threat like that.

Case in point: how he hadn’t let go of the potential threat Tim posed to begin with.

Jason had decided Tim was safe.

Batman decides to trust his Robin’s judgement; Bruce puts faith in his son.

Batman heaves a sigh.

“It’s time to go home, Timothy,” he says. “This is no place for a child to be, and you shouldn’t be out at this time of night.”

Timothy frowns.

“It’s my city, too,” he mumbles.

Batman takes no quarter and as soon as he gets a nod of permission – Jason’s taught him how to work with children who aren’t like Dick, with an insatiable desire for physical contact – Batman hoists Timothy up and settles him on his hip. Batman holds tight to the child and shoots his grapple gun to carry them down to street level. He sits Timothy on his motorcycle and speeds across the city to Drake’s own door.

There is no one home.

Concerning in a very different way.

Batman knew the Drakes were away. Bruce didn’t realize the implications of that beyond how Timothy was left unsupervised – hadn’t until right now.

“Do you want me to come in,” Batman asks, awkward and uncertain of whether it would help at all to walk the kid to his bedroom. Batman should not linger – should not even consider the idea of tucking this neglected child into bed – but Bruce cannot quite bear to drag himself away just yet. He needs to know that Timothy is safe.

Timothy is staring at him like he’s shown up as Batman to a career day at school.

“Why?”

“No one’s home.”

“No one’s ever home,” Timothy replied blankly, adding. “I don’t need a real babysitter, let alone Batman. But Nightwing probably needs backup.”

Batman nodded. Accepted that he needed to push the Bruce in him down until they finished with the night’s patrol.

Tomorrow he could look into Timothy Drake’s circumstances.

“Be safe, Timothy,” Batman fare-wells. “Stay off the streets, and be careful, or this will not be our last conversation.

“You be safe, too,” Timothy replies. “Or I’ll just have to find you again.”

Batman almost chuckles. He waits until Timothy locks the door behind him, and then he takes his motorcycle back to where he’d stashed it across the bridge from Robbinsville.

He meets up with Nightwing and finishes patrol.

If he’s more reticent than usual Nightwing doesn’t comment.

The teenager is still wearing the blinding goofy smile of his, broader now after a successful sweep of Coventry – no new rumors of Tim Drake. And he’d saved a cat from where it had gotten stuck on a gargoyle after it had slipped out of its apartment and ventured off an inopportune ledge beside the balcony.

And because that’s the kind of hero Dick is, he chatters on incessantly about the cat and how it wailed and scratched him at first and yowled as he swung around the building, but then it purred and refused to let him go when it realized he’d brought it home.

Beneath the cowl, Batman almost smiles.

When he and Nightwing make it back to the Cave, Jason is not down there – the only evidence that anyone has been down there since he and Nightwing left is the snack left out for them by Alfred. Jason is in bed, asleep and dead to the world when Bruce slips in to check.

Jason is safe.

And Dick is safe.

And Alfred and Barbara are safe.

His family. Safe.

And Tim is… safe enough for the moment.

Tonight, Bruce will sleep.

Tomorrow he will reevaluate the child and his circumstances.

But tonight, Bruce Wayne basks in the truth that has a Family.

And his family is home, and safe.

It’s a foreign feeling.

But a good one.

|| Read on Ao3 | Read on FF.net | Follow my updates on Patreon ||

#BatFam #Batman #Batman & Robin #dcmultiverse #dcu #Jay x Tim #Jason Todd #Jason Todd x Tim Drake #Tim Drake #Bruce Wayne

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knotfodder · 7 months

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hopesilverheart · 4 years

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Title: I loved your colours (before I loved you) Artist: @calliartss Rating: Explicit (Chapter 10 only) Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Alec Lightwood & Clary Fray, Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood Word Count: ~95k Summary: Magnus Bane is a journalist who's always dreamed of modelling for Lightwood Fashions. When the CEO Alec Lightwood starts looking for new models for their spring collection, he jumps on the occasion.

In the meantime, Alec Lightwood is struggling with the idea of finally announcing his role as co-designer. When Magnus Bane strolls into his life, Alec is torn between keeping his secret or throwing all caution to the wind.

This fic was created for the Malec Discord Mini Bang 2020.

Chapter 3: You lie a million little times

Magnus still couldn’t quite believe he was about to do this.

A week and a half had passed since his audition at Lightwood Fashions. A week and a half of having an official contract as a model. A week and a half of planning and phone calls with his new managers and running around trying to handle both his job at Fade Media and his increasingly busy schedule with Fray.

He had never been happier. And now he was going to make his life even better by quitting the job he had hated all along. This way, his new team would never have to find out about his past with their competing Media company. Not that he thought anyone would judge him for it, but he would rather not have to speak about it again. Ever, if he had anything to say about it.

He knocked on Lorenzo Rey’s office door, a smile on his face. His boss called him in less than a second later, and Magnus let himself in, dropping a pile of files and loose paperwork on the man’s desk.

“What is this?” Lorenzo asked, pushing the pile aside with a frown. “Have you finally decided to catch up on all the work you’ve been missing this past week? You’ve always been one of my best employees, Magnus, but you’ve been letting yourself go lately.”

“I have indeed,” Magnus nodded, smirking smugly at his boss. “I’m quitting, Lorenzo. I signed all the necessary papers with Fade this morning, but I thought I would stop by and say goodbye to you, too. Those papers are all the articles I started over the past month but won’t be able to finish, as well as advice for the colleagues I actually like. I wish I could say it was a pleasure working with you, but I’d be lying. Good luck trying to find someone as good as me to fill the spot I’m leaving behind.”

“You’re quitting?” Lorenzo exclaimed, eyes wide and fists clenched over the edge of his desk. Magnus’ smile widened at the man’s obvious distress. He had always known he was a vital part of the company, but it was nice to get confirmation from his boss himself. “What on earth possessed you to do such a thing? You can’t have possibly found a better job than the one you currently have. The only company that surpasses us is… No.”

“Oh yes,” Magnus grinned. “I was offered a contract by the Lightwoods and I would be a fool to refuse it. Your competition is about to crush you now that they have me on their side.”

“You’re their new Head Editor?” Lorenzo asked. Magnus almost opened his mouth to correct him, but then he saw the fearful look in his former boss’ eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time his pride got him in trouble. Instead of denying it, Magnus shrugged nonchalantly, staring down at his nails. “I can’t believe it. I thought Maryse was still looking for someone, but I guess she wanted to keep this particular coup de maître under wraps. Damn it, Bane, do you have no loyalty?”

Magnus tensed and narrowed his eyes at Lorenzo, anger simmering underneath his skin.

“Not to you, no,” he seethed. “You have treated me like an errand boy for the past few years, acting as though you’re so much better than me for getting the position I rightfully deserved. I have worked harder than anyone in this office, you included, but was still pushed to the side because of my ex’s pettiness. So no, Rey, I don’t have loyalty when it comes to the people in this company. The Lightwoods were eager to give me the promotion I’ve been denied here, and I would have been a fool to refuse it.”

It wasn’t all a lie. He would have been a fool to refuse the contract Lightwood Fashions had offered him. However, that wasn’t what Lorenzo thought he was talking about and Magnus knew it. He just didn’t want to be mocked for his life choices. He may not be leaving to become Head Editor, but he would still be happier with Fray and her team than he had ever been here. He didn’t need Lorenzo throwing that happiness in his face by telling him modelling wasn’t a proper career.

“Well then, I look forward to seeing your pieces in their rag,” Lorenzo snarled, dismissing him with a single wave of his hand.

The man’s last words echoed inside Magnus’ mind as he walked out of the office, out of the floor, out of the building. Lorenzo was expecting to see Magnus’ name in future Lightwood publications. If he didn’t, he would undoubtedly figure out that Magnus had been lying about his position and new job.

That was something Magnus was desperate to avoid.

It took him a while to figure out what to do about it. He walked around aimlessly for what felt like hours, barely aware of what was going on around him. He knew what the easiest and most logical solution was. He could easily avoid Lorenzo forever and pretend like he had disappeared off the face of the earth. Sure, his former boss would probably figure out what Magnus had been up to eventually, but hopefully he would have forgotten about his claims of being Head Editor by then.

However, Magnus wasn’t always the most logical person out there. He was fiercely competitive and more than a little resentful about the years he had spent locked in an office that didn’t reflect all the work he put in. So, instead of putting together a rational plan that would keep him out of Lorenzo’s way, he came up with another idea.

An idea which, in hindsight, was absolutely terrible. He knew, even as he pulled out his phone to call Raphael, that he would regret it later. The truth had a way of coming out, and this plan was tempting fate to do just that.

Once again, Magnus wasn’t claiming to be completely logical.

“Magnus, what is it?” Raphael asked him, sounding harried. “I’m a bit busy, so please make this fast.”

“I need a tiny favour,” Magnus answered immediately. He had planned on explaining everything to his friend and maybe have him talk him out of his terrible plan, but… “Do you have Isabelle Lightwood’s number?”

A pause, then a shuffle. Magnus hadn’t even realised Raphael was in a loud room until the background noises disappeared.

“Why on earth do you need Isabelle’s phone number?” Raphael sounded suspicious, not that Magnus could blame him. Whilst his question was seemingly innocent, his friend knew him well enough to understand something else was going on. “I swear Magnus, if you’re trying to get into Alec’s pants already, I’ll make sure the entire office knows about it.”

Magnus scoffed indignantly. Yes, he found Lightwood ridiculously attractive, but he wasn’t about to ask him out so soon after meeting him. He wasn’t even sure the man was interested, for heaven’s sake.

“It’s not about her brother,” Magnus rolled his eyes, hoping his friend couldn’t sense it through the phone. “I swear, I just need her number for friendship purposes. She’s a nice woman, we got along well the few times we talked, we’re going to be working together a lot, and I just want to talk to her. Is that so hard to believe?”

The answering yes was silent, but Magnus heard it anyway. Once again, he understood why his friend was so suspicious, but he didn’t want to argue with Raphael about a stupid phone number all day. He had other things to take care of, and he couldn’t do that if he didn’t have a way to contact Isabelle.

“Fine,” Raphael sighed after a few seconds of silence. “But I don’t want to be blamed for anything if this is another one of your hare-brained schemes. I like my job, Magnus, and I don’t want you to screw things up for me because of some weird seduction you have planned.”

“Once again, not a seduction!” Magnus exclaimed, stepping into his apartment building – he wasn’t even sure when he had gotten there – and taking out a pen to scribble Isabelle’s number onto the back of his hand. “But thank you for this, Raphael! I’ll buy you dinner or something later, I promise!”

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” Raphael sighed, hanging up without waiting for Magnus to answer.

A good thing, too, since Magnus would have had to lie to satisfy his friend. Whilst he had done stupider things in his life, this definitely ranked in the top ten. Part of him wished Raphael hadn’t been busy so he could talk Magnus out of his plan, but another – bigger – part of him felt like fate was telling him to go through with it.

So he threw himself onto his sofa and pulled up a new contact, typing out a message before he could talk himself out of it.

It was foolish and would not end well, but Magnus didn’t let himself think about it too hard. He didn’t let himself think about all the ways in which this could go wrong, all the ways in which it was wrong. Instead, he told himself it was his way of making a point, of proving he could achieve what everyone had denied him over the years.

Pride, he told himself again, would be his downfall.

He sent the message to Isabelle and didn’t let himself second doubt his words.

***

The coffee shop Isabelle had asked him to meet her at was on the same street as the Lightwood building. It was bigger than what Magnus was used to at his usual coffee shops, but it was light and airy and the man at the counter had been nothing but kind to him, so he let himself enjoy the few minutes of calm left before the storm. A storm he was bringing upon himself, but a storm nevertheless.

“Magnus!”

He looked up from his phone and sent his most convincing smile Isabelle’s way. He couldn’t let her know something was up from the very start. What he was about to ask her was more than a simple favour, and he needed to make sure she wasn’t about to spill his secrets before he told her anything.

“Isabelle, thank you for meeting up with me on such short notice,” he greeted her, watching her wave the barista over. The blond man rolled his eyes at her but came up to them anyways.

“Izzy.”

“Jace, my favourite brother in the world, would you please bring me my usual drink,” the brunette batted her eyelashes at Jace – her brother, apparently, not that Magnus could see the resemblance. “I promise I’ll pay you later.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure of it,” the blond barista grinned, going back to the counter and – presumably – getting Isabelle’s drink ready.

Once that was done, the brunette turned back towards Magnus and grinned at him widely. To her, this was probably nothing more than a meet-up between two people who wanted to get to know each other and become friends. Magnus felt bad for having to lie to her and use her for his own gain, but she was his only shot at making sure Lorenzo didn’t find out about his tiny, white lie.

“I wasn’t aware you had another brother,” he started, glancing at the barista again. The two of them looked nothing alike, though he knew better than most that family wasn’t always a question of blood.

“He’s adopted,” Isabelle chuckled. “Our parents took him in when we were younger, and he’s been a part of our little family ever since. He’s the only one who didn’t want to work in the family business, hence the coffee shop.”

“It’s very nice,” Magnus said stiltedly. He wasn’t usually this bad at small talk, but his nerves were getting to him.

“It is,” Isabelle hummed. “Now, how about you tell me why you’re really here? I’m never one to turn down coffee with an acquaintance, but I have a feeling there’s more to this than a casual encounter.”

“You’re not wrong,” Magnus winced.

He hadn’t wanted to jump straight into the thick of things, but Isabelle clearly wanted to get to the point of their meeting. Once again, Magnus took it as a sign of fate that this was the right thing to do.

“Tell me, Isabelle, do you know where I work?” he asked, wanting to see how much Isabelle and the rest of the Lightwood team knew about him. Out of everyone, Isabelle was the one most likely to have heard of him before, and therefore the biggest liability. “Besides Lightwood Fashions, of course.”

“I assumed you worked for another media company,” the brunette shrugged. “Although my brother and the fashion team are under the impression that you work for Lightwood Media, for some reason. Did you purposely mislead them, or did they come to that conclusion themselves?”

“I never mentioned the company for which I worked, but I didn’t tell them I worked for your mother,” Magnus shrugged. He truly hadn’t wanted to lie about his job, although he hadn’t wanted to talk about his position at Fade Media either. “I didn’t know they would assume I worked for Lightwood Company already. However, that might- It might work in our favour if you agree to help me with this slightly insane plan I have in mind.”

“Insane plans?” Isabelle asked, her lips twitching into a mischievous smile. “Those are my favourite kind. Good thing you came to me and not anyone else on the team, because I’m pretty sure they would all have stopped listening as soon as you mentioned a plan.”

“Lucky me,” Magnus grimaced. “I would really appreciate your help, but I’ll also understand if you can’t help me with this. It’s a little bit… I wouldn’t say illegal, because I don’t think it is, but it would definitely involve a lot of lying and covering things up and a few manipulations here and there.”

Isabelle cocked her head to the side as though she was looking for something on Magnus’ face. He didn’t know what it was but, when she shrugged and nodded after a few seconds of examination, he figured that he had passed her test. It wasn’t acceptance, since saying yes to something before knowing the details would have been a stupid thing to do, but it wasn’t a rebuttal either.

“I told my former boss that I was quitting my company in order to come work for the Lightwoods,” Magnus explained slowly, glancing down at his coffee, and fiddling with the cup in an attempt to settle his nerves. “I didn’t tell him I was joining as a model, so he assumed your mother had hired me as her Head Editor for the Media side of things. I’ve been vying for that spot within my former company for years, so I understand why he assumed that. The thing is, I sort of hate this guy, so I didn’t…”

“You didn’t deny it,” Isabelle finished for him, looking torn between exasperation and amusement. “Oh god, Magnus, you are so screwed. Head Editors are mentioned all over our magazines, so there’s no way he won’t notice you’re not on there. You should have just told him the truth, it would have been a lot less humiliating than what you’re going to go through when he realises you lied.”

“About that…” Magnus grimaced, hoping Isabelle would catch his train of thought. He really didn’t want to talk about his half-assed plan out loud, especially since he knew it would probably sound a lot worse in words than it did in his head. “That’s when you would come in, if I were to put my plan into effect.”

“Where I- no,” Isabelle gasped, her eyes widening comically. “Magnus, please tell me you’re not implying what I think you are. Are you asking me to put your name into our magazine even though you don’t work for us? Because if you are, I’m not sure that’s something I can do. My position is pretty good, yes, and I have access to a lot of things thanks to my mother, but if someone found out…”

“No one would have to find out!” Magnus exclaimed, desperate to get her on his side. “Look, your brother and the fashion team already think I work for you, so it’s not like they won’t believe it if we tell them I was recently promoted. From what I understand, your mother is really only involved with the administrative side of things, so I’m sure you could come up with a cover story, and… And I could still do the job, alright? I know I can’t get paid unless your mother actually hires me, but you could tell her this is a test run of sorts.”

“You want me to tell my mother I’ve found us the perfect Head Editor and convince her to put you on a trial period?” Isabelle repeated, her eyebrows raised and her lips pressed together. “All the while telling the rest of the team, both Media and Fashion, that you were officially hired a few weeks or months ago? Do I have this right?”

Magnus winced again. He had known it would sound terrible once someone laid it out in front of him. Instead of calling the whole thing off, however, he only nodded affirmatively. It was a crazy plan, but it was his crazy plan, and the only way to make sure no one let the wrong thing slip out at the wrong moment.

The only person who would know the full truth was Isabelle, and probably Magnus’ friends since he couldn’t keep anything from him. The rest of the Lightwood employees would just assume he had been there for a while but had only recently climbed up the hierarchical ladder and, by the time someone looked into it, Maryse would have hopefully hired him. It wasn’t perfect, but he had done worse in the past.

At least he had been sober when he had come up with this particular plan.

“Look, I know this sounds insane,” Magnus sighed, chuckling mirthlessly at Isabelle’s dubious gaze. “Fine, it sounds downright impossible to pull off, but I promise it isn’t. The hardest part of this whole thing is getting your mother to agree to have me on a trial run. However, I’m quite sure I could convince her if you really can’t.”

“This is absolutely crazy,” Isabelle groaned, resting her head in her hands and shaking it for a few seconds before looking back up at him. “You do realise people won’t take it well if they find out you’ve been lying to them, right? Being a model means maintaining a good relationship with your team, and if anyone figures out you’ve been lying about something as important as your job…”

“They won’t,” Magnus said decisively. “The only people who will know about the deception are you, your mother, and myself. My friends will probably figure it out too, but they won’t tattle.”

“I want to help you, Magnus, I really do,” Isabelle said after a few seconds of silence. “I think you’re a good guy, and I believe you’ll be an amazing model for this collection. On top of that, my brother already likes you, which is a miracle in and of itself. I’m also sure you’d make a wonderful Head Editor, but this… You realise if this comes out, people will paint you as someone no one can trust, right?”

“I know,” Magnus told her seriously. “But look, the place where I used to work… Lightwood Media is my only chance at getting a better position than the one I wanted over there. It’s my one shot at proving I’m as good as they knew I was, my one shot at proving they should have promoted me from the get-go. If this works out, I’ll have everything I ever dreamed of having, and Lightwood Media will have the best goddamned editor in New York City. Your brother will still have his model, and it’ll be even easier to work around my schedule if I’m part of your Media team. I know the fallout could be horrible, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“If my mother agrees,” Isabelle added.

“If your mother agrees,” Magnus nodded. “Although she can’t know I’m doing this as a way to get back at my boss. As far as she’s concerned, I’ll have to be nothing more than an amazing editor who quit his job just to join her team.”

“That’ll definitely appeal to her ego,” Isabelle hummed thoughtfully.

As soon as he saw the calculation and determination in the brunette’s eyes, Magnus knew he had won her over.

“So you’ll help me?” Magnus bit his lip, glancing at Isabelle hopefully. “Even though this is insane and probably a terrible idea and will more likely than not end disastrously?”

“I will, even though everything you just said is absolutely true. The things I do for people, I swear. You’re going to owe me a lot, Magnus. I want free coffees on my desk every morning and shopping days with you as well as your unconditional friendship. Also, you have to promise me you won’t drag me into anything crazier than this, because I’m not sure I could handle it.”

Magnus nodded, knowing very well she deserved all of that and more for what she was going to do for him. He thanked whichever god had created Isabelle Lightwood and thrown her Magnus’ way, because he wasn’t sure he could have made it through this impossible situation without her.

He also thanked whichever deity had given him a friend who was just as insane and reckless as he was. In between Raphael, Catarina, and Ragnor, Magnus usually got more speeches bringing down-to-earth than offers to help. Not that he could blame his friends, given how crazy he got sometimes.

“Thank you, Isabelle,” he murmured, squeezing one of the woman’s hands with both his own. “Seriously, this means the world to me.”

“Don’t mention it,” the brunette grimaced. “Seriously, let’s not talk about this ever again. I’ll get you your trial period, and you’ll start working on Monday. Feel free to tell everyone else you just recently got promoted, but don’t mention that god-awful plan ever again.”

“Works for me,” Magnus shrugged, eager to change the subject. He racked his brain for a topic and grinned widely when his thoughts strayed back to a particular redhead. “So, want to talk about your crush on Clary Fray instead?”

Isabelle’s face turned bright red, and Magnus burst out laughing. Perhaps the beginning of their friendship was a bit strange, but he didn’t doubt Isabelle and he would get along perfectly.

***

He got a text from his new friend and colleague less than a day later, confirming his new job as Head Editor. Apparently, Maryse Lightwood and Isabelle didn’t always get along, and the elder saw this as a way to get back on her daughter’s good side. Magnus wasn’t about to complain about the subtle bribing, not when it meant he was officially an employee of Lightwood Media. Or at least, as much as he could be for now.

“What’s got you looking so relieved?” Catarina asked him, raising a curious eyebrow at him and gesturing towards his phone. “Got a date with that hot boss of yours?”

“A date with Lightwood?” Magnus asked, frowning. He had barely even seen his new boss. Fray and the man spent their days locked in their offices, probably getting ready for the collection and the photoshoots and everything else that needed to be organised. “No, although I did just receive amazing news from his little sister.”

“Ah yes, your fellow model. What good news would this be, then?”

Magnus froze, suddenly realising he hadn’t told Catarina about his plan. He hadn’t wanted to alarm his friends too soon, especially not since his position within the Lightwood Company hadn’t been confirmed yet.

And perhaps he also hadn’t wanted to deal with their judgement and disappointment whilst he was still trying to sort out his own warring feelings. He could already imagine the exasperation on Catarina’s face, the frustration on Raphael’s, and even the amusement on Ragnor’s. He could also perfectly imagine what they would tell him once they found out what he had done.

“The delightful Isabelle may or may not have gotten me a job at Lightwood Media,” Magnus started, not wanting to reveal too much too soon.

Catarina’s face lit up, a congratulations undoubtedly at the tip of her tongue, but Magnus saw the moment when she realised something was off. She snapped her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes in his direction, clearly not believing this was just some innocent job at the bottom of the chain. She knew him too well for that.

“Magnus, what did you do?”

“Always so suspicious,” Magnus sighed dramatically, though he dropped the act when Catarina failed to laugh. “Alright, I may or may not have concocted a bit of a plan with the lovely Isabelle. It’s not my fault, though, I swear! It’s just that Lorenzo was being so smug about me quitting and then I mentioned the Lightwoods and he assumed I had been hired as their Head Editor, and I…”

“And you let your pride get the better of you again,” Catarina completed for him, groaning and burying her face in her hands. The gesture reminded him of Isabelle’s reaction and Magnus had to hold back the completely inappropriate giggles that almost spilled past his lips.

“It’s not that bad, alright? The fashion team already thought I was a part of their media company, so they won’t suspect anything. The media team will be fed some white lie about me wanting to keep my importance a secret for a while. And Maryse Lightwood herself accepted to put me on a trial run. Isabelle may or may not have misled her about a few things, but it’s all clean and real. I actually do have somewhat of a job there.”

“One that you got because you convinced your new friend to help you out of a sticky situation,” Catarina pointed out. “I know you wanted that position badly, Magnus, and I understand why you didn’t want Lorenzo to think any less of you, but you do realise this could go horribly wrong, right?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Magnus sighed. “Look, I’ll admit I could have come up with something a little smarter and a little less impulsive, but Lorenzo threw me off guard and I reacted before I could sit down and think.”

Catarina shook her head exasperatedly, but at least she didn’t comment on his stupidity and lack of forethought any further. She clearly didn’t agree with his choices, but she wasn’t about to repeat herself a hundred times, especially since the deed had already been done.

“Raphael is going to be so mad,” she said a few minutes later, once she had downed the rest of her wine. “He gets along well with the Lightwoods, and if they find out and think he was involved in this whole mess…”

“I’ll make it clear he wasn’t if it comes to that,” Magnus waved her concerns away. “Raphael means too much to me for me to throw him under the bus like that. If possible, I’ll even try to keep Isabelle out of it. I’m the one who came up with this entire plan, and I don’t want anyone else to pay for my poor decision making.”

If anything, that only seemed to annoy Catarina further. Her brows furrowed deeply and she pursed her lips as she always did when Magnus said something she didn’t appreciate.

“I hate that even when you do these dumb things, you’re still one of the best people I know,” she breathed out. “But just so you know, this is one of the most idiotic plans you have ever come up with.”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that,” Magnus smiled at his best friend sheepishly. “What can I say? I love a good challenge once in a while. But this isn’t all bad; I’m getting a new friend out of it, for one, and I’ll get to show Lorenzo up, even if things come out eventually. On top of that, I get a job at a place I actually love, which is exactly what you’ve been telling me I need all along.”

“And I stand by that,” Catarina sighed. “I just wish you didn’t have to lie and manipulate your potential future boss to achieve your goals.”

“Oh please, what’s one small lie in the grand scheme of things?” Magnus chuckled. “The probability of people finding out is a lot lower than the probability of this remaining a deep, dark secret for the rest of my life.”

“For your sake, I certainly hope so.”

#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #fanfic #my writing

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freddieslater · 4 years

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Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Enzo St. John x Maria DeLuca | Michael Quinn x Maggie James

Glancing up at the flashing neon sign above, Enzo doubts himself. Those damn travellers were so cryptic before they decided to spontaneously combust. The only thing they left behind was a note to him.

Find her. Roswell, New Mexico. Wild Pony.

For years, the thought of finding Maggie once he was finally free--because he was sure he would be, someday, somehow--was one of the only things that kept him going through it all. To thank her. To see that she got the life she deserved; a life full of love and happiness. A human life.

But a bar? She wanted to help people. He takes another quick look at the note, but sure enough, the sign reads the same name beneath the flashing image of a cowboy riding a horse.

Stuffing the slip of paper back into his jacket pocket, he shuts his car door and walks across the gravel to the entrance. He pulls the door open and steps inside.

The room's lit with soft lights, almost dim, just enough to feel welcoming. Chatter from the locals fills the air, a chuckle here or there from the tables. The quiet clatter of a pool cue hitting a ball over to his left, followed by a triumphant cheer and some lighthearted arguing.

He immediately decides that it's preferable over the Grill. Though perhaps that's because he's still unfamiliar here. Make a few enemies, specifically out of the bartender, and then it'll probably feel the same.

Not moving from the doorway, his eyes dart all across the room. They sweep from left to right, to right to left, taking in every face. None belonging to an elderly lady.

Disappointment sweeps through him briefly. Probably for the best, he thinks as the loud-mouthed rednecks at the pool table spout some distasteful language.

Ignoring them, he finally moves, making his way up to the back of the bar. Maybe the travellers sent him here to find one of her relatives, perhaps her child. Though he has no idea if he'd even recognize Maggie now, never mind a descendant of hers.

But when he reaches the bar and seeks out someone who'll be able to give him something to ease his frustrations, he stops dead. Proven wrong, it would seem, because he instantly recognizes the woman behind the bar, caught in the middle of a playful conversation with a rather tipsy man on a stool.

Except it's impossible. Not a feature has changed. She looks as young as the day he compelled her to forget him and walk out without ever looking back. Those dark eyes, so soft yet filled with life like a blazing match. The curve of her lips, that smile that filled his mind to replace the darkness everytime he closed his eyes.

It isn't possible. The only way...

His heart drops. He can't even stomach the thought. Compelling Maggie was meant to protect her, to keep her as far away from his world as possible. Unless she found another vampire more willing to turn her without knowing.

No. He refuses to believe that. But the proof is right there, undeniable. A relative, he tells himself. A daughter with an uncanny resemblance to her mother.

She notices him at last, her eyes flicking over to him. Straightening up and abandoning ber conversation in the process, she shoots him a warm, friendly smile that makes his throat close up.

"All right there?" she asks with a slight chuckle, eyeing him. "You look lost. Or like you've seen a ghost. Neither one uncommon here, surprisingly."

Enzo doesn't know what to say. He realizes she doesn't recognize him. Nothing in her expression or her eyes tells him she has the faintest idea who he is. Of course not, he chides himself. Because she's not Maggie.

"New in town, I take it?" she continues on anyway, apparently unbothered by his lack of response. "I know all of the local's faces; I should, considering I've lived here my whole life."

Something comes loose in his chest. Her whole life. Maggie wasn't from Roswell. There's a sinking feeling inside of him that he can't ignore no matter how he tries.

"Your whole life?" he hears himself ask faintly, forcing an interested smile onto his face. "Must really like this town."

The woman shrugs. "It's my home. But" --she leans both hands on the bar, grinning at him now with that same spark in her eyes-- "with an accent like that, I can see I was right in saying it's not yours."

Enzo huffs out a chuckle and nods. "You caught me. I've visited before, though. Couple times, long time ago."

Her eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit and her head tilts in curiosity as she stares at him. He can see her trying to recall him.

"Weird," she says after a beat. "I feel like there's no way I would forget someone like you..."

She trails off somewhat pointedly, expecting an introduction. He opens his mouth to give it despite his better judgment, but she beats him to it, holding a hand up to stop him.

"Wait, hold on, I'm psychic. Let me take a shot at this."

Her eyes are wide and excited, and he can barely bring himself to be fazed by the claim of being psychic. There's a snort from down the bar from the man she'd been talking to.

She rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores him, her attention fixated on Enzo. Keeping their gazes locked, her eyes narrow. It's taking everything in him not to give anything away. If she's really psychic, somehow, then that won't be a problem.

"I think that... your name is... Michael." As soon as the name falls from her lips, there's a guffaw from her friend and she groans. "Oh, tell me I'm wrong."

But Enzo's heart has stopped again. Michael was the name he had on his file when she was working at Augustine. Dr. Whitmore had taken him from the Air Force, while he was still under his alias of Captain Michael Quinn. It's what Maggie knew him as him until he confessed his real name a few months before she left.

"Just can't get me off your mind, can you, DeLuca?" her friend says, evidently enjoying himself a great deal. He turns to Enzo. "I'm Michael, by the way. The person that the lovely Maria here claims to despise, and yet..."

He waves a hand as if providing all the evidence he needs to make his point. Maybe that's it, Enzo thinks, and his mind catches the name this Michael uses. Maria. Not Maggie. Similar but not the same. Maria DeLuca, by the sounds of it. Not James.

Maria scoffs and aims the towel in her hand at Michael, who merely laughs and dodges the blow of it.

"Ignore him," she tells Enzo, turning back to him.

He laughs it off as well. "That's okay. Maria, was it?"

She nods, her lips pressing together in a smile again. "That's right, mysterious stranger whose name is definitely not Michael. Sorry about that. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I'm wrong. It happens."

Part of him is tempted to tell her she's not wrong. After all, he was Michael for over ten years. Who's to say that means it isn't still part of his identity?

"Well, it is my middle name, so not entirely wrong," he decides to say. "I'm Lorenzo. People usually just call me Enzo."

Maria's face lights up, her smile brightening. "Middle name is good enough for me. And it's nice to meet you, Enzo. So, what can I get for you?"

"Er, just a bourbon, please."

He hesitates, then takes a seat on one of the stools. His eyes stay glued to her as she pours him a bourbon. How is this even possible?

Doppelgangers exist. He knows that far too well from his brief time in Mystic Falls, but that was a curse. Maggie was never in the middle of some two-thousand-year-old love affair involving vengeful travellers. As far as he's aware.

Maria sets the glass down in front of him. He thanks her and slides the money over before taking a long drink. At this rate, he's going to need a lot more than one glass.

"So, Enzo," Maria says, and pain spikes through his heart at hearing that same voice say his name again after all these years. "What brings you to our lovely but ultimately boring little town? Is it the aliens?"

He can't help but laugh at that. Once upon a time, it was in fact the aliens that brought him here.

"No, no, though I wouldn't mind seeing a few," he jokes, and is pleased when she laughs, too. He then sighs. "But I'm looking for someone. A woman I used to know. We... lost touch for a while."

Maria frowns. "Oh. Well, what's her name? Like I said, I know everyone in this town. If she's been here, I'll remember."

He stares at her for a moment. I'll remember. Something about the way she says it sends a shiver through him.

"Maggie James," he says before he can process he's doing it. "Her name's Maggie James."

For the briefest flicker of a moment after he says it, he admittedly expects recognition to flash across her face and for her to say that's her mother's name. Or an auntie. Someone in her family, something to explain this, because he can't think of a single logical explanation otherwise.

But her eyes stay blank and distant, still frowning. Then he notices that her frown has actually deepened. More thought than required for remembering a name of a stranger you met once or twice. And the blank look in her eyes is too blank, like they've glazed over, completely detached from reality.

Enzo's heartbeat quickens. Her expression twitches. It's a tiny movement, invisible to the human eye. But he catches it, and everything crashes down inside of him. It's the look of someone trying to unearth a memory buried beneath layers of compulsion. Just below the surface but forever unreachable.

Then she blinks, and it's as if she's thrust back into her body. She straightens up a little too quickly, her eyes wide and dazed. But alert. And lost.

"Nope," she says, and shakes her head, reverting back to her casual composure from before. "Sorry. Doesn't ring any bells."

He can hear the lie in her voice. Feel it from her. It did ring a bell, just one she couldn't quite hear. Muffled by his own doing. Or something else, he just wouldn't know what. It can't just be his compulsion. It doesn't explain why she'd still be this young, why she has a completely different identity and life. None of it makes sense.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her, plastering on another careful smile. "I'm sure I'll find her."

He doesn't know why, but it feels like the truth. Something tells him he won't have to look far. It's just more complicated now, is all. But when has he not loved a few complications here and there? They're what make things interesting.

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ofvagabxnds · 4 years

Text

( DJ COTRONA. THIRTY-SEVEN. MALE. HE/HIM. ) in texas, LORENZO KANE is known to most as KANE. they have been riding with the diablos for TWO MONTHS. they originally from ST. MARY’s, GEORGIA and the PROSPECT is known to be very FOOLHARDY & RUTHLESS but the other club members will tell you they are CONSCIENTIOUS & INVENTIVE. as the years go by, they’ve gained a lot of respect in the club and around town. they rarely ever drive a car but when they do THE DEVIL WITHIN by DIGITAL DAGGERS is usually heard blasting. ( single sticks of gum in jacket pockets, the ever present gun gripped beneath a sleeping head, small talk with handlers on street corners, being blacklisted by government therapists.

BASICS

Full Name: Lorenzo Kane

Nickname(s): Renzo

Age: 37

Date of Birth: December 17

Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius

Place of Birth: Unknown

Nationality: American

Gender: Male

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Romantic Orientation: Heteromantic

Religion: None

Occupation: Prospect for Diablos

Language(s) Spoken: English, Spanish

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Face Claim: DJ Cotrona

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Eye Color: Dark Brown

Height: 6′1

Weight: 190 lbs or 86 kg

PERSONALITY

Positive Traits: Conscientious, Inventive, Opportunistic, Brave

Negative Traits: Foolhardy, Ruthless, Self centered, Detached

Goals/Desires: Renzo is currently undercover attempting to infiltrate and gather evidence against the Diablos’ Motorcycle Club

Fears: Exposure, Failure

Hobbies: Writing, Running

Quirks: Quitting smoking so he’s always chewing gum

BIOGRAPHY

Alias Backstory: Lorenzo Kane, mechanic from the east coast. Served in the military for a few years before he was dishonorably discharged on (self proclaimed) trumped up charges that pertained to drugs, though no relative specifics can be found. His father owned a shop near a boardwalk on the Georgia coast. His mother was a former groupie for the diablos in the 70’s who left to return to the club after a few years of domesticated life. After his father died, Renzo found himself riding west to find the club his mother chose over him (this is actually a backstory for another agent; peep me sending it in as a wc). ||

Lorenzo Kane was an alias born in the parking lot of a 7/11 in Amarillo, Texas at around four in the morning for an agent who never had any trouble throwing a name away. In between bites of gas-station fried chicken and swigs of syrupy sweet tea, he and his handler crafted a magnificent front to pitch to the powers that be, and the next day when both were sober, they got their wish. Two weeks later he was riding into town on a bike he’d only just learned to maneuver, and within a week he was signing Lorenzo’s life to the very motorcycle club he’d been assigned to dismantle from the inside out.

The truth about Lorenzo, though, or at least about the man under the facade, was not as easy to come by. Born a ghost in a city too busy to remember his name, a child grew in the shadows, watching, learning, mimicking until he’d perfected every facet of human interaction. The system for wayward children would sometimes land a hand on him, but their grip never lasted for very long. Strings of homes and wannabe parents and schools all ended in one disaster or another, and so the boy ran and ran, hopped buses and trains and planes, he walked until blisters formed on his feet. And he didn’t stop until he hit a brick wall. Two weeks short of his eighteenth birthday he was arrested on charges of breaking and entering. A public defender with too much spunk to take no for an answer worked a deal with the judge after seeing the boy’s file. He’s a special case, your honor. But even her words weren’t enough. The changing tides didn’t occur until the boy took some test, measuring his aptitude or something, and the scores were so high the judge had no choice. The boy would not serve time if he joined the military.

It took the full two weeks for him to come to terms with his fate, and though he dragged his feet that first day, it didn’t take long before the rigid routine began to take effect. No longer was he a wandering soul trying to make it in the world, but rather, he was a cog in a machine that needed his entire cooperation to run smoothly. The boy excelled, drawing the eyes of several superiors, one of which being a marine with enough pull to have him moved under his care. The boy knew this was when he lost whatever childish streaks remained. Becoming a marine made the boy a man. In combat he was unparalleled, vicious and striking, unbridled action in situations where most men would crumble. He flourished, quickly becoming decorated, but the tragedy of his story would be the tenacity he owned.

He’d been serving close to ten years when the accident happened. One minute he was leading his men into treacherous territories, the next he was waking up in a foreign hospital surrounded by men in suits. He knew then that was the end, for he’d heard it happen to so many before him. Most of his recovery was spent staring at the soggy ceiling over his head, wondering what he would do now that he had lost the one thing he lived for. The week before his release, though, he was visited by another suit, though this one wasn’t reaping his livelihood, but rather they were handing him another one. His time in active duty might have been over, but the man was about to begin a new chapter of his life. A different war, but still the same soldier.

His first undercover job for the ATF had been small, but it was enough to hook him. It hadn’t taken half a year, but in those six months, the man allowed himself to become another person. In that transformation came the same inspiration he got from the military, and as such, he dug his claws in as deep as possible. Every job after that he found himself getting better and better at crafting personas to adopt, because for a ghost like himself, there was no true self to hide. He had nothing to miss, no one to make him doubt his cause. Because he did not give himself a life outside of his job, he’d only taken a six week break between his last job and the one that brought him to Texas. To him, this is just another objective on a list. His plan is to get in, get to work, do his job, and put as many people behind bars as possible.

I mean, what could go wrong?

#rideintro.#lorenzo intro | tbd.

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carmenlire · 5 years

Note

Prompt: Malec playing with the Alliance Rune, +\- magnus (being a little jealous?) not liking Lorenzo’s magic running through Alec, wanting it to be his. Alec loving Magnus’ magic

Thanks for sending a prompt Bel!! I hope you like this!

read on ao3

When Magnus notices, it’s a punch to the gut. It makes bile climb up his throat, seeing the nauseatingly yellow magic around Alec’s hands– his Alec, his darling Alexander, using another warlock’s magic is intolerable.

And Lorenzo, the bastard, he knew. He knew how it would feel to see another’s magic around his fucking fiance.

Magnus is well aware that it’s neither the time nor the place for such a primal reaction. The truth is, the alliance rune had saved those closest to him and secured his own freedom from Edom.

That doesn’t mean that Magnus doesn’t almost choke on the knowledge, though.

Still, everything happens so fast after the rescue mission and it’s weeks later before it comes up again. The two of them are walking through Central Park and it’s the most peaceful Magnus can remember feeling in years– decades maybe.

It’s winter and they’re bundled up in their coats and scarves and Alec’s wearing those fingerless gloves that Magnus adores even if he wonders how on earth Alec’s staving away frostbite. It’s quiet, snow spitting down, and it feels like they’re in their own little world.

Alec hauls him a little closer with his arm over his shoulder and Magnus hides a grin in his scarf, tightening his own arm that’s slung low around Alec’s back.

“You know,” Alec starts and when Magnus looks up, it’s clear that his husband is choosing his words carefully, that this is far from the spontaneous little conversation he’s clearing aiming for. “I love your magic.”

A little taken aback at the abrupt declaration, Magnus merely blinks. “Thank you, darling,” he says, nonplussed.

He looks up in time to see Alec roll his eyes, though he doesn’t know if it’s at himself or Magnus. Looking over, the breath stalls in his chest at the intensity in Alec’s gaze.

“What I mean is– I love the feel of it, the way it seems to reach out to me sometimes, especially when you aren’t even paying attention. It feels familiar.” Magnus watches, entranced, as Alec swallows hard, as his tongue darts out to swipe across his lip. “It feels like home.”

Something melts in Magnus and he leans further into Alec. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Alec looks like he wants to say something else but he doesn’t and Magnus doesn’t push. Instead, they continue strolling aimlessly down a path while Magnus’s head spins. It’s nothing new or unexpected but damn if Alec doesn’t know how to lay waste to Magnus’s defenses with the simplest of declarations.

His thoughts catch on Alec’s words, however, and his head snaps back up. “You said it felt familiar,” Magnus drawls. He raises a brow. “More familiar than a certain other warlock’s?”

Wincing, Alec doesn’t pretend not to know what Magnus is alluding to. “I’d much rather have been your partner for the alliance rune than Rey’s, I assure you. While it was cool, it felt like his magic was fighting me every step of the way.”

Filing away that useful bit of information, Magnus replies before his brain has a chance to catch up to his words. “Then let’s do it.”

He comes to a stop as Alec freezes and while he hadn’t meant to, he knows his voice had betrayed his irritation. He meets Alec’s eyes with a challenge in his own.

Breath catching as Alec steps close, as his husband cups his cheek and tilts his face up a bare inch, Magnus can’t look away as Alec asks, “You mean that,” in a low tone.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Alexander. Besides,” he asks with a quick grin, “If I can’t share the alliance rune with my husband then who the hell can I use it with?”

He watches the way Alec’s eyes darken and then he’s being pulled into a searing kiss that makes Magnus hot, no matter that it’s thirty degrees outside. When Alec finally steps back, his voice is hoarse as he says, “Home. Now.”

–

Alec sits on the couch, twirling his stele absently in his hand. It’s unfairly attractive and Magnus feels his stare land on him as he lights half a dozen candles around the living room. The late winter afternoon is gloomy, casting the loft in shadows. Taking their outerwear off, Magnus had rolled up his shirt sleeves as Alec had settled. Magnus feels a shiver wrack up his spine and can’t help but feel like the mouse to Alec’s cat.

A few minutes later, Magnus is done and he strolls over to Alec. Looking down at his husband, he blinks slowly and between one moment and the next, his glamour dissolves. He hears Alec’s breath catch and he grins as he steps so that Alec’s thighs are between his legs.

Tilting Alec’s head up, he murmurs, “Are you sure about this, darling?”

Alec’s nodding before he’s even finished asking. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admits and a fire blooms in Magnus’s gut at the earnest words, at the way he reaches out and grips Magnus’s hips in steady hands. “I want all of you, Magnus.”

Magnus lowers himself until he’s straddling Alec and he holds out his arm. His voice is husky as he offers, “Mark me then, Alexander.”

Alec’s fingers dig into his hips for a moment and Magnus half hopes he follows through on his clear desire to push Magnus back onto the couch and do wickedly wonderful things to his body.

Instead, he takes a deep breath as if gathering his thoughts and wraps a hand around Magnus’s arm. His thumb brushes over the sensitive skin of his wrist and Magnus shudders in his hold. When he lifts his other hand and the tip of his stele touches him, though, Magnus can’t stop his instinctive flinch.

Memories course through him, flashes of a chair and restraints and an Alec he didn’t recognize.

Catching the little movement, Alec stills, too. “You okay,” he asks softly. “I won’t hurt you– besides the rune itself stinging a little as it’s applied– but I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Shaking his head a little to clear it, it’s Magnus’s turn to take a steadying breath and when he looks up at Alec, his expression is serious but sure. “I want this. It’s just something new and unexpected and my body hasn’t quite caught up with my head.” He sees the hesitancy in the tension seeping into Alec and all he offers is a quiet, “Please.”

Alec nods to himself and then the stele is touching him once more. Alec draws the swirling lines in a competent hand and he wasn’t lying– it does sting as the rune flares with light before settling into a deep crimson against his skin. The pain sears into him for one heartbeat, for two and three, before it settles back down and Magnus bites his lip at the feeling.

It strikes him immediately that it’s different than the first and last time he was runed. This pain is comforting, familiar, something he wants to sink into. His mind’s a little hazy but he has a desperate wish to chase the sensation and when he shifts, biting back a moan, he knows that Alec’s picked up on his reaction from the way his gaze sharpens.

Magnus doesn’t say anything, though, and neither does Alec and as the heat banks back down, Magnus is struck by a different feeling.

There’s a connection there and it’s like he’s been jump-started. There’s a different energy buzzing under his skin and he has the sudden desire to– to do something, anything, that can test the limits of the power he can feel simmering just below the surface, waiting to be tapped.

He doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he reaches for Alec’s stele and as soon as his fingers wrap around it, it glows red.

Alec doesn’t comment on the color and when Magnus darts a look up, it’s to see his husband’s unsurprised face.

“You knew?”

Raising a brow, Alec merely replies, “I know who I married.”

Huffing out a laugh, Magnus reaches for Alec’s wrist only to be stopped. He looks up, curious, but Alec just urges him to lean back. With enough room to maneuver, he pulls his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor next to him.

Tapping over his heart, Alec murmurs, “Right here.”

Swallowing hard, Magnus nods once. He’d studied the alliance rune that first day– his eyes had burned into the rune Lorenzo had drawn on Alec’s arm and he’d poured his gaze over the scrap of paper Biscuit had drafted.

He draws the rune over Alec’s heart now with a steady hand. When he’s done, they both take a breath and Magnus rests his hand over Alec’s chest, feels his heart beating wildly underneath his palm.

Looking up, Magnus’s breath catches as his eyes lock on Alec’s. He reaches a hand up, running a thumb over his cheek.

Distantly, he thinks he understands Alec’s reaction to seeing his mark because seeing Alexander with gold eyes is one of the most stunning images Magnus has ever been treated to.

“Mine,” Magnus breathes, tipping Alec’s head up, and he feels the shudder that rolls through his husband at the declaration, at the possessiveness lingering in his undertone.

When his husband lifts a hand to put over his, they see the blue tendrils wrapped around his fingers at the same time and the breath is punched out of Magnus anew.

If seeing his mark on Alec was gorgeous, watching his magic wrap around his love is something else entirely. Magnus doesn’t have words for what the sight does to him, for the primal surge that rocks through him at seeing his magic– his soul, his essence– intertwined with Alec.

He’s not entirely aware of doing it but in a flash, he has Alec on his back, pushing him into the couch cushions, leaning over him with hands on his chest.

They both freeze for a moment as they realize what’s happened and then Magnus is grinning down at Alec and it’s sharp, wicked and teasing.

Before he can do anything else, though, Alec’s across the room. There’s a flush riding high across his cheeks and his eyes are glinting with challenge, with a look Magnus has only ever seen when the heat of a mission was thrumming through his blood.

“Catch me.”

Magnus has a second to register the words before Alec’s gone and it’s more instinct than anything else that has him giving chase.

It’s odd, to feel the power of runes running through him. They stay in the loft and Alec flashes from one room to the next, letting Magnus get close without quite managing to win. Magnus supposes it would be anticlimactic for vampires or even werewolves but warlocks have never had increased speed or strength. Magnus might be exceptionally fit for a human but any superhuman power comes from his magic and it’s a thrill to feel his heightened senses working in a totally different way than he’s used to.

There’s another piece of it, though, and he follows Alec, reaching through their connection. His magic binds them and he can feel it working in Alec. The ebb and flow, his power sparking in an unfamiliar body while still recognizing it on a molecular level.

It’s like Alec mentioned earlier, Magnus realizes. His magic has recognized Alec since the beginning, since before he used Alec’s strength to restore his depleted levels so long ago. It’s made a home in Alec for longer than Magnus realized– it’s burrowed its way into his husband until Magnus is fairly stunned at how happy it feels to be in Alec, crashing through his system like a purring cat.

Clearing his head, Magnus redoubles his efforts and when he finally catches Alec, he pins him against the wall in the living room. He’s not quite aware of just how effective the strength rune is, however, and when Alec leans in and crashes their lips together, Magnus’s hands drag down his sides until they’re settling against his thighs and he’s pulling, both of them breaking apart to gasp in surprise as Magnus lifts Alec until he can wrap his legs around his waist.

Magnus doesn’t even break a sweat and he feels more than hears Alec groan, his own chest aching in response.

It quickly devolves from there but when Alec’s hands cup his face, the kiss turns impossibly deep and everything slows down until they’re grinding against each other and Magnus has the thought that they should probably move this to the couch or bed or, hell, the floor, but then Alec moves.

Magnus almost comes in his goddamn pants as his choked off cry echoes through the room. When he opens his eyes, it’s to see Alec staring at him, shock and delight flaring bright in his face as they have the same realization.

Alec’s hands had moved down until he was pressing desperate nails into the small of Magnus’s back. Without knowing how– and the very small piece of Magnus’s brain that is still online is racing at the implications– Alec had coalesced his own pleasure and doubled it back, pushing it into Magnus with a shock wave of feeling.

Sex magic is intimate and while Magnus loved it, particularly with Alec as the very willing recipient, it took extensive training and an emotional bond that had to be carefully cultivated.

The fact that Alec had had the alliance rune for less than an hour yet was able to do such a thing was nearly inconceivable.

Magnus gives very brief thought to pursuing it on an intellectual level but the desire still running through him quickly drowns that inclination out.

It looks like Alec is on the same page as they lean back into each other, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s as hot as it is desperate.

As Magnus steps away from the pillar, still holding Alec effortlessly, he turns toward the bedroom.

He can’t wait to thoroughly test out the alliance rune’s abilities.

#intangibel #asked #answered #my writing #supernova #malec prompt #malec fic

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lorenzosal · 4 years

Text

@bear-little-loss

[What he thinks is ‘well, that would help if it were open’, and he wishes in some ways, that he had it in him to say it, but he doesn’t. Or maybe he does, but he’s too tired for a fight and so what he doesn’t have in him is a will to start one that he can otherwise avoid.

And really, if it’d not been for the comment, he probably wouldn’t have said anything anyway. He doesn’t like smoking, but he’s never been a preacher—and yes, okay, he’s become a little bit of a push over. At least with some things. He spends enough energy defending his sanity, his state of mind, his conviction that he knows that he’s not crazy—he just can’t be bothered spending any more of it on smoking inside.

So he shrugs, shakes his head.] I really don’t care where you smoke. [He’s a new face, Orson is pretty sure. It’s not like he (or anyone else) are under any disillusions that he’s some sort of socialite, but he’s been here long enough that he knows the faces of the Colony pretty well. Such is the reality of a wallflower—and so the new ones stand out.

He hadn’t really come here with any purpose other than to avoid the political rant going on in the corridor between a handful of young radicals and some apparent reformists—or maybe the kids of reformists. Regardless of what he believes, Orson doesn’t have the temperament for public displays of political tantrums. They’re exhausting and anxiety inducing to even listen to. In any case, it means that he doesn’t exactly know what to do to keep the awkwardness from settling into the room, because there’s nothing to distract. So he stabs at the most obvious, easy talking point—which he wishes he hadn’t had to resort to. But this bloke doesn’t look particularly… nice.]

I’ve not, um—seen you around before… are you new?

[He thinks this guy is about the last person you’d expect to walk into a music room, with the quiet voice and the muted attitude. He looks like he’s already tired just from standing there. Lorenzo files everyone he knows into two lists: people he could take in a fight and people he could not take in a fight, and this one is, thankfully, the former.

Looks can be deceiving, though, he knows. That’s the worst part about joining this place. It’d been weird when he adapted into colony 17 at first, too, figuring out everyone’s names, learning their strategies, knowing the ones he could trust or not. As much as he wanted to stick to himself, it’s hard to self-isolate when you have a little kid to look after. Lorenzo needs help, no matter how much he wants to believe he doesn’t, and now in a new environment, he has to figure it all out again. He wishes he could leave it up to Sofia to make the decision of who to trust, but she’s too nice, she’ll go with anyone. She’d probably offer this guy a hug.

The question has his eyebrows raising skeptically as he taps the cigarette against his knee, the ashes falling into a corner on the window sill. He’s got manners, he’ll clean it up. Maybe.] Yeah. Just got in. That obvious? [His tone is cutting, deadpanned, it leaves no room for friendliness. The guy doesn’t exactly look like enough of a threat that Lorenzo feels the need to puff up his chest here, but he doesn’t like being singled out like that. The new kid, the odd one out. It feels like he’s losing a fight. When your defenses are up so high, anything feels like losing a fight.] Maybe I’ll make my teeth crooked and sound more like I have a hot potato in my mouth, and I’ll fit right in. [He takes another drag.]

#c: orson #lmao excuse this defensive little bitch #reposting for threadtracker!

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ceealaina · 5 years

Text

He’s Got a Secret

Square: TSB T3-Day in the Life, WinterIron O5-Domesticity Rating: T Warnings: None Pairing: Tony/Bucky Link: AO3 Summary: Based on that post about Steve’s birthday not actually being July 4, and Steve being in too deep to admit the truth. And of course Tony and Bucky put it together. Just fluff and nonsense.

It was a lazy, rainy, November morning, and somehow, miraculously, neither Bucky nor Tony had anything immediately pressing to get to. They were taking full advantage, snuggling up in bed and just enjoying each other's company before facing the day.

Tony was sprawled on his back, nestled into a mountain of pillows, with Bucky pushed up on his metal elbow, leaning over him to press gentle kisses over his neck and shoulders. Tony hummed, his eyes fluttering shut as he combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tangling their legs together.

“This is nice,” he mumbled, inhaling sharply at the faint drag of teeth over his collarbone. “Mmm… This is… this is really nice.”

He could feel Bucky’s lips curl into a smile over his skin and he grinned in return, rubbing over Bucky’s scalp until the other man was practically purring. Tony opened his eyes again, feeling all warm and melty inside at the loving look that Bucky was giving him.

“Hey baby,” Bucky purred, tilting his head to kiss the palm of Tony’s hand. Tony shivered a little at that, and Bucky waggled his eyebrows at him before letting his elbow drop again, snuggling into the pillows beside Tony. Tony beamed, rolling onto his side to face him.

“Hey yourself,” he said, curling his hand over Bucky’s cheek and kissing him properly.

“Mmm,” Bucky hummed against his lips, pulling back to stroke his fingers up and down Tony’s arm until he was shivering. “I love mornings like this.”

“You and me both,” Tony told him. He yawned widely and abandoned kissing in favour of snuggling into Bucky’s chest, grinning when Bucky wrapped his arms around him and rolled on to his back, taking Tony with him. Tony yawned again, tracing aimless patterns over Bucky’s bare chest, teasing around his nipple just to hear Bucky’s slight hiss. “What are your plans today, Bucky Bear?”

Bucky grinned at the nickname, pressing a kiss to the top of Tony’s head. "Nothing major,” he admitted. “Promised Steve I’d spar with him this evening, although I’m looking for any excuse to get out of that. Sam’s moving his sister into a new apartment this afternoon, and he roped me into helping.”

He was grumbling and Tony laughed softly, placing a kiss over his heart. “You say that like you didn’t immediately volunteer, you big softie.”

Bucky shrugged. “I like his sister, she makes fun of Sam with me. Plus she makes real good cookies, so sue me.” He grinned, tightening his arms around Tony. “What about you, sweetheart. Anything exciting?”

“I’ve got a conference call with Hong Kong,” Tony said with a sigh. “But then I’m gonna be in the lab most of the day. The thrusters in my left boot were a little off yesterday, and I’ve been meaning to get to an upgrade on Clint’s arrows for like, three weeks, and Pepper’s been bugging me about a problem with the StarkPhone UI that R&D apparently can’t handle. So that’ll be me.” He leaned up enough to kiss the bottom of Bucky’s chin. “Want to get dinner tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Bucky declared. “Lorenzo’s? At seven? It’ll give me an excuse to skip my sparring session,” he added cheerfully, making Tony laugh.

“Seven it is,” he agreed. “Tell Steve he can spar with Natasha instead,” he added, giggling when Bucky winced a little at the thought. He leaned up, kissing him softly on the lips.

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky said when he pulled back again, making Tony blink. He shifted up on his arms so he could fix Bucky with an arched brow.

“Not exactly the name I was hoping to hear, babe.”

“Shut up,” Bucky drawled, and Tony squawked as he poked him between his ribs, right in a ticklish spot. Bucky grinned as Tony spluttered and collapsed against his chest again.

“You’re the worst,” Tony told him, biting at his pec in retaliation. Bucky shifted a little at the feeling but folded an arm behind his head, just looking at Tony smugly.

“That’s not what you said earlier,” Bucky reminded him, grinning wider when Tony just rolled his eyes. “In fact, as I recall, it was something more along the lines of ‘oh god, yes, Bucky, Bucky, I love you so fucking much, Bucky,’” he added in a fair imitation of Tony’s voice.

Tony just huffed, biting him harder, and Bucky grunted a little, sliding his hand down to palm Tony’s ass.

“Hey you wanna go again, we can go right ahead,” he offered, feeling Tony squirm as he stroked a finger down the cleft of his ass. “I’m good whenever.”

For just a minute Tony pushed up into his touch, moaning softly against Bucky’s skin. But then he heaved a sigh, rolling to his side to give Bucky a glare. “It’s hasn’t even been an hour, asshole. You know I can’t go again yet.”

Bucky just laughed, pulling Tony in against his chest again to places kisses in his hair.

“Fucking super soldiers and their fucking refractory periods,” Tony grumbled into Bucky’s neck before looking up so suddenly he almost smacked the back of his head into Bucky’s chin. “Oh yeah, so why exactly were you bringing Steve into our sex life?”

“Gross,” Bucky said, wrinkling his nose a little at the thought. “I wasn’t. I was just gonna say, we should start planning for his birthday? Maybe we could brainstorm over dinner. He hates making a big deal outta it, so obviously we have to go completely over the top.”

Tony nodded, humming as metal fingers rubbed at his shoulders. “Yeah, sounds good,” he agreed, and then paused. “Wait, what?” he asked, leaning up to look at Bucky again. “I mean, I guess, but you’re getting a bit of an early start there, aren’t you?”

Bucky frowned at him. “Well… we’ve got a bit of time, but not if we wanna get a good reservation somewhere or something.”

Tony snorted. “Are you planning to rent out the Met? I mean, I’m not saying no, the look on his face would be hilarious. But otherwise, I think we can probably make whatever you want to do work with less lead time. We’ve got almost eight months, and I am very, very rich.”

Bucky stopped rubbing Tony’s shoulder, ignoring his faint noise of protest. “Eight months?” he repeated. “What are you talking about?”

Tony frowned at him. “It’s November.”

“Yeah.”

“Steve’s birthday is in July.”

“Steve’s birthday is when now?”

“July. July fourth.”

Bucky blinked at him for a minute and then he burst out laughing. Tony sat up on in the bed, watching in concern as Bucky laughed until he was crying, wondering if his boyfriend had finally lost it entirely. Bucky laughed and laughed until he wasn’t even breathing, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched at his middle, trying to get control of himself.

“Oh my god,” he finally managed to choke out, still holding onto his stomach with his eyes closed. “Oh man, I definitely don’t need to spar now,” he added, still snickering under his breath.

“Okay, that’s good,” Tony told him. “And also, what the hell was that?”

Bucky opened his eyes, and started laughing again when he saw Tony’s face, although fortunately he got himself mostly under control again after a minute.

“Steve…” he snickered a little. “Tell me again when you think Steve’s birthday is?”

“July fourth,” Tony repeated. “Everyone knows that. It’s like he was meant to be Captain America, from the day he was born. He’s every tour guide’s wet dream.” Tony stared as Bucky burst out laughing again, wiping at the tears streaming from his eyes. “Bucky, what?”

“Steve’s birthday is not July fourth,” Bucky managed to choke out before snorting again, shoving his face into the pillow until he could get himself under control again.

Tony blinked at him. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Steve’s birthday isn’t July fourth,” Bucky repeated, this time managing to say it with a more or less straight face. “Not even close. He was born on December 3.”

Tony blinked again, his mind trying to connect the facts he already knew with what Bucky was now telling him. “That… That can’t be right.”

Bucky grinned at him. “Trust me, doll. I’ve known that punk since we were little kids. Used to join he and his ma to celebrate Steve’s birthday, and it would always snow. It was definitely not July.”

Tony just shook his head. “But… we’ve thrown him birthday parties! Every year we have a barbeque, and we all watch the fireworks from the roof of the tower, and make jokes about how there are fireworks for him, not America. One year I even paid to get a firework done like his shield, and I thought he was going to jump in the pool. He never said anything!”

Bucky’s eyes were sparkling now, looking like it was his birthday. “Probably because he knew he’d never hear the end of it from all of you. Tony, honey, this is the best. Do you know what we can do with this?”

“What is even happening right now?” Tony breathed softly, still trying to process this new information. There were certain things that were just facts, and one of those things was that Steve Rogers had the most American birthday possible. “I don’t… How?”

“Probably some propaganda thing they came up with when he was doing those USO tours. ‘Captain America is so patriotic, he was born on the fourth of July. Be patriotic like Cap. Fight for your country.’ That kind of thing.”

Tony snickered a little, finally catching up. “So it somehow made it onto his SSR file, and when SHIELD found him… And it’s Steve, so of course he wouldn’t have said anything.” He started to laugh, and Bucky beamed now that Tony had caught up. “He probably spends the month of June in absolute terror that we’ll figure it out. This is the most Steve Rogers thing that has ever happened.” He shook his head at Bucky. “How did we not figure this out earlier?”

“We missed Steve’s birthday last year, remember?” Bucky reminded him. “That hell mission? We were gone like three weeks. And then before that, I wasn’t really paying attention to birthdays.” He flapped a hand impatiently. “Doesn’t matter. Tony, how are we gonna tell him?”

Tony grinned wider. “I’m thinking surprise party?” he asked. “Do you think he’ll faint when he walks in and realizes that we all know?”

“Yes,” Bucky agreed, nodding definitively. “Absolutely. But please let me tease him a bit first.” A wicked look crossed his face, and Tony couldn’t decide if he was terrified, or turned on. “I want to see his face when he realizes I can ruin everything with one word.”

“Only if you promise to record it so I can see too.”

***

Steve had had a pretty much perfect morning. He’d woken in the dark to go for a run. The air was cool, and crisp, and by the time he was headed back to the tower, the sun was up, promising to be one of those gorgeous, unseasonably warm, late fall days. Now he was freshly showered, and enjoying a second cup of coffee while he flipped through a newspaper.

And then Bucky walked in.

“Hey Stevie,” he drawled, making his way over to the coffee maker, and Steve glanced up at him over the top of his paper. Bucky had a bounce to his step and was humming under his breath; today was obviously a good day, and Steve grinned at him.

“Hey Buck,” he said, eyeing Bucky a moment longer before turning back to his paper. He didn’t actually have any particular preference for print newpapers, except for the horrified look Tony got whenever he saw him reading one, but really, what other reason did he need? He and Bucky fell into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the occasional flick of paper as Steve turned to next page and the easy, domestic sounds of Bucky moving around the kitchen, making himself some breakfast.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky asked suddenly, jolting Steve out of the daze he’d let himself sink into. He blinked a couple times before looking up to find Bucky frowning out the window, looking more perplexed than upset.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Am I…” Bucky trailed off, looking like he was counting in his head. He laughed softly at himself. “This is gonna sounds nuts, but… Am I missing a holiday?”

Steve arched an eyebrow at him. “You mean Thanksgiving? You were here for Thanksgiving.”

“No…” Bucky rolled his eyes at him. “I remember Thanksgiving, punk. It was just last week…” He trailed off again, chewing at his lip as he thought. Steve took an encouraging sip of his coffee. “But isn’t there something else? It feels like we used to celebrate something extra special this time of year.”

Steve inhaled his coffee, choking and spluttering and sending liquid spraying everywhere. Bucky came over and pounded him not-at-all-helpfully on the back as Steve tried to catch his breath.

“What?” he gasped when he could breathe again, a little grateful that the choked sound of his voice would maybe hide the fact that he couldn’t lie for shit. “I think you’re thinking of Christmas, Buck?”

“Definitely not Christmas,” Bucky told him, apparently believing Steve. He grinned fondly. “I definitely remember our Christmasses growing up. You and your ma would come over for dinner, and you, me, and Becca would have a snowball fight outside.” He shook his head again. “This was something else. Something… more special. Seemed like you, me and your ma would always celebrate together, although that can’t be quite right, can it?”

Steve stared intently at his coffee mug. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Bucky didn’t seem phased, shrugging instead. “That’s okay,” he said, apparently misinterpreting Steve’s quietness as feeling maudlin about Bucky’s messed up brain. He patted Steve on the shoulder before collecting the plates he’d made up for himself and Tony. “See ya later,” he said, before hesitating in the doorway. “Don’t worry, Stevie,” he added reassuringly, and if Steve hadn’t been staring at his coffee so that his face didn’t give anything away, he might have noticed the glint in Bucky’s eyes. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me.”

As soon as the elevator had dinged, Steve collapsed against the table with a faint moan. Somehow, in all the time that Bucky had been back, it hadn’t actually occurred to him that of course his real birthday would be buried somewhere in his psyche. He was glad that Bucky was recovering more and more of his memories, of course he was. Just… Did it have to be this memory in particular?

***

Upstairs, Bucky rushed into the bedroom where Tony was sprawled across the bed, watching the live feed of the common area kitchen that JARVIS was projecting on the wall. “What’s he doing?” he asked, bouncing on the bed and leaning over to kiss the top of Tony’s head, beaming when Tony pressed into the touch a few seconds longer than necessary. “Anything good?”

Tony tilted his head as he eyed the stream, lips twitching into a grin. “He’s just been lying there with his face squished into the table,” he said. “I think he might be muttering ‘why me?’ over and over.” He giggled, making grabby hands for the plate of food. “I’d almost feel bad for him, if it wasn’t so hysterical,” he added around a mouthful of bacon.

“Don’t,” Bucky told him cheerfully. “Steve deserves this. One time for his birthday, he decided he absolutely had to try gin for the first time. Long story short, we nearly ended up in prison because of that little punk. He deserves this.”

Tony blinked at him. “Okay, no. You can’t ‘long story short’ that. How even?”

Bucky just shook his head. “Trust me, babe. You do not want to know.”

“If you say so,” he said with a shrug, stealing a slice of bacon from Bucky’s plate this time.

“Hey!” Bucky protested, trying to grab it back and missing when Tony shoved the entire slice in his mouth at once, stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk. “Whatcha stealin’ my bacon for? You’ve got a whole plate of your own.”

“I know,” Tony answered, voice muffled as he crunched. He carefully slid his own plate to his far side, in case Bucky felt the need for retaliation. “But I’m gonna eat all mine, and yours might be gone by then, so I figured I’d eat yours first!” He smiled cheekily at Bucky, like that was actual logic, and Bucky had no choice but to tackle him to the mattress, pinning him down so he could ruck his shirt up and blow a raspberry above his belly button. “Oh my god,” Tony shrieked, giggling at the sensation. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? Are you six?”

“That’s what you get for stealing my bacon,” Bucky retorted, letting Tony up because he was actually hungry.

“Yeah, I’d like to steal your bacon,” Tony muttered, in a voice that implied it was supposed to be an innuendo, but Bucky just snorted into his scrambled eggs.

“You’re ridiculous,” he informed him.

“Yeah,” Tony admitted cheerfully, digging in. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

It didn’t make any goddamn sense at all, but Bucky couldn’t help beaming at him anyway, nudging up close against him until their shoulders were brushing. “Yeah, baby. You are.”

***

A few days later, Tony stepped off the elevator into the penthouse to find Bucky sprawled across the couch, watching a random action movie on the television. Tony beamed at the sight him, his smile growing even larger when Bucky spotted him and returned it in kind.

“Hey honey.” Tony yawned and then scrunched up his face, brushing a hand through his hair to shake the snow out of it. “‘s snowing,” he added unnecessarily.

Bucky huffed out a laugh. “I can see that.” He watched as Tony peeled off his suit jacket, revealing the band t-shirt underneath before he moved over to the couch, flopping down with his head on Bucky’s lap. Bucky settled his hands on Tony’s head, carding his fingers through the thick curls until Tony was humming. “Long morning, baby?”

“Dumb morning,” Tony grumbled. “I hate paperwork.” He stretched his legs out on the couch, kicking his shoes off. Despite being a billionaire, he had a hole in his sock, and Bucky snorted at the sight of his big toe sticking out through the black cotton. “You laughin at me?” Tony asked Bucky’s thigh. “So rude. What a terrible boyfriend.”

Bucky could hear the smile in his voice and rolled his eyes, watching Tony’s toes curl as he scratched over a particularly good spot. “Yup, life is really hard for you, huh? You should probably leave me.”

“Never,” Tony declared, rolling onto his back so he could look up at Bucky, giving him a dopey smile. “You still going to the movies with Steve tonight?”

Bucky nodded, brushing a stray curl back from Tony’s forehead. “Yep. He’s pickin’ me up here around six.” He grinned then, eyes sparking. “‘s been a few days since I mentioned my missing holiday, so I think I’m gonna be in the mood to bake a cake.”

“Niiice,” Tony crowed. “I like it.”

“How about you, baby? Still got that thing this afternoon?”

“I mean... technically yes, but it is snowing...” Tony yawned again, snuggling in tighter against him. “Might be safer to stay home, you know, just in case.”

Bucky could have made fun of him for Iron Man being afraid of some snow, but instead he just cheered. “Yeahhh. Snow day, sweetheart. Stay here all cozy with me, we can watch this dumb movie together, and then I’ll make us some lunch.”

“Well...” Tony snuggled in closer to Bucky, all but purring when the other man grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch and covered him up in it. “If you insist.”

By the time Steve arrived to pick up Bucky, they had eaten and shared a nap and a very distracting shower. Steve stepped off the elevator to the familiar sounds of their good-natured bickering, which he followed to the kitchen. He found Bucky in boxer briefs and an apron, baking while Tony lounged in a kitchen chair, balancing it on two feet with his feet up on the table and offering completely unhelpful suggestions.

“Oh, hey Cap,” he drawled when Steve wandered into the room, eyeing him with a slightly mischievous glint to his eyes. “Fancy meeting you here. Come on in, have a drink.”

Bucky jolted at the sound of Steve’s name, spinning to stare at him and then blinking back and forth between Steve and the clock on the stove.

“Shit!” he said, wiping a streak of flour across his cheek. “Is that the time already?” He tossed a tea towel at Tony, the fabric landing perfectly over his face. “Tony! You were supposed to tell me when it was time for me to stop and get ready!”

“I know, honey, but you just looked so happy there cooking up a storm.” Tony blinked at him, all faux wide-eyed innocence. “Plus your ass looks real cute in that apron. I couldn’t stand to interrupt you.”

Steve snorted at him. “It’s no big deal,” he promised, helping himself to a glass of water before settling into the seat opposite Tony. “We can always catch the late movie.”

“Ohoho,” Tony said, winking at him. “I’m on to you, Rogers. You’re just hoping Bucky Bear here’ll share.”

“I mean...” Steve shrugged unashamedly, grinning back at him. “I certainly wouldn’t turn it down. Whatcha making anyway, Buck?”

“Umm.” Bucky paused them, staring down at the mixing bowl with a slightly vacant expression, and if Steve had been looking, he would have noticed Tony’s lips twitching before he was suddenly fascinated by something on his tablet. “A cake?” he offered, and Steve tilted his head in confusion.

“You don’t know what you’re making?”

Bucky shrugged, apparently not bothered. “I dunno. Something about the snow, and the wind, and New York this time of year got me in a certain mood, and I just started throwing ingredients together.” He started mixing again, humming some big band music under his breath. “It’s got oranges in it,” he added, after a minute.

Tony, watching Steve surreptitiously over the top of his tablet, noticed the way he went completely still. “Oranges?” he repeated, just a touch too casually. “That sounds good.”

“Yup,” Bucky agreed, popping the p. “Some kind of orange cake.” He stopped then, turning to face Steve. “Hey, wait! That sounds familiar. Did we used to have this when we were kids?”

“Uhh...”

Tony had to drop his tablet under the table so that Steve wouldn’t see him laughing; dear lord, he was a terrible liar.

“We didn’t have oranges a lot growing up, Buck,” Steve pointed out, not quite answering the question.

“No, no, that’s right. I know,” Bucky waved him off, and Steve relaxed a little. “Oh, but was it a special occasion cake?” Bucky burst out, just as Steve was taking a sip of his water. “For a party or somethin’?”

Steve choked on his water, spluttering and coughing, and Tony crawled out from under the table to smack him on the back a couple times.

“Jeez, Stevie,” Bucky drawled when he’d caught his breath again. “You alright?”

“Yup,” Steve choked out, voice a little hoarse. “Yup, I’m fine. But, uh... I just remembered. The late movie is... sold out. Yup. So we should probably get going if we want to get tickets for tonight.”

Bucky glanced at the cake mix and shrugged, tugging off his apron and sticking the mixing bowl into the fridge. “Cake’ll keep, I guess.” He pointed at Tony with his mixing spoon. “Don’t eat all the batter before I get back,” he threatened, busting into a smile when Tony just fluttered his eyelashes at him in his best ‘who, me?’ expression.

Tony just waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got to go downstairs and finish some stuff for Pep anyway,” he promised, giving Bucky a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun tonight, and stay out of trouble.” He paused on his way to the elevator, watching Bucky root around for his wallet and keys. “And don’t forget to put on pants, baby!”

***

The closer they came to the day of his actual birthday, the more twitchy Steve got. He was constantly on edge, waiting for the moment when everything would come back to Bucky in a rush when he would make a big birthday announcement and give him away to everyone. But that moment never came, and Bucky stopped mentioning things about missing holidays.

He was two days out from his actual birthday, and just beginning to relax a little. He was sprawled across a couch in the common room, watching a movie with Nat and Sam, when Bucky came into the room.

“Oh, hey Stevie! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Steve looked over at him expectantly, and his eyes widened when he saw the envelope he was brandishing in his hand, the size and shape of a birthday card. Bucky waved it in the air.

“This is-”

Steve panicked completely, and before Bucky could get more than two words out Steve was launching himself at him with a terrifyingly accurate rendition of an Asgardian battle cry. Bucky yelped in surprise as Steve flew through the air at him, knocking him to the ground.

“Stevie, what the fuck?” Bucky managed to get out, planting his feet firmly against Steve’s chest to kick him off.

Not to be deterred, Steve jumped on him again, wrestling Bucky right out of the room and not stopping until they were a safe distance from Nat and Sam. Bucky gave as good as he got, and they were both breathing hard when he let up.

“Hey Stevie?” Bucky asked, leaning against the wall, hand against his chest as he caught his breath. “Full offence, but what the actual fuck?”

“Umm...” Steve gave him a hopeful smile. “What’s in the envelope, Buck?”

“There’s something wrong with you,” Bucky muttered, which Steve had to admit was probably fair. He shoved the envelope at him. “Here. Tony asked me to drop that off. It’s the specs for the new tac gear you two were talking about.”

Steve blinked at the envelope. “It’s not a card?” he asked blankly, and Bucky stared at him like he had three heads.

“What the fuck would I be giving you a card for, you dumb punk?” He hauled himself to his feet. “Freak,” he muttered, limping his way toward the elevator. Steve winced; that thigh kick had probably been unnecessarily hard.

***

Tony was waiting for Bucky when he stepped off the elevator onto the penthouse, and he burst out laughing at the sight of him. “Oh my god, honey, that was perfect,” Tony told him, wiping tears from his eyes. “JARVIS showed me the whole thing. I think he would have thrown you out the window to keep you from giving him a birthday card in front of Nat and Sam.” He beamed at Bucky. “I liked the limp on your way out, by the way. That was a nice touch.”

Bucky winced, rubbing at his leg. “Not an act,” he bit out. “Wasn’t an act. Fuck that idiot can kick hard.”

“Oh shit,” Tony’s smile dropped, mirroring Bucky’s wince as he moved over to him. “You alright?”

“I think he broke my thigh bone,” Bucky grumped. “Nah, I’m alright. It hurts like a bitch, but give it an hour or two and I’ll be fine.” He was still frowning though. “We got any frozen peas or somethin?”

Tony gave him a dry look. “Do I like like the kind of person who keeps frozen peas on hand?” he asked, huffing out a soft laugh at Bucky’s pout. “Luckily, I do have plenty of ice for my fully stocked wet bar,” he told him with an unnecessarily ridiculous wink. “Here, you go get comfy on the bed, I’ll bring you some ice for your leg.”

Bucky nodded and headed off, yelping when Tony gave him a swat on the ass on his way by. “You gonna stay with me?” he asked hopefully.

“I suppose that can be arranged,” Tony called after him. “I’ve gotta make a call to Tokyo in a few hours, but nothing urgent before then. I can hang around till then. See if I can’t help you... feel better.”

Bucky grinned, pleased, as he stripped down to his boxer briefs. There was a huge bruise on his outer thigh, a sick looking dark purple, and he examined it in the mirror, pressing on it a couple times and wincing at the pain.

“Don’t poke it!” Tony protested, coming in behind him. “Honestly, what’s wrong with you?” He gave Bucky a shove that was mostly ineffective, but was enough to get Bucky to crawl carefully onto the bed, stretching out on his back with a low groan. Tony tossed him the ice pack, and Bucky applied it to the bruise, hissing at the touch of cold.

“Such a baby,” Tony told him affectionately, stripping out of his own clothes to join Bucky on the bed. “Hey, you know what I’ve heard is the best cure for super solider-induced bruises?”

Bucky rolled his head to face him with an arched brow. “What’s that?”

Tony smirked at him. “Orgasms.”

***

Though he’d caught a couple strange looks from him, Bucky thankfully hadn’t mentioned the Incident again. There’d also been no further hints of Bucky suddenly remembering that Steve was the biggest fraud in the universe. Steve had spent the next couple days feeling sheepish (Bucky was his oldest friend. He should be grateful he was getting his memory back) before accepting that this particular memory had fluttered away from him, and Steve was probably safe - at least until the next fourth of July, but that was future Steve’s problem.

On the day of his actual birthday, Steve woke with a now familiar pit of anxiety in the bottom of his stomach, which he quickly shoved aside. Everything was fine, Bucky hadn’t remembered, and he wasn’t going to get caught out. And, provided there were no last minute supervillain attacks, he could spend the day like he always spent his birthday: a little quieter than usual, and with no recognition beyond the little cake he’d bought himself (already sitting in the fridge) and the couple of hours he’d carve out by himself (usually accompanied by masturbation jokes from Clint and Tony, but that was fine) to think back on the last year and everything he’d accomplished and how he could do better.

And then, because that sounded sad and lonely enough to make Steve wince even in his head, movie night with hopefully everyone, but at the very least Tony and Bucky and Sam. A little quiet, but all-in-all a pretty perfect day.

Which was why he couldn’t help being disappointed when Tony tracked him down to the library later that morning, apologies written all over his face. “Hey, Cap. Do you mind if we rain check movie night?”

Steve blinked at him a minute before forcing a (he hoped) somewhat natural smile to his face. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he said. “Of course. Anything I should know about?”

Tony waved a hand, looking like his mind was somewhere else entirely. “Just the usual comedy of fucking errors. Sam’s feeling under the weather, I guess, and Buckster won tickets to a show or something on a radio contest, of all things. I know,” he added, apparently misinterpreting the look on Steve’s face. “Who the fuck even listens to radio these days, and what’s he doing trying to win radio contests when I could just buy him tickets to whatever he wants to see.”

“That’s not actually what I was going to say,” Steve said, smiling despite himself. Tony just shrugged and winked at him.

“Anyway. Next week work for you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve assured him, turning back to his book. “Have fun at your thing tonight. Try not to get caught fooling around in the bathroom this time.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. “That was one time!” he protested, eyes crinkling as he laughed. He headed for the door and then paused, looking back over his shoulder at him. “Hey, you’re sure you don’t mind?” he asked, more serious now.

“Yes,” Steve told him. “It’s totally fine, I promise.”

And it was fine, really. There were certainly far worse ways to spend his birthday. He’d spent a good seventy plus birthdays in a frozen ice coma, for instance. Those had probably been way less fun than hanging around here. (Although he couldn’t actually remember, so who knew? Maybe some polar bears had shown up with party hats.) At any rate, this was certainly better than the alternative of having them figure out he’d been lying about his birthday for the past few years.

And so maybe there was a tiny part of Steve that couldn’t help wishing Bucky had remembered because even if it would be embarrassing as hell, it would be nice to have someone know what today was. Sure, he got to celebrate on the fourth of July, and in the end it was just a day and it didn’t really matter. But the fourth of July was a big day for everyone, and his birthday always got tied in with that until he didn’t even really know which part they were actually celebrating, and maybe it was just from his mother always telling him that his birthday was a special day just for him, but celebrating on the fourth always felt just a little empty.

***

Bucky hummed to himself as he moved through the aisles of the party store, blatantly ignoring the huffy sighs that were coming from behind him at regular intervals.

“Remind me again why I’m here helping you shop for party supplies?” Sam finally said when Bucky continued to ignore his attempts at telegraphing how unimpressed he was.

“Because Tony’s doing the food and cake,” Bucky replied, like it was obvious. He was considering two different sets of balloons, and didn’t see the way Sam threw up his hands because that meant nothing to him.

“I’m s’posed to be eating pizza and watching movies right now,” he groused. “Why am I cancelling on Steve?”

“He thinks you’re sick.”

Sam blinked at the back of Bucky’s head. “Why does he think I’m sick?”

“Because that’s what we told him.” Bucky turned abruptly with a pleasant smile, apparently not at all surprised to find Sam three inches from the back of his head, and thrust a package of balloons at him. “Here. See if you can find more of these in the next aisle.”

Sam sighed wearily. “And why are we buying orange balloons for a party in early December?” he asked, not looking like he expected an answer that made any sense.

“Because that’s Steve’s favourite colour.”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Sam grumbled, following along behind him as Bucky headed for the streamers. “Wait, I thought Steve’s favourite colour was red.”

Bucky gave him a shit-eating grin. “Nah. That’s just what the powers that be want you to think. ‘s more patriotic. But he couldn’t even see red growing up. His favourite colour is orange.”

Sam didn’t bother asking why the balloons had to be in Steve’s favourite colour.

***

“Okay, but really,” Sam said as he took the bowls of chips Bucky had handed him and set them out on the table. He glanced around the common area, messily decorated in orange and silver streamers and balloons with a Captain America piñata that clashed horribly with everything else. “Why am I cancelling on Steve? I’m right here!”

Bucky was saved answering by the arrival of all the other avengers (minus Steve) in the elevator, Tony herding them into the room like an over-excited border collie, a maniacal grin on his face.

“That’s not concerning at all,” Clint mumbled on his way by, Bruce snorting in agreement.

Tony sidled up to Bucky, beaming as he eyed the decorations. They may have gotten a little over enthusiastic with the balloons. “Nice job, babe,” he preened, giving Bucky a kiss that earned them groans and protests and threats of leaving from the other avengers. “No, no, don’t go!” Tony said, pulling himself free of his boyfriend. “We’ve gathered you all here for a very special announcement.” He looked to Bucky. “Honey, would you like to do the honours?”

Bucky rolled his eyes at Tony’s dramatics, even while he couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “We’re, uh... pranking Steve. So you know... Everybody duck, and when Steve comes in we’ll all yell ‘surprise!’”

Everyone blinked at them.

“Uhhh... You know I love a good prank as much as anybody,” Clint started. “But this seems a little weak.”

“Seriously?” Sam added. “This is what you had me skipping movie night and going shopping for?”

Bucky grinned at him. “Trust me. It’s worth it.”

The response was lukewarm, and met with a fair share of grumbling, but there was cake on offer, so they managed to get everyone hidden around the room. Bucky and Tony claimed a spot behind one of the couches, crouching down behind the cushy fabric, Tony giggling as they waited for Jarvis to send Steve down.

“Shhh,” Bucky whispered, pulling Tony in and kissing his temple because how could he resist. “You’re gonna give us away.”

“Sorry,” Tony whispered back, smothering another giggle into his sleeve. “I’m just picturing the look on Steve’s face.”

At that moment the elevator dinged, door opening and emptying Steve into the room. “Um,” he said, footsteps a little tentative as he took in the dark space. “Nat? Jarvis said you needed me for something?” He heaved a sigh, scratching at the back of his head. “Said it was urgent?”

Their execution was less than perfect, with Tony jumping up a split second before anybody else and the word ‘surprise’ coming out as more of a question from everyone, and the lights turning on somewhere in the middle of all the noise. But Steve didn’t seem to notice. He stared at them all, jaw dropping open and face going so white that Bucky was briefly concerned that he might actually pass out. His mouth opened and shut a few times, unable to actually form words, and then,

“Oh, fuck me.”

The maniacal grin on Tony’s face faltered slightly, and Bucky shifted a half step toward him. “Stevie? Buddy? You okay?”

Steve waved him off, collapsing into a chair with a groan and hiding his face in his hands. “How long’ve you known?” he asked wearily, rolling his eyes when their grins returned full force.

“Couple weeks,” Tony told him cheerily. “Since Bucky casually mentioned that we should get started on planning something for the day.”

“Okay, wait,” Clint said, looking back and forth between the three of them. “What the hell is going on right now?”

He seemed to be speaking for the group and Steve stared at them with wide eyes before whipping his head back around to Tony and Bucky. “You didn’t tell them??”

“Tell us what?” Sam asked as Bucky’s grin turned a little evil.

“We thought we’d leave the honours up to you, punk.”

Steve glared at the two of them, but Bucky just beamed back, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulder and whispering something into his ear that had Tony laughing. He rolled his eyes before figuring what the fuck and turning to everyone else.

“Today is my birthday,” he announced, before being met with blank stares all around. He sighed and threw up his arms. “My birthday’s not the fourth of July. Never was. So. Surprise back, I guess?”

Bucky snorted loudly at that, and Steve rolled his eyes at him.

“Okay,” Sam said, looking back and forth between Steve and Bucky. “Lemme get this straight. You’re saying that your birthday is today?”

“Yep.”

“And all these years we’ve been celebrating on the fourth of July instead?”

“Yep.”

“I... How?”

Steve shrugged helplessly. “Propaganda, I guess?”

Sam stared at him, the corners of his lips starting to twitch. “And all this time, you just let us go on thinking the the fourth really was your birthday?”

“Also yep.”

He wasn’t sure who started it, but then the entire team was laughing at him, and surprisingly... It wasn’t as bad as Steve had expected. It was all good-natured ribbing, and instead of feeling humiliated, he couldn’t help feeling accepted instead - especially when Sam cuffed him on the shoulder with an affectionate “only you, man.” Steve couldn’t help laughing too, after that, because really the entire situation was ridiculous.

And after, when everyone had calmed down, there was his favourite cake, and his favourite snacks, and his favourite soda, and balloons in his favourite colour. Everyone was having a good time, and there were stupid party games that nobody won because they kept ending laughing too hard to finish, and he got to crack a poorly rendered piñata of himself in half which was weirdly cathartic. And best of all, it was just them. No fireworks, no extravagance, just his best friends - his team - and everything that he would have asked for from a birthday party.

And when he apologized for letting them go all out for his parties in the past, and Tony told him not to be ridiculous, that they’d still be having those parties, but from now on the fourth of July was Cap’s birthday, and the third of December was reserved solely for Steve? Well, Steve felt warm right through.

... Didn’t mean Bucky and Tony weren’t gonna get payback in the worst way though.

@tonystarkbingo @winterironbingo

#winteriron #steve rogers #tony stark #bucky barnes #bucky barnes is a troll #tony stark is a troll #avengers as family #fluff #schmoop #domestic fluff #domestic avengers #sam wilson #clint barton #fic #my fic

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malecsecretsanta · 4 years

Photo

Merry Christmas, @forensicsisabelle!

Dear giftee!

Hope this gift will give you a smile and a giggle over the festive period! Merry Christmas! <3

Read on AO3

******

There's Something Magical About Christmas!

Chapter 1 - Christmas Eve

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Surely it couldn’t be time to rise and face the day already, Magnus thinks, burrowing deeper into the furry warmth of his husband’s comfy chest, stubbornly refusing to let the light stealing through the curtains rob him of his contented bliss.

The answering purr he feels beneath his cheek makes him smile though..

“You’re turning into Chairman, Alexander,” he mumbles, scrunching his nose at the delicate licks it’s now being treated to.

Muffled giggling has Magnus cranking one bleary eye open to see it was indeed the magnificent Meow providing him with a perfect pillow, while the highly amused trio of his nearest and dearest were huddled together on the other side of the bed, laughing at his expense.

Once again, Magnus silently congratulates himself for suggesting they all wear brand new festive pyjamas every year as a Lightwood-Bane family tradition, because seeing Reindeer Rafe, Mince Pie Max and Angel Alexander had already made his Christmas as far as Mistletoe Magnus was concerned.

A grin tugging at his lips, Magnus subjects all three of them to lazy tickles, reserving a nuzzle for the unimpressed pet, who promptly vacates the bed in a huff over all the jostling noise, the void quickly filled with eager bodies scooting closer to get their morning cuddles.

“Snuggles,” declares their youngest, heaving a contented sigh when everyone’s limbs are entangled enough to barely allow any breath and his parents’ arms reach across to lock them in tight.

“How long have you three been awake?” Magnus rasps, dropping a kiss on the boys’ heads before crushing them briefly when his husband seeks one for himself.

Whispering into Rafe’s dark curls, Alec replies, “Someone forgot to turn their alarm off this morning and woke us up.” Hazel eyes peer mischievously at him through ridiculously long lashes. “Well, most of us.”

Magnus savours it, lips curling in tandem with his handsome husband’s as they patiently wait to give each other a proper kiss good morning.

“What can I say, family of mine?” he sighs, propping himself up on his elbow to see their faces better “Those of us not blessed with a Nephilim glow or the magic of youth, require all the help extra sleep can give.”

“As if,” snorts Alec, rolling his eyes in unison with their eldest, while big blue ones crinkle in delight at his papa’s silly words.

“I think you SPARKLE!” Max declares, his eager arms reaching to wrestle Magnus down for a flurry of loud, wet kisses to his face, both boys oblivious to the dopey smiles exchanged over their heads as they nestle deeper under the covers.

Hearing the mouthed words, “You’re beautiful,” because they’re voiced loud and clear on an almost daily basis by his very complimentary partner, Magnus absorbs all the affection in a languid state of happiness as he watches Alec rise to go make breakfast, asking over his shoulder what everyone wants to do today.

Everything from trips abroad to board games are discussed over the kitchen table as they wolf down Alec’s expertly-made crepes, but before they even have a chance to clear the dishes, an unwelcome security issue requiring Alec’s immediate attention threatens to breach their cheerful mood.

Rafe, proud of his dad’s position as the Head of the New York Institute and keen to take any opportunity to observe him in action, is the only one excited by the news.

“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Rafe chirps, scrambling off the chair and running to get dressed without waiting for Alec’s permission to go with him.

With a fond shake of the head, Alec crouches next to where Max is now pouting on Magnus’ lap and takes his hand.

“I hate to leave, Max, but I’ll try and make it quick, then we’ll do whatever you boys want, ok?” Alec promises, kissing his 5-year-old’s button nose and getting rewarded with one back before going to change.

Determined to remain upbeat, Magnus suggests helping Max practice the magic trick he plans to use to impress their friends later, flicking his wrist to fill the loft with music from Max’s favourite Harry Potter film, trying and succeeding in bringing the joy back to his little one’s face.

By the time his angelic duo are ready to leave, everyone’s mood is restored, except Alec’s.

“Go do your job, Shadowhunter,” Magnus tells him between quick, chaste kisses that will have to do for now. “We’re not going anywhere.”

The lop-sided smile he receives makes the wait for their return much easier.

*********************************

Given the mutinous look on his 7-year-old’s face, Alec’s half-expecting his son to dig his heels in and refuse to leave his side while Underhill delivers his security report, but Rafe’s need to make his father proud of him overrides his annoyance at being temporarily dismissed and he trudges over to Aline without another word, letting her cajole him with offers of bo staff training and peppermint fudge until he caves with a dimpled grin.

“Thanks for offering to look after him, Aline. Appreciate it.”

A knowing smile accompanies her nod, and with a quick wave, she closes the door behind them.

“He’s a chip off the old block, you know,” says Underhill, eyes darting to the handful of papers at Alec’s elbow that Rafe had just been practicing his memos and perfecting his tricky signature on.

If it was what Rafe wanted, his son was going to head up his own institute one day, Alec was sure of it. Pride softened his voice. “Actually, I think he’s got a lot of Magnus in him too,” Alec replies, capping the embossed fountain pen Rafe had been using and twirling it in his hand. “I offered him crayons but apparently they’re not good enough for cursive writing.”

Underhill chuckles, taking a seat and opening the file. “He’s a credit to you both. Max too.”

Warmth fills Alec’s chest at those words. “Thank you. We’ve been very lucky.”

Clearing some space for them to study the data, Alec’s remembering the cleverly-timed kiss that allowed Magnus to persuade him to add some ‘yuletide joy’ to his austere surroundings, having to reign him in on the six-foot tree but unable to resist the fibre optic family-of-four snowmen sharing a rainbow scarf that stood beside a framed photo of them all.

The glamoured one secreted away in the bottom drawer of his desk, offering a digital slideshow of Magnus at his most alluring, was for his eyes only when he had to work late. That is a gift that truly keeps on giving.

A discreet cough brings him back to the present.

This time, warmth flooded Alec’s face. “Sorry. Shall we get started?”

Ever the gentleman, Underhill focuses on showing him their security status, assuring him that Keller, a specialist from the Tokyo Institute, would be a competent stand-in for himself when he took some long-overdue leave after Boxing Day.

Genuinely happy for the man who’d become a sympathetic friend over the last few years, Alec wishes Underhill good luck with his proposal plans, sure in the knowledge that Lorenzo will give him the answer he hoped for.

And equally sure they’ll be receiving an invitation, in portrait form, to the grandest wedding Spain will ever see.

Eager to retrieve his son and gather his family around him, Alec’s in the middle of locking drawers, switching off screens and filing the practice memos away for safe-keeping, when Rafe returns, sporting a megawatt smile as Aline and Helen regale Alec with how much progress the young Shadowhunter’s made with his posture and composure since he last visited.

Heart melting, Alec drops a kiss on Rafe’s head before giving him a piggyback and messages Magnus to say they’re ready to come home and need a portal, never more grateful for his favourite warlock’s pioneering ability than when it brings them all back together again.

“Will you both be on duty over Christmas?” Alec asks, once Rafe’s high-fived his chaperones goodbye.

“We are,” Helen replies, taking Aline’s hand and kissing it sweetly. “But we have each other for company while we do some heavy-duty…research.” The shared look between the girlfriends doesn’t escape Alec.

“Oh, research? Is that what we’re calling it now?” he teases as he heads for the portal that’s appeared behind him.

“We might even check the perimeter now and then,” Aline calls after him. “ I’ve heard it can be fun with the right company.”

Flipping them off behind his back, their laughter sends him home smiling and eager for a kiss from his husband.

*************************************

“Once more, my little blueberry. You’re so close, I can taste the cappuccino,” Magnus urges, heartsore about how defeated his little boy looks over the absence of lasting magic from his hands and wishing all the ley lines would converge beneath penthouse one to help Max complete his sorting spell.

The teary expression on Max’s face tells Magnus he’s not convinced he can do this.

With a soothing hand between shoulder blades stiff with tension, Magnus kneels down and cups his other one beneath both of Max’s which hold a small hill of coffee beans, and continues his encouragement. “Believe in your ability to do this, Max. Picture your magic roasting them, changing what the beans can do. Feel it in your gut and guide it to your fingertips, just like we talked about. Okay?”

Tilting his face up for a ‘positivity peck’ on the cheek, a more focused Max nods and prepares to try again, reciting the simple charm with more conviction than before.

Ready and waiting to provide a boost if needed, Magnus watches with incredible pride as the pale blue sparks don’t splutter and die, but grow stronger and brighter, rippling across the childish palms and engulfing the beans in a painless fire that ensures their new ability before clearing in a puff of white smoke.

Casting a quick reinforcement spell to preserve Max’s hard work, Magnus stores them in a sack stamped with the Hogwarts School emblem and flings his arms open for a hug, happy tears and giggles filling the room.

“Oh Max, you were wonderful!” Magnus tells him once they recover themselves, standing to swing the boy onto his hip. “Just wait until your dad and Rafe find out that you controlled your magic this time. Let alone see what we’ve done with the kitchen.”

Casting a critical eye over the lavishly-decorated roleplay cafe it had become thanks to both Max’s fertile imagination and his creative genius, Magnus has to admit he’s pleased with the results.

Shrugging his shoulders, Max is confident his father will love it. “This is fun. Dad said we could do what we wanted today.”

“He did indeed,” Magnus agrees, feeling warm and fuzzy about how, even at this tender age, Max is secure in the knowledge that his father will want to spend time having fun with him and his brother, because he loves them, and that Alec’s promises mean something.

Magnus wishes he’d known such certainty of affection growing up, been able to believe in the words spoken to him by the two men who’d held paternal roles in his life, but today was not to be spoiled with thoughts of fathers past, only enjoyed with a dearly beloved father of the present and the future. He’d found the perfect man to raise kids with.

One of many, many reasons he loves Alexander Gideon Lightwood.

“We have the stage, but not the costumes. Any thoughts?” Magnus asks, watching a slideshow of ideas come and go on Max’s face, giving it the serious consideration it deserves.

“Mmm, I want to be…..Draco. No! Dumbledore!” Bouncing with infectious excitement, Magnus needs both arms to contain his wannabe Albus, heading for the walk-in closet when a message from Alec comes through.

“Is that Dad? Are they coming back?” Max asks, crossing his fingers.

Magnus happily confirms that they are. “No time to waste,” he decides, magicking them both into costumes befitting their characters.

Max’s ecstatic smile, almost hidden by his new silvery beard, surely means Magnus chose wisely.

Activating the requested portal, they take up their positions just in time.

Gratifying gasps meet their ears when Alec and Rafe step through and spy their handiwork. Rafe takes in the bright red exterior framing the kitchen doorway as he slides to the floor, while Alec’s eyes rake over every inch of Magnus in his Lockhart finery, from his golden hair and make-up to the hem of his elaborately embroidered cape-coat.

“Papa, can I dress up too?” Rafe asks hopefully. “I want to be Ssssseverus Sssssnape!”

Dragging his eyes away from Alec’s frank appraisal, Magnus gives Rafe a thumbs up. “Certainly, ssssssunshine.” And with a flick of his wrist, Rafe becomes the head of Slytherin House.

Turning to Alec, Magnus issues a silent challenge to choose a character, lips quirking at the devilment he saw in those eyes. Watching the expressive slideshow of thoughts, an uncanny repeat of their youngest when he’s thinking, Magnus finds himself intrigued.

“How about Hag-?”

“No chance.”

“Alastor-”

“Nope.”

“Vol-”

“Don’t say his name!” exclaim the boys, pointing accusing fingers at their dad for forgetting.

Alec holds up his hands, suitably chastised, and turns a knowing smile on Magnus. “Let’s go with Sirius Black.”

“Excellent choice,” Magnus beams, all set to conjure the most raggedy and revealing prison clothes he could in the presence of the boys, when Alec spoils his fun with, “Minus the handcuffs.”

“As you wish,” he sighs, still creating a masterpiece with Alec’s velvet frock coat and fob chain, the false moustache and day-old stubble wreaking havoc with Magnus’ imagination until Max, equally resplendent in a silk robe and tasseled cap, clears his throat and lifts his arms.

“Welcome, Severus! Welcome, Sirius! This is the Elephant House coffee shop.” Pausing to check with Magnus that he’d said it correctly, Max continues. “Would you like to come inside for a drink?”

Bowing, Alec replies, “We’d be honoured, Professor,” causing Max to dissolve into giggles.

Rafe, however, staying wholly in character, gives his brother a dismissive look and strides inside, much to everyone’s amusement.

But before Magnus can follow them, Alec steals a surprise kiss as busy hands roam over the flowery cravat and waistcoat Magnus is wearing. Alec uses the voice usually reserved for the bedroom. “I just want to say that all of this works for me in ways it really shouldn’t.”

Similarly undone, Magnus tugs him even closer by his lapels. “Your whiskers have the same effect as my cat eyes, Alexander. You might have a hard time finding your razor from now on.”

The slow grin he receives is pure filth.

“Good to know.”

Magnus leaves him go with a grin of his own and shoos him inside the cafe.

Based mostly on Dumbledore’s office, the transformation looks amazing, if Magnus does say so himself. Bookshelves have replaced the cupboards, an ornate desk stands in lieu of the kitchen table, portrait paintings cover the walls and a grand chandelier graces the ceiling. In pride of place is a candle-lit lectern in the shape of an owl which holds a beautifully-styled coffee menu, next to which is a big wooden, globe-shaped drinks cabinet that houses a coffee machine with four spouts, each one forged into the head-shape of the animals representing the Hogwarts houses - a lion, a badger, an eagle and a serpent.

“You’ve outdone yourself in such a short space of time, Gilderoy,” Alec declares, taking in all the little details.

“‘Spooky how the time flies when one’s having fun,’” quotes Magnus, preening like a peacock at how thrilled everyone is with his efforts. “Care to take a taste test with our newly-qualified warlock-in-residence? Or am I spilling the beans too early, Max?”

Alec and Rafe turn to look expectantly at Max, who’s bubbling over with his need to share his news.

“I made magic coffee beans ALL BY MYSELF!“ he cries, quickly disappearing beneath a two-fold attack of bear hugs and congratulations that has Magnus joining in.

“What do I have to do to sample these special beans?” asks Alec, radiating with pride at his son’s first magical triumph.

“Sit and we’ll show you,” answers Max, fetching the sack of beans and opening it so his dad and brother could take one each, leaving his papa to explain the rest.

“These beans have been magically roasted by my good friend, Dumbledore, so that they’ll tell us which type of coffee you’ll enjoy drinking the most, based on the colour it leaves on your tongue when you chew it. Temporarily, of course.” Elegant hands draw their attention to each of the available beverages on the menu and their corresponding colour.

“Scarlet for a Grounded Gryffindor, yellow for a Hot Hufflepuff, blue for a Rich Ravenclaw and green for a Smooth Slytherin.”

“I love that,” Rafe chuckles.

“It’s actually really sweet,” Alec agrees, winking at a proud-as-punch Max.

“Now you can eat the bean,“ announces Magnus. “It tastes of Lucky Charms because Max wanted Rafe to like the taste.”

“Nice one,” Rafe says, high-fiving his little brother before popping the bean into his mouth. Alec followed suit.

When they reveal their matching green tongues, Rafe takes it to mean he’s definitely following in his father’s successful footsteps and glows as Max puts a goblet under the snake’s spout and pulls the spoon-shaped handle for the coffee to pour.

“Remember to put extra milk in Rafe’s goblet please, Max,” says Magnus, smirking at the eye roll this earns him from his offended son.

Moaning with pleasure over how satisfying his coffee tastes, Alec sets down his cup and draws them all in for a group hug.

“Gentlemen, you’ve just given me the perfect blend of family, fun and fantasy that I could ever hope to enjoy. Thank you.”

Forgiving his husband the terrible pun, Magnus knows he couldn’t agree more.

Chapter 2 - Christmas Day

***************************

“I think our presents were a success, Alexander. Would you agree?” asks Magnus as they attempt a waltz around the loft, but Alec’s trying to focus on avoiding all the trip hazards that litter the floor, such as Persian rugs, Chairman, randomly tossed cushions and the odd discarded toy.

“Uh, yeah. They seemed over the moon with them,” he smiles. Mostly, it’s relief at having just negotiated the coffee table without incident, but there’s also the memory of how elated the boys had been, despite the early hour.

Having arranged for their friends to visit them for a late breakfast, he and Magnus had decided to let the boys dive straight into opening their gifts after being rudely woken up with their ear-splitting cries of, ”Merry Christmas,” and clambered over by their reckless limbs. There’d been many to get through but, as always, their own special ones had been revealed in an unconventional way, as befitting his unconventional husband.

Already overjoyed with all the smaller items they’d been lucky enough to receive from their parents, the boys had been watching the film, Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory, a tradition they’d adopted ever since Max had discovered the scene where Violet Beauregarde turned into a giant blueberry, when Magnus had reminded them that their festive stockings hadn’t been emptied yet.

Suspicious but eager to seek out more possible rewards, both had taken the Wonka chocolate bars inside to be exactly that, until they’d removed the wrapping and discovered the golden tickets with news of their bespoke gifts written on them.

Private singing and dancing lessons for Rafe and a prominent pirate role in an upcoming blockbuster movie for Max, both courtesy of Magnus’ close personal friends, Beyonce and Baz.

Chairman was still recovering from the screams that had rocked the entire apartment, hence why he was nowhere to be seen now, despite the number of familiar faces that were here this afternoon. Though the volume in here could have something to do with it too.

In honour of one of their generous donors, the Moulin Rouge! soundtrack had been selected as something they could all dance to, and glancing around him, Alec thinks it’s an inspired choice. How else would he be able to bask in the timeless fun of seeing Simon lip-sync a love medley to his adoring boyfriend, with Raphael’s heart eyes in full effect whenever it’s his turn to join in, with gusto. Probably for her own protection, Madzie was out on the balcony learning how to cha-cha with Catarina, while Ragnor’s frequent offers to teach them the gavotte or the jive fell on purposely-deaf ears.

And then there was their precious sons, too busy eating the last of the penguin-shaped pretzels Catarina had brought to take an active part in the chaos, but cheering loudly from the sidelines in between bites.

Alec’s sigh is filled with bone-deep contentment. One Magnus recognises instantly, dipping him into a martini-flavoured kiss Alec never wants to end.

Alas, someone has other ideas.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake man, put him down. You still have guests, you know?” Ragnor chides as he passes by on the way to Magnus’ apothecary, port in one hand and shortbread in the other, having clearly taken the hint that his skills weren’t currently required.

“You’re just sour that I christened you after the Hufflepuff ghost on account of your tongue. ‘The Fat Friar’ actually suits you,” Magnus shoots back with a pointed look at Ragnor’s stash, claiming another kiss out of spite before restoring Alec to an upright position.

Far too soon, for Alec’s liking.

“At least you weren’t ‘The Bloody Baron,’ that was way too convenient, if you ask me,” Raphael chimes in, letting slip a private smirk when Simon questions the accuracy of having been dubbed ‘Nearly Headless Nick.’ “Close enough,” he replies, utterly deadpan.

“Well, I still think Tessa should’ve been here to claim the title of ‘The Grey Lady’ but I’ll take it with grace,” Catarina says, a breathless Madzie on her hip as she rejoins them from outside.

“On that ridiculous note, I will take my leave, and my surplus-to-requirement dancing skills, to the den next door, in peaceful tribute to the fantastical badger aligned to my Hufflepuff House,” declares Ragnor, taking three steps before jabbing a finger in Magnus and Alec’s direction. “And you, my boys, better not disturb me with your caterwauling when the final song comes on.”

“The Hogwarts School motto is ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon,’ my dear cabbage, so you’re quite safe,” Magnus counters, laser-quick, to a chorus of giggles and a solitary, unamused groan. “My work here is done,” his wicked husband chuckles, before declaring everyone needs refreshments ahead of the grand finale.

Watching him go, Alec thinks about how he’d never wanted to celebrate Christmas growing up in the stale environment of the Institute, but as with so many things, Alec had only known what he wanted since Magnus Bane had come along. The best gift Alec could’ve asked for.

***********************************

Sipping his cranberry margarita in the doorway of the balcony, Magnus takes a much-needed timeout from his duties as co-host for the evening and surveys the scene before him.

Thanks to everyone’s high spirits and all the party debris they’re accumulating, the loft is an absolute mess. Yet to Magnus, it’s never looked more perfect a home than it does in this moment.

Against a colourful backdrop of Christmas lights and mirror balls, family and friends are strewn across couches, rugs and cushions in varying states of sobriety, each one enjoying the company of those around them and managing to drown out the muted background music with their lively chatter and carefree laughter.

The now-familiar feeling of being home that Alec’s always given him, is only strengthened by the bonds that have been forged between their families, both biological and chosen.

A sigh escapes him as he imagines how different his life might have been had his mother lived, but there’s no other universe in which he sees himself being happier than he is here, with Alec and their sons. So he raises his glass in a silent toast to the mother whose loss he still feels to this day, and rejoins the party with a genuine smile for some of those people he’s happy to have found.

He’s barely taken two steps before an excitable Max is summoning him across the room to where Clary’s impressive face-painting skills are transforming his son into Frosty the Snowman, his beautiful horns, only unglamoured in the presence of those he trusts, just like his blue skin, have been turned into carrots and his blue hair is a riot of glitter and snowflakes. Conjuring a cashmere scarf to complete the look, Magnus takes a photo before messy hands have a chance to undo all the hard work.

“Just when I think you couldn’t look any cooler,“ Magnus quips, smitten with the groan and eye-roll combo that meets his embarrassing ‘dad’ joke. He still gets his cuddle though. “I think you both deserve a snow cone. Agreed?”

“Absolutely!” Clary chimes in. “But maybe make mine a little more Black Russian than blackcurrant, please?”

“Your wish is my command, biscuit,” Magnus replies, sweeping a bow as he delivers their rewards with a finger snap and giving them both a paternal pat on the head, moving on swiftly at Clary’s glare.

He spies Luke barely managing to hide his mirth over yet another argument between those notoriously fiery lovebirds known as Maia and Jace, unaware he now embodies the ‘jolly old elf’ on his gloriously ugly Christmas sweater, and decides to find out why.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks his friend, from a safe distance away. Then he overhears his hapless brother-in-law misquote Dickens’ famous introduction to A Tale of Two Cities in a bid to prove he knows his Shakespeare, and Magnus thinks he already knows the answer.

“Oh dear.”

“Yep, it’s that bad,” Luke confirms, shoulders shaking with the effort it’s costing him not to burst out laughing. “Nine months in and the boy still hasn’t learned there’s nothing that riles our well-read warrior more than the desecration of her favourite classics.”

“And compounding it by confusing the writers?” Magnus shudders. “I always knew his self-preservation skills were minimal, but she’ll tear him to shreds if he keeps this up.”

Luke swigs his beer and slaps a paw on Magnus’ shoulder. “Fifty says he’s sleeping on your couch tonight.”

“A hundred says he isn’t.”

“Deal.”

Parting on a fist bump, Magnus winks at his admiring husband in passing and locates Isabelle in the newly-restored kitchen. Unsupervised.

Worse still, she’s engrossed in that cookbook from Idris that Robert gifted her years ago, but when she begins her feverish search for ingredients, that’s when fear grips him, thanks to a deeply unpleasant memory.

Throwing back his cocktail, Magnus knows he has to try and stop her before someone gets hurt.

“Isabelle, my dear, care to help me devour the last cream cheese bagel from Sadelle’s before Alexander gets his hands on that thing?”

She hits him in his weak spot with those luminous Lightwood eyes and devastating smile, and before she’s even finished her sweetly-worded request for permission to cook, he’s giving her carte blanche to potentially poison them all.

Oh well, he tried.

Spinning on his heels, Magnus initiates plan B, first seeking out Clary to deploy her best distraction tactics on her girlfriend and secondly, heading for his apothecary to prepare the potent werewolf fangs they’ll all need to consume.

Glimpsing a terrified Jace as he emerges from the kitchen, Magnus cuts him off with, “I’m on it,” to which Jace nods in relief.

Minutes later, he’s just bottling the preventive potion when Alec steps inside and closes the door with a look of intent that holds more danger than anything his sister’s cooking could.

“Finally,” Alec whispers, grabbing Magnus to him by his waist and crushing his mouth like a starved man finding a meal.

Magnus allows himself a few minutes of mind-blowing kisses and handsy exploration, then detaches himself reluctantly to explain his need for haste in delivering the elixir to their guests, but Alec simply shrugs and pulls him back in for more.

Both freeze mid-action when an apologetic Jace, hands raised to protect his eyes from any scenes of near-nudity, grabs the bottle and leaves, closing the door behind him.

“Damn it,” Alec groans, both taking a steadying breath as they restore their clothes to a reasonable state of tidiness, rejoining the party after one last chaste kiss.

After dosing themselves up and with new drinks in hand, Magnus settles within Alec’s embrace to watch Rafe and Maryse sing the Spanish lullabies Alec’s been teaching their son from his childhood, When Luke joins his wife to lend his voice, it draws everyone else into the impromptu concert.

Magnus closes his eyes to savour his husband’s soft baritone and burrows deeper into his arms, grateful beyond measure for the loved ones that make his life this beautiful.

***********************************

“I don’t want to disturb them,” Alec admits as they lie sprawled and overlapping on opposite ends of the too-comfy couch, their sons’ adorable snores the only sound to break the well-earned peace they’re finally able to enjoy.

Magnus sighs, running gentle fingers through Rafe’s hair as he watches Alec nuzzle Max’s, both children curled into their chests with half their face-paint still on. “I don’t either, but we’ll all be sorry if we wake-up with stiff necks and headaches.”

Reluctantly, they gather up their sons, few protests made as they’re carried to their beds, where Magnus’ magic wipes their faces clean and dresses them in their festive pyjamas. Feather light kisses and moon-shaped night-lights, don’t disturb them.

Grateful for the day they’ve had, but more than ready for this time alone together, the husbands hold hands and head for their room, exchanging ‘love you’s’ and sharing kisses until they’re both sated and asleep.

And neither could wish for a more perfect way to wrap up Christmas than that.

#forensicsisabelle #malecsanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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