wanna go everywhere with my got-to-be girl

by unwindmyself

Summary:

Short stories for Femslash February 2022.

Notes:

Thanks to AO3's new tag limit, I won't be tagging the types of AUs/story themes. All of that (and content warnings/etc.) will still be found on top of each chapter.

Chapter 1: baby we look beautiful stepping over velvet rope together

Summary:

Wanda/Sylvie; Harlots AU.

Notes:

TW mentions of homelessness, forced sex work, homophobia, institutionalization.

This takes place in the 1700s, and period-typical attitudes and terminology are used.

Sylvie makes it her business to know everything that goes on in the house, especially the things that nobody wants to tell her. She likes getting one over on the members of the household that would just as soon throw her back on the street, and what’s more, her brother likes that she can let him know what goes on behind his back.

It’s not why he plucked her from obscurity, dressed her up, set her up as a lady in his fine manor house despite her technical bastard status, but it’s certainly worked to his advantage.

There are those in the house - especially her brother’s advisers, the ones whose job it is to maintain his image and finances - who still look at her like the urchin she spent so long believing she was. They mutter innuendos and glare at her when Loki isn’t paying attention, they let her eavesdrop on just enough conversations about how she’s a disgrace to the Laufeyson name, they make sure she knows her place. No matter how fancy she pretends she is, she’ll never be anything more than trash to them. They’re the ones she has to sneak around.

There are others that seem to have been misled by the pretty costumes and her attempts at speaking proper, though, or maybe they want to believe the fantasy she’s living. Usually it’s the people on the staff, those with little money or power themselves. They like to think they could meet the same fortune she has, or else they like to help her thwart their masters. They’ll often just share what they’ve heard in exchange for a bit of coin.

It’s one of the maids who tells her there’s a new stranger in the house, a girl (woman?) that one of the advisers quite literally carried in and deposited in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but it’s some of the arrogant underlings she hears explaining the stranger’s identity. She’s not another bastard sister (and thank the gods for that) but someone bought and paid for to provide the master the kind of feminine company he needs.

(They don’t say it, but it’s not a coincidence that this happens only a week after he got found having a brush with an Irish businessman.)

It takes all of Sylvie’s energy to keep from knocking the men out and running upstairs to free the girl.

Instead, she pastes on a smile and sits silently at Loki’s side through supper and the evening’s insipid parlor games. None of the other men seem to notice something is off about her; Loki asks in a whisper if she’s upset but, bless him, he accepts “feminine troubles” as an excuse and lets her steal away early on account of that. 

Her and Loki’s bedrooms are on the third floor, so she assumes that the girl will be kept there too, for convenience’s sake. She knows how the sort of men that treat others as commodities think (having been treated as such herself). 

It doesn’t take much work to figure out which room she’s in; there’s only soft sobbing coming from behind one of the doors. Sylvie looks to make sure nobody will see her, then knocks just once before she lets herself in.

“Get away from me,” a hoarse voice exclaims before Sylvie has fully emerged from the shadows. To Sylvie’s surprise, the stranger sounds - not quite Russian, but something closer to it than English. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sylvie cautions, coming a little closer to get a better look at the stranger.

She’s probably a woman, all considered, but she looks half-starved; she’s done up, all silk and jewels, but her makeup runs down her cheeks and stains the bedsheets she sits on top of. Despite the fact that she looks like she can barely support its weight, she’s also brandishing her one lit candle in front of her like a weapon, and it casts a reddish-orangish glow on her face.

“What,” she snaps, “are you the madam come to make sure I’m resigned to my place here?”

“I’m Lord Laufeyson’s sister,” Sylvie corrects, sounding gentler than she knew she was capable of. “Sylvie. What’s your name, love?”

“Wanda,” the woman says. She sits back on her heels, but she doesn’t lower the candle.

“Wanda what?” Sylvie prompts.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wanda says shortly. “I don’t have a family. I don’t have anything.”

“You still have your life,” Sylvie points out. When Wanda flinches, she knows she might have been too harsh about it, but that’s how she had to live her first thirty-some years and it’s still ingrained deep in her bones. She’s a survivor first and foremost.

She stares at Wanda long enough that Wanda, seeming almost intimidated, murmurs, “Wanda Irina Marya Maximova. That’s who I was born.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sylvie murmurs, and it is. “Have you eaten, Miss Maximova?”

“Not since before they brought me here.”

“Take it,” Sylvie says, setting a small basket of bread and fruit stolen from the kitchens on the bed. “You’ll have to put your candle down, but it’d be worth it to get some food in you, I think.”

Wanda eyes the food, then Sylvie, suspiciously, but she sets the candle on her bedside table and picks up an apple. “What are you doing here?” she asks. “If you’re not…”

“I’m not sure yet,” Sylvie says. “May I sit?” She nods to an overstuffed chair on the bed’s right.

“I’m in no place to grant permission,” Wanda says. 

Frowning, Sylvie sits.

“You’re his sister,” Wanda says. “You’re on his side, no?”

“I’m on my own side first and foremost,” Sylvie says, tossing her head. “I care for my brother, and I want what’s best for him, but I’m not his or anybody’s to order around.”

“Must be nice,” Wanda huffs, biting into the apple. 

“Who brought you here?” Sylvie asks, instead of continuing to brag about her independence.

“Your brother bought me,” Wanda corrects venomously.

Sylvie presses her lips together. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No,” Wanda says. “Haven’t even met him. I was just told that’s who paid for me, who I’m to pleasure.”

“It’s a small comfort, perhaps,” Sylvie says, “but I don’t think he knows of you yet.”

“What, he’s too pure a soul to buy a woman?” Wanda retorts.

“He can be a manipulative snake, actually,” Sylvie says. “He can trick and lie and weave pretty words. But you’re not really the sort of person he wants in his bed most of the time.”

A moment passes, and Sylvie is just starting to worry about Wanda’s reaction, but finally she murmurs, “I guess we’re alike in some ways, then.”

“All three of us,” Sylvie adds, leaning forward.

“You’re…?” Wanda asks faintly.

“Funny, isn’t it,” Sylvie says. “Lucky our father’s long-gone, that he doesn’t have to reckon with a Sapphic daughter and an Achillean son.”

Wanda twists her hands in her lap. “So I’m here…”

“I’ve no way of knowing,” Sylvie says, “but I’m fairly sure you’re here because my brother’s lackeys want to make sure that he looks upstanding and properly masculine. Like someone who takes what he wants.”

“But he won’t,” Wanda says.

“Even if he decides he is interested in you, he won’t touch you if you don’t allow it,” Sylvie says, steely. “I’ll make sure of that. Do you even want to stay?”

“I have nowhere else to go,” Wanda says, not as a yes or no. “If I tried to go back to the ones that sold me off, they’d beat or kill me or put me back in the asylum where they found me.” She rolls her eyes, and Sylvie knows that she shared it in this offhand way because it needs to be said but she doesn’t want to dwell. “The ones that put me there probably think I’m dead already. My family’s been gone for years.”

It’s only fair to share her own sordid history in return, so Sylvie says, “I grew up on the streets. My father couldn’t bear the shame of a bastard daughter from a whore mother. It wasn’t till he passed that my brother learned I existed and brought me here.”

“Oh,” Wanda says. It’s the kind of sound that could mean a thousand different things.

“My brother can be absolutely Machiavellian,” Sylvie says slowly, thinking aloud, “and even monstrous to those that cross him, but he understands playing parts. You’ve been assigned one by people who only wanted to use you, but that doesn’t mean it’s the one you have to stick with.”

“Oh?” Wanda echoes.

“I’m proof, aren’t I?” Sylvie asks. “The way I see it, you need a home, and my brother needs someone to make him look a certain way. He won’t bed you without your permission, but if you let the world think he’s done, if you decorate his arm when he wants it, if you don’t tell his secrets, you’ll be safe here. You’ll live in luxury. Perhaps you’ll even get his ear, like I have, and be able to shape the world a little.”

Wanda cants her head. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” she says. “Where would you be in all of it?”

“Where would you like me?” Sylvie asks, finally letting herself smirk.

Chapter 2: just say that you want me, don't walk away wondering what could have been

Summary:

Bobbi/Natasha; set up by their mentors.

Notes:

Hello yes as far as I am concerned it is now canon that Laura now-Barton was once SHIELD's Agent 19 and trained/mentored Bobbi Morse, who then took the Agent 19 mantle (as well as her codename Mockingbird) when Laura retired.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Laura coaxes.

“Making awkward small-talk with a stranger while you and Barton make googly eyes at each other?” Bobbi retorts, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, sounds like a riot.”

Laura eyes her skeptically. “We do not make googly eyes,” she says, even though they totally do. “And it’s not like we’re just pairing you off to get you out of the way. Nat’s really cool.”

“Are you saying that because it’s true, or because you two assume that since you love each other so much, your protégés are going to have the same relationship?” Bobbi asks.

“Well...”

“Oh, god.”

 

---

 

The bar they choose to meet is small, favored by SHIELD agents, comfortable, and not at all classy. It should be just another night, but when they enter, Bobbi immediately starts to panic. Natasha is fucking gorgeous, petite and curvy and with a face like a collector's edition Barbie. She looks like she should be drinking fine wine in an evening gown, not leaning against a counter with a generic bottle of beer and dressed like a college student who’s just come from helping a friend move apartments. 

Laura stands on her toes to whisper “Told you so” in Bobbi’s ear.

“Smartass,” Bobbi grumbles, nudging Laura a little too hard.

“Hey!” Clint shouts, waving them over. He kisses Laura on the cheek and then she kisses him on the mouth because they’re just gross like that.

“Do you have to?” his friend mutters, rolling her eyes.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Bobbi says. “They’re perpetually in the honeymoon phase, and they’re not even married yet. It’s nasty.”

“I’m Natasha,” says Natasha, holding out a hand. Of course Bobbi knows this, of course she knows all about the ex-Russian operative that Clint singlehandedly reformed out of the goodness of his heart. His motives are totally pure, because he’s so smitten with Laura and because he’s not a lech, but as creepy as it sounds, Bobbi would definitely understand if that wasn’t the case. She’s having a few impure thoughts about Natasha, and they just met.

“Bobbi.” It’s very likely that Natasha knows this, too, that Clint has talked up his girlfriend’s mentee at length (or that Natasha has done her research; they’re spies, it’s not unusual). It’s polite to say, though.

“Bobbi, not Barbara,” Natasha says.

“Not Barbara,” Bobbi agrees, grimacing. “It sounds so… fussy.”

“You’re very far from fussy,” Natasha says. It’s not a question, even though it could be.

Grinning, Laura cuts in to say, “She’s got her peculiarities, but you learn to deal with them.”

Bobbi makes a face. “Which one of us brought her knitting project on a stakeout?”

“Which one of us recites the periodic table when she gets stressed out?”

“Which one of us has names picked out for the cats she doesn’t even have?”

“Which one of us treats her weapons like a security blanket?”

“Weapons in general, or specific weapons?” Natasha interjects, batting her eyelashes. 

“Batons,” Bobbi says. “I, uh.” She sighs and turns to show Natasha the holster she’s wearing. “I just like having them with me. Just in case.”

“Security blanket,” Laura repeats.

“Security measure,” Bobbi corrects. “Besides, if you give me shit, you have to give your boyfriend shit too.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Laura says smugly, nestling into Clint’s arms with a smile. (His bow and arrows are, sure enough, currently in a duffel bag on the stool between him and the bar.)

“I understand it,” Natasha shrugs. “We live dangerous lives. Don’t most of us carry guns? It’s no different than that.”

“Thank you,” Bobbi says. “It’s not weird.”

“It’s a little weird,” Laura says fondly. To Natasha she explains, “The last time we were in Paris, this one thought she lost her batons. She was more upset than I’ve seen her after breakups.”

“That’s because when I break up with someone, it’s on purpose and because I want to,” Bobbi points out.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re such a mankiller,” Laura laughs. “Ladykiller. Personkiller.”

“I think we’ve all killed people,” Natasha says quietly, glancing at her feet.

Immediately, Laura frowns. “I meant it euphemistically,” she says. “Not… I’m not trying to…”

Natasha holds her eyes for a moment, then bursts out laughing. “I’m aware of euphemisms, Laura. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hey,” Clint says, mock-offended. “Not all of us tease that rough, kid.”

“She should be used to it by now,” Natasha retorts. “Old man.”

It’s clear to Bobbi that Natasha has already been fully folded into this little family, and she suddenly feels like the outsider. She’s known Laura longer than Natasha has known any of them, of course, but Clint treats Natasha like a little sister, so Laura does the same. She’s just the awkward friend who could be easily removed from the equation.

It’s not a totally new feeling for Bobbi (who, allegedly contrary to her conventional attractiveness and apparent confidence, has been That Weird Girl in countless social situations) but it kind of sucks.

Apparently, her moody internal monologue is playing out on her face, because Natasha raises an eyebrow at her and says, “Tell me more about you. These nosy bastards expect us to hit it off, and I have a feeling that they might be right. This time.”

Bobbi tries to shake off her doubt hearing that. This shouldn’t be hard, especially if Natasha is into her. She just feels thrown for a loop. “Well,” she says, “I started out in biochem, actually. Winding up in ops was kind of an accident.”

“You’re clearly skilled, though,” Natasha says. “And passionate about it.” She waves vaguely at the batons.

“I get a little too restless in the lab,” Bobbi admits. “I grew up wanting to be Captain America or, I don’t know, Princess Leia or something. I thought superheroes were the coolest thing ever. SHIELD lets me do the world-saving thing, even if I don’t get the comic book glory, and that’s the important part.”

“It is,” Natasha says. “It’s what matters in the end. Helping people. Making up for…” She shakes her head (it's clearly better not to go down that path) and changes the subject, smiling flirtatiously. “If you were a superhero, though…”

“What?” Bobbi asks, tilting her head.

“What would your name be?” Natasha asks. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bobbi demurs, actually blushing. (She’s flustered by, well, how flustered she is.)

“You must have thought about it,” Natasha presses, smirking.

Bobbi bites her lip. “I guess I’ve got a few ideas,” she says hesitantly, because she doesn't want to immediately out herself as the huge dork she is.

“Yes?” Natasha prompts.

“Mockingbird,” Laura interjects proudly. “She’s going to be Mockingbird. And she’s gonna be great.”

Chapter 3: so we ran away to somewhere more secluded

Summary:

Jessica/Misty/Trish/Colleen; Gunpowder Milkshake AU.

Notes:

Specifically, Jess' first introduction to the librarian polycule she's about to jump into.

This movie was alright, but honestly, I want a whole trilogy just about the librarians.

Trish is usually the one who sits at the front desk because she’s the best at dealing with the few random strangers that wander in and assume that this is actually a conventional library. She looks the most like a librarian, albeit the kind of cute stylized just-a-little-sexy one you’d find in vintage pinup art; once Misty even found her a “reading is sexy” decal with one such character on it, a blonde in a yellow sweater and a black skirt riding up to reveal her thigh-high stockings who’s reading a book and coyly biting her finger.

“It’s you, kitten,” Misty laughed. “Down to the outfit.”

Trish had, in fact, been wearing a yellow sweater that day, and she did, in fact, have several more in her closet, but she didn’t feel too silly about it. After all, Misty and Colleen both had their colors too (red for Misty, white for Colleen).

She’s sitting there this afternoon, idly flipping through As You Like It for the fortieth time when the library door slams open. At first she thinks it’s another lost stranger, another person who’s about to have an innocuous book pressed into their hands before being sent away, but whoever it is doesn’t approach.

“Hello?” Trish calls out, sounding more apprehensive than she really feels.

“Shit,” the stranger says. She probably thinks she’s being quiet, and she probably is in a technical sense; Trish just has particularly keen hearing.

She also hears a rifle cocking on the second floor; that’s Misty, getting into position. She won’t make herself known unless the interloper threatens Trish, but she’s ready.

“Hello,” Trish repeats, sing-songing it this time. “Can I help you?”

The stranger clears her throat and comes a little closer, her footsteps uneven. “I kind of doubt it,” she says. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

Trish tilts her head. “Which place were you looking for?”

“Not a goddamn Barnes and Noble,” the stranger snarks.

With a scoff, Colleen appears from one of the aisles, katana on her back as usual. “Oh, that’s a low blow,” she says, and with a fake sort of smile she joins the stranger, loops an arm around her waist, and steers her up toward the help desk.

“Oh, dear,” Trish says, getting a good look at the newcomer. She’s dark-haired, leather-jacketed, and bleeding from an ugly bullet wound on her right arm. “You can come down, Misty,” she calls. “We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

Colleen raises an eyebrow, but instead of chastizing Trish for being too idealistic (like she’s done before) she leans the stranger against the desk and asks, “Who are you?”

The stranger makes a face. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to share my tragic backstory with some random librarians.”

Misty appears behind Trish, setting one hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “You never said what you were trying to find,” she points out. “We can start with that.”

The stranger glances from Misty to Trish to Colleen and sighs. “I was told about a place I could get my hand on some… protection,” she says cagily. “I need to keep some people off my back.”

“What makes you think we can’t help with that?” Trish asks with a bright smile. “What are you looking for? Something modern, something classic?”

“Something lethal,” the woman says skeptically.

“Grab a James Ellroy for - what’s your name?” Trish suggests, shifting her attention from Colleen to the stranger.

“Jessica,” the stranger says, sort of grudgingly.

As Trish blows her a kiss, Colleen darts off into the stack, and when she returns, there’s a copy of the novel LA Confidential in her hands. “Here,” she says.

“I kind of doubt this will help,” Jessica says. “I guess I could throw it at someone’s head, but that’s kind of a one-time trick.”

“Open it up,” Trish coaxes.

So Jessica does. To her surprise, it’s not a book at all, but the shell of one boxing in a revolver. “Oh,” she says. “That’s…”

“What it is is something we’re not gonna let you keep until we get that arm of yours cleaned up,” Misty says, snatching the “book” from Jessica’s hand. “C’mon. While we work on that, you can explain yourself.”

Colleen herds Jessica back behind the counter and Trish and Misty go to pull bandages and antiseptic off the shelf before joining them. 

“How about you explain yourselves first?” Jessica says archly. “So I know who I’m putting my life in the hands of.”

“Trish,” Trish says, pointing to herself and then the others in turn. “Misty. Colleen. We run this library.”

“Uh-huh,” Jessica says, wincing as Colleen helps her get her jacket off. “That’s a hell of a code. And you’re all…” She trails off, staring at each of them and the way they, in turn, stare at each other.

“Killers?” Colleen asks.

“Badasses?” Misty asks.

“Girlfriends?” Trish asks.

“The answer is yes,” they all say in unison.

“That was weirdly choreographed,” Jessica remarks.

“We’ve had practice,” Misty cracks. “It gonna be a problem?”

“Nah,” Jessica drawls. “I just wanted to get everything clear.”

Chapter 4: you in all your glory, it's not confession, baby don't apologize

Summary:

Yelena/Kate; The Locked Tomb AU.

Notes:

As such.

This is a little different, in that it's narrated from the POV of someone who's not involved in the ship at all (Wanda, although she is not analogous to Gideon, the POV character of her own novel, but Dulcinea). I decided to write Yelena and Kate as being from the Fourth house and I really wanted to keep the vibes of them being seen as bratty trash kids (roughly fifteen/sixteen years old in this case) who are constantly whispering to each other; as such, I needed the narrator-of-sorts to be someone that wasn't them and didn't previously know them.

The amount of lore needed to just write this short snippet of a story is... a lot, and I brainstormed with both Shadowcrawler and another friend of ours. Who represents which house will be listed in the end notes if you're curious.

No one here is terribly old, except Teacher of course, but the pair from the Fourth are practically still children. The cavalier looks like she’d take anyone on in a fight, because of or despite the fact that nearly everyone could outmatch her in the physical sense; the necromancer tries to act tough but keeps looking around wide-eyed and touching the outrageously archaic bow and arrow set she wears to make sure it hasn’t slipped off her.

These are the first things Wanda notices about them.

It’s the advantage of her condition, the luxury of learning and seeing everything that goes on but not being considered a threat. She’s as much of a necromancer as any of the others, there’s no denying her gift, but she’s too weak to do much of anything with it. She just gets to sit and stare, and nobody much pays attention to her (except her brother, of course, who’s ever ready to defend or protect her, or just to speed off and get her a snack or a new novel).

She’s fascinated by the blonde Ninth cavalier, painted and dressed like a proper dignified tomb maiden but carrying herself just a little too brashly. She’s intrigued by the twins from the Third, him arrogant and smug and her quiet and dangerous. She wants to rescue the Eighth cav from his nose-in-the-air necromancer. She develops opinions about, learns the personalities of everyone else milling around the First House, and knows they only see her as a tragically beautiful ghost-girl with sweet words to spare.

The girls from the Fourth keep drawing her attention, though. They seem pulled from the pages of a feel-good novel about friends who do things against all odds (the sort of novel that’s written for children even younger than them, to instill a sort of optimism in them that the real world will beat back down). They’re the kind of people she was never allowed to be, the kind of people her body has kept her from being.

She’s rooting for them, she realizes. She sort of knows she won’t meet whatever final goal they’ve been brought here by the Emperor to fulfill, that she’s on borrowed time; she wants to pick winners in her stead. The Ninth women seem capable (she’s always had a soft spot for their house, in all its mystery and unlikeliness), the Second are determined, the Fifth and Sixth have all of the expertise needed…

But there’s just something about the Fourth.

She learns their names and histories mostly from eavesdropping; Katherine, the necromancer, has a distant mother and a dead father and an itch to prove herself. She insists on training physically alongside her cavalier despite the fact that she’s lanky and half as strong (that’s the necromantic curse, Wanda understands all too well). Yelena, the cavalier, doesn’t have any family at all and is unfailingly devoted to her partner. She’s got a quick temper and a surprisingly cold head for logic. They’ve tried and failed to join the Cohort twice; they’re probably good enough to have been accepted, but their attempts have been thwarted (it seems like it may have something to do with the Second House’s pair, Steven and Natalia, who seem protective and even a little bit fond of them). They’re never seen apart, and often seen touching in ways they think are casual.

They’re old enough to hold their own in these trials, but they’re young enough that they don’t know (or care) to play polite through them. They’re forever shoving each other playfully but a little too hard, tugging each other’s braids, muttering snide or bratty things when they think nobody else can hear them.

(“I can’t tell if the Sixth are brothers or lovers,” Yelena snarks.

“I don’t think it’s either,” Katherine replies, “but it’s not for Antonius’ lack of trying.”)

Wanda hears them, and she sees them sitting down with the other pairs at meals or heading off to spar with them (or exploring the seemingly endless corridors of the First House, though that’s only done with their counterparts from the Second). She knows it’s only a matter of time before they plop down across from her and Pietro and subject them to the kind of blunt grilling everyone else has suffered through.

Maybe a week after they’ve all arrived, the pair does, in fact, join them at breakfast. Katherine looks curious, like she might just want to be friends; Yelena looks like she’s sizing up a potential enemy.

It’s sort of cute, though Wanda would never tell them that.

“When do you train?” Yelena asks Pietro, almost accusatory. “I’ve never seen you at it with the rest of us.”

(“That’s so rude,” Katherine hisses, “he probably can’t leave her alone.”)

Pietro shrugs cheerfully. “I find time,” he says. “Our paths just haven’t crossed.”

“If you’re twins,” Yelena says, “why aren’t you both…” She waves a hand dismissively. She could mean necromancers, or she could mean ill, or she could mean something else entirely.

Now it’s Wanda’s turn to shrug. “Nobody knows,” she says. “I’m the one that came out like expected.”

“I’m just an added bonus,” Pietro says brightly. “It’s good. Means there’s someone to keep her out of trouble.”

“I’ve seen you and the Ninth cav,” Katherine interjects, looking straight into Wanda’s eyes and grinning wickedly. “You get into a little bit of trouble.”

“Oh, Carol’s no trouble at all,” Wanda says, just as playful. “She’s very good company, in fact. Doesn’t mind listening to me go on, and she’s willing to stay with me when Pietro needs a break.”

(“Good company sounds like a euphemism,” Yelena mutters.)

“It just seems like you’re close,” Katherine presses. “Close in a way that isn’t necessarily…”

“Isn’t necessarily what?” Wanda asks, even though she’s fairly sure she knows. 

“Well, done,” Katherine murmurs, suddenly embarrassed. “There are rules about that sort of thing, aren’t there? Between houses, between…”

(“Emperor’s ass, Kate,” Yelena hisses, “could you be any more obvious?”)

Wanda looks between them and feels an earlier suspicion of hers becoming a fact. They really are like something from a novel: the barely postadolescent necro/cav bonded pair who accidentally bonded a little too much. They’ve been close for years, possibly their whole lives, and it’s no wonder that turned into something more, something not quite forbidden but not quite accepted either. They’re young, and it could just be hormonal, but the way they look at each other, the way they’re pressed together at every opportunity, the way they get feral when someone upsets the other, it might even be love.

It makes Wanda want to root for them even more.

“There are rules about marrying,” Wanda says, “specifically about necromancers marrying outside their house, but marrying is only one way to express that sort of thing.” She smiles, just a little too sharp. “The two of you can get away with it, I’d say.”

“God!” Yelena exclaims, burying her (bright red) face in her hands. “You just had to push, Kate. Ugh, how embarrassing.”

“Well, I got an answer from her, didn’t I?” Katherine retorts, though she’s also blushing.

“Don’t worry,” Wanda says, “I’ll take it to my grave if you’d prefer.”

Yelena makes a face. “You don’t have to be so morbid about it.”

“Comes naturally, I’m afraid,” Wanda hums.

Notes:

*necromancer, ~cavalier

Teacher: Coulson, honestly.
The Second House, The Emperor's Strength, The House of the Crimson Shield, The Centurion's House: Natalia (Natasha)*, Steven (Steve)~
The Third House, The Mouth of the Emperor, The House of the Shining Dead, The Procession: Sylvie*, Loki*, Hailstrum~ (he's just a random frost giant, it doesn't really matter)
The Fourth House, The Hope of the Emperor, The Emperor's Sword: Katherine (Kate)*, Yelena~
The Fifth House, The Heart of the Emperor, The Watchers over the River: Thor*, Sif~
The Sixth House, The Emperor's Reason, The Master Wardens: Antonius (Tony)*, Bruce~
The Seventh House, The Joy of the Emperor, The Rose Unblown: Wanda*, Pietro~
The Eighth House, The Keepers of the Tome, The Forgiving House: Strange*, Wong~
The Ninth House, The House of the Sewn Tongue, The Anchorite's House, The House of Heretical Secrets: Maria (R.)*, Carol~

If I write more of this, I'll probably make more of the names fancy, but I couldn't figure good translations out quickly.

Without spoiling the actual novel, I will also say that who lives/dies/is close to each other/etcetera in this version is not necessarily the same as canon.

Chapter 5: don't need persuading, if you'll play, I'm playing

Summary:

Karolina/Nico; Booksmart AU.

Notes:

Karolina is Amy. Gert is Molly. Nico is Goth antisocial queer Gigi.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Karolina whirls around. There, halfway-melted over the banister and decked out in gaudy plastic jewels and a black faux-fur shrug, pouting through purple-painted lips, is Nico.

“Same goes,” Karolina says, pushing hair behind her ear. “Weren’t you just living it up on -”

“Alex was only throwing that yacht party to satisfy his mom,” Nico says, sounding bored. “We decided to call it quits when the guests all left.”

The only guests were, of course, Karolina and Gert.

“And then you did a magical girl transformation into a Goth flapper and found yourself here?” Karolina asks. She’s trying to be unflappable around Nico, who never seems particularly affected by anything. It’s probably not working.

Nico shrugs and actually honest-to-god flops, leaning backward so she’s looking at Karolina upside-down. “It’s a theme party,” she says. “At least I got the message.”

“I didn’t know what kind of party it was,” Karolina defends. “We just…”

The real answer is that they’ve been following the trail of other people’s parties on Instagram all night in hopes of finding the rager where Gert can stare at and maybe even talk to Chase, but saying that would be such a violation of Gert’s trust.

“Well, come on, then,” Nico says, reaching for Karolina’s hand. “Let’s get you ready for the murder mystery.”

Karolina blinks. Gert is nowhere to be seen, and it’s possible some of the drama kids have dragged her off for the same purpose; if they’re going to hover around this weird spectacle of a party, she might as well try to play along.

(She likes the way she’s dressed, but her bell-bottoms and braided hair are way more 1970s than 1920s. She sticks out in a big way.)

She follows Nico up the stairs. Her heart is beating in her ears, which she tries to convince herself is totally about the fact that this is a new and weird situation and not at all about the way Nico is making eyes at her. It probably doesn’t mean anything. She’s just being flirtatious because she’s Nico and she’s weird and sometimes she just gets in this kind of mood. She would probably be flirting with Gert too if Gert hadn’t disappeared into the drama club ether.

The silence feels a little too awkward, so Karolina says, “I didn’t realize you were a drama kid.”

“School is out,” Nico replies airily. “I’m everything and nothing.”

“Uh,” Karolina says, “sure.”

Nico drags her into a bedroom just off the landing and sits Karolina on the absurdly fluffy bed, then goes to rummage in a pile of bedazzled dresses.

“Whose house even is this?” Karolina asks. 

“Not sure,” Nico says, like that’s totally normal. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone just got an Airbnb ‘cause it fit the whole Agatha Christie vibe.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the most extravagant thing a Brentwood kid ever did for a party,” Karolina says. She hates how nervous she sounds, or for that matter how obvious it is that she’s never actually been to these parties and she’s just assuming based on the gossip she’s overheard.

Nico makes a noncommittal noise and whirls around with a pink-and-white dress in her arms. “Try this,” she says. “It suits you. It’s innocent, but there’s a hint of something more.”

“What something more?” Karolina asks, a little suspicious. She can’t tell if that’s a compliment (suggesting that her usual goody-two-shoes thing is only a part of who she is) or an insult (that there’s potentially something dark or weird, possibly pertaining to her crazy parents’ crazy religious stuff).

“I’m not sure,” Nico says, handing Karolina the dress and actually slow-blinking like a cat. “I think I want to find out, though.”

Karolina feels her cheeks heat up. “Uh,” she says again. “Okay, uh. Let me just…” 

She stands up, turns away from Nico, and starts undressing as quickly as she can. She doesn’t actually mind if Nico watches, so she’s not going to tell her not to, but she doesn’t want to say that and make it weird. She’s just trying to get through this.

“I’ll zip you up,” Nico offers.

Apparently, Karolina doesn’t need to say anything, because Nico definitely was watching, and given her sultry tone of voice, she doesn’t mind. She might even like it.

“Yeah, okay,” Karolina says.

Nico steps up behind her and oh-so-slowly pulls the zipper up, then presses her lips to Karolina’s shoulder. Off Karolina’s shudder, she asks, “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Karolina repeats. “Um… yeah.”

Nico starts to kiss across Karolina’s exposed shoulders and neck, taking her sweet time about it. She puts her hands on Karolina’s waist, then slowly turns her around, and they’re about to kiss for real, it’s going to happen, they’re going to -

There’s a shrill scream from downstairs.

“Guess the mystery is starting,” Nico says, pulling back but taking Karolina’s hand. “Let’s go play.”

Chapter 6: feels so pretty, just a little place meant for us

Summary:

Crystal/Snowflake; gaysmr.

Notes:

Shoutout to ASMRrequests, Ediyasmr, and SemideCoco, whose videos very much inspired Crystal's ASMR (because they're the kind of ASMR that I personally like best). Of course, the "gay" in "gaysmr" is my own addition.

“Lay down, babe,” Crystal says fondly, putting a gauzy orange scarf over her lamp to soften the light.

Snowflake tugs on the bikini top and boyshorts she’s wearing. “I don’t know why I need these on,” she says. “You don’t make me wear clothes during normal massages.”

“Pretty sure I can’t show your nipples on YouTube,” Crystal giggles. “Or your ass.” She shakes her head fondly. “There’s a reason I usually film you for sitting-up fully-clothed treatments.”

“Dumb prudes,” Snowflake huffs. She gets down on the table, but instead of getting in place she strikes a stupid sexy pose, knowing it’ll get a reaction out of Crystal.

Sure enough, when she turns around she bursts out laughing. “Very nice,” she says, favoring her girlfriend with a little whistle, “but I can’t exactly work on you like that.”

“Fine,” Snowflake says. “Kiss before we start?”

Crystal nods and flits over to kiss Snowflake, then urges her to lay flat. “C’mon,” she says.

“Okay, okay,” Snowflake says. She flips over onto her tummy and stretches out, making a little contented cat noise as she does. Literally, she smirks and says “Mrrrp.”

“Goofy,” Crystal says. She pulls the sheet up to Snowflake’s shoulders and then smooths it over her. “I’m gonna go turn the camera on, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay,” Snowflake hums, settling in. 

Crystal heads over to her stereo and gets the music playing (it’s exactly the kind of instrumental stuff you’d find in a spa or a yoga studio, gentle flutes and strings and songs that sort of just melt into each other) before pressing record.

“Hey, everyone,” she says, her voice soft. She doesn’t really whisper in her videos; she doesn’t love the way that sounds. She just stays quiet and gentle and as pleasant as she can. It’s the kind of video she likes to watch, and her viewers seem to like it too. “It’s Crystal here. I hope you’re all staying healthy and happy and trying to leave the world a little better than you found it. I have my girlfriend Snowflake here with me today. Say hi, Snow.”

“Hi,” Snowflake murmurs, drawing the vowel out. (Crystal has said that she always gets a ton of comments when Snowflake appears in videos from people who just loooove her accent, and as such, she tries to give the people what they want. Crystal also looooves her accent, so it works out for everyone.)

“We’re gonna keep it simple today,” Crystal says. “Just some hairplay and light massage to get Snow feeling so relaxed and ready for bed.”

“Ooh, sexy,” Snowflake says wryly.

“I’m so gonna have to edit that out,” Crystal sighs before she gets back into character. “Before we get started, Snow, you wanna help me pick out a candle for this session?”

“Yeah!” Snowflake says, just a little too eager (because, well, candles mean fire).

“Don’t you get up,” Crystal says pointedly. “I’m just gonna list off a few I have around. We’ve got lavender for relaxation, a nice citrus for reducing stress and improving your mood, ooh, there’s a warm vanilla for -”

“That one,” Snowflake interrupts. “Vanilla. At least something will be.”

“Editing that out too,” Crystal says, shaking her head. “But okay, vanilla it is. This one is good for relaxation and also making you feel joyful. Of course it is! It’s got that sweet baking cookies scent that just reminds you of happy childhood moments.”

“Or happy adult moments,” Snowflake offers. “We still bake cookies, Crys.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Crystal says. “We made these really great gluten-free sugar cookies last week. I got the recipe from our new friend Gilgamesh, he has a really great cooking and baking channel and the recipes are super-easy to follow along with. His links are gonna be in the description so you guys can check them out.”

“The cookies were really yummy,” Snowflake says. “Just like -”

“The other recipes we’ve tried from his collection,” Crystal cuts in. She knows exactly where that comment would have gone otherwise, and she doesn’t like having to make too many cuts in her videos because it ruins the flow. “I’m just going to light this candle, then, and we’ll get started.”

She hears Snowflake snickering to herself.

Once the candle is lit and set on an end table that’s out of the way but still in frame, Crystal comes to sit on the little rolling stool she keeps by the massage table. “Doing good?” she asks.

“Always, sunshine,” Snowflake hums, turning her head so Crystal can see her smile.

“Great,” Crystal says. “I have this beautiful jade comb here.” She drums her fingernails against it a few times. “I’m just going to run that through your hair a few times to get out any knots.”

“Good luck,” Snowflake says, “I’m awful knotty. Get it, knot -”

“Yeah, I get it,” Crystal chuckles. She combs through Snowflake’s hair a few times, going as slow as possible for that extra tingle factor, and then she sets the comb down and starts gently massaging Snowflake’s scalp. “I know you like this,” she says fondly.

“Yeah, I do,” Snowflake purrs. “You’ve got really magic fingers.”

Crystal shakes her head but decides she’ll probably leave that in; it’s a reasonable-enough thing to say to someone regarding massages. “When you think of tension areas, you might not think of your scalp right away,” she says instead, “but you actually have a ton of nerve endings there. You can carry a lot of tension in the scalp, but on the other hand, it can feel really incredible to massage it.”

“Yeeeah,” Snowflake sighs happily. She’s blissed out enough that she doesn’t immediately make a comment about erogenous zones, which Crystal counts as a blessing. “Go into my neck a little? There’s a spot that just keeps twitching.”

Obligingly, Crystal lets her hands slip down. “It’s all connected back here,” she says for her camera’s benefit. “You’ve got your scalp, you’ve got all the little muscles back here at the base of your skull, in your occipital lobe…” She works her fingers over the spot. “And all that can be affected by everything we do every day. Working at a desk, driving a car…” 

“Forward-head posture,” Snowflake slurs happily. She’s learned a lot of Crystal’s terminology.

“Right,” Crystal says. “And then that can affect the neck, so you get really tense in the scalenes…” She trails off and works on Snowflake’s for a minute (Snowflake lets out a little happy gasp). “Or you’ve got your sternocleidomastoid, that’s a big one where you can get trigger points. Is that where you’re sore, babe?”

“Yeah, right there,” Snowflake coaxes. “Ugh, that’s awful.”

“Just take a deep breath and try to relax into it,” Crystal says. “Breathe in… hold it for a second, then breathe out.” Once they’ve done this together and Snowflake is even floppier, Crystal grins and, video be damned, she leans down to kiss Snowflake’s neck really quickly before she starts in massaging it.

“Incredible,” Snowflake breathes.

Chapter 7: I love that we're different, you got something that I'm missing

Summary:

Katy/Xialing; cat influencers AU.

Notes:

Shoutout to the Nala Cat family (Nala, Coffee, Luna Rose, Stella, Apollo, Goose, Spencer, their humans; RIP Steve) who were absolutely the inspiration for this story.

All of the cats in the story are currently available on Petfinder in the San Francisco area. The story isn't really about them as individual cats, except Tangerine, but I recommend looking them all up if you want to fall in love.

“Honey, I’m home,” Katy calls, letting herself in through the garage. 

Xialing is doing work at the dining table (she can spread out here and besides that it’s in full view of the kitchen so she can, theoretically, supervise d-i-n-n-e-r if she needs to) and she pauses to (somewhat parodyingly) hold her papers down with both arms as a small stampede of cats comes passing by to greet their mom.

(“You’re totally their mom too,” Katy has insisted.

“You’re their mom,” Xialing always says. “I’m their stepmom or their cool aunt.”

“C’mon, they love you!” 

“Yes, but they love you more.”)

She hears a suspicious hiss (it sounds like it’s coming from Butch, who’s one of the more nervous cats in their bunch) and turns around in her chair to watch Katy (with four cats winding around her ankles) stumble into the room.

With a cat carrier in her arms.

“Katy,” Xialing says warily.

“Xialing,” Katy grins.

“Katy,” Xialing repeats. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Katy asks innocently.

Xialing motions to the cat carrier. “Did you adopt another cat?” she asks, even though it’s obvious.

“Mayyybe,” Katy says slowly. 

“Katy,” Xialing says again.

“Okay, fine,” Katy sighs. “Can I set the carrier down?”

Xialing sighs too, much more loudly, and quickly gathers up all of her papers so Katy can put the carrier on the table. (Despite it being the dining table, they never actually dine at it unless they’re hosting Katy’s family and trying to pretend they’re actually as fancy as the giant house they live in, at which point they’ve deep-cleaned the place.) 

“Alright,” Katy says, “I want you to meet…” She pauses for dramatic effect and opens the carrier door. “Tangerine!”

A little orange kitten hops out of the carrier, sniffing curiously; on the floor, the gathered cats (Butch, Minnie, Inky, Bree) start mewing and sniffing and trying to stretch to get a better look, and soon Emmett, Tigger, Stripes, and Diamond all wander in with the same intention. Tangerine doesn’t give a damn, though: she’s intent on rubbing against Xialing’s torso (of course she’s wearing a black shirt) and purring loudly.

“An instant success!” Katy narrates, slipping her phone out of her pocket and starting to snap pictures. 

“I’m not presentable,” Xialing complains, waving dismissively at Katy.

“Oh, shut up,” Katy says, “you’re always hot. But I’ll crop your face out if you insist. I just want to show everyone how friendly our new baby is.”

Xialing grumbles a little, but Tangerine is insistent. When Xialing finally starts to pet her, she chirps and reaches up to knead, well…

“Good choice, Tangerine,” Katy crows. “I’m a boobs girl myself.”

“It’s very cute, but you know how to take care of your fingernails,” Xialing points out, making a face. “She has claws.”

“Okay, fine,” Katy sighs, and she works to detach said claws from Xialing’s shirt. “Paws, not claws,” she says to the kitten. It’s one of her favorite mantras (even though it’s very possible that none of the cats actually understand what she means when she says it).

“Yes, that’s better,” Xialing coos, rubbing Tangerine’s head fondly.

“She won you over,” Katy says proudly.

“I guess one more cat can’t hurt,” Xialing says.

“And she’s got that whole kitten thing going on,” Katy says. “Not like I’m going to throw her out on the street the minute she becomes an adult, obviously, but kittens are really good for views.”

“So she was a business decision?” Xialing asks archly.

“I mean, no, she was a ‘look at him face’ decision,” Katy says. “Even though, y’know, her face. But it won’t hurt on the business end. I’m thinking maybe… at hello tangerine cat? No spaces.”

“You’d know better than me,” Xialing says. She strokes down Tangerine’s body as she passes in front of her, turns, and comes back the other way.

Katy nods, and before Xialing can register it, she’s switched to video mode. “Hey, guys,” she says. “Just wanted to formally introduce you all to our newest family member.” She zooms in on Tangerine, currently purring into Xialing’s stomach. “This is Tangerine, and it looks like she already picked a favorite mom.”

Chapter 8: I’ve got emotions of my own, a tidal wave of feelings to ride

Summary:

Karen/Colleen; film noir.

Notes:

Mentions of violence and period-typical racism/sexism/homophobia.

“My usual,” Colleen murmurs, sidling up to the bar.

May nods her acknowledgement and gets to making the drink. “Someone’s looking for you,” she says.

Colleen’s eyebrow goes up. “The kind of someone I should be worried about?” she asks. She trusts May to know that sort of thing.

“I’d be a hell of a hypocrite to tell you to worry about tall blondes,” May smirks. She passes the old fashioned across the counter and nods toward a booth in the corner, where, sure enough, there sits a leggy blonde nursing a martini and scribbling something in a little notebook.

Colleen takes her drink and goes to slide in across from the woman. “Well, here I am,” she says.

“Ms. Wing?” the blonde asks, holding out her hand. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Karen Page.”

“From the Bulletin,” Colleen supplies. She shakes Karen’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“If you’d expected it, you would have planned for it, and if you planned for it, someone could’ve found out,” Karen says in a low voice. “If someone found out…”

“Right,” Colleen says. She doesn’t know why, exactly, Karen is paranoid about this, but she’s lived long enough in the world to understand it. 

They sip their drinks in silence for a minute before Karen chances to say, “I saw your latest picture.”

“It’s not my picture,” Colleen says immediately. “I wasn’t on screen. I didn’t write it or direct it.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been the same without your work,” Karen says. “An action flick isn’t anything without the action, and if you hadn’t guided it -”

“Someone still would’ve,” Colleen shrugs. She’s proud of her work, knows she’s one of the best fight choreographers working in Hollywood, but she doesn’t usually get to show off about it. The studio only started using her full name in the credits after she’d been spotted on sets too much to ignore, and they’re still hesitant to let her make public appearances or do interviews. Maybe that’s why Karen hesitated. It’s definitely why she’s used to playing demure.

“It wouldn’t have been as good,” Karen insists. She pauses, takes another drink, asks softly, “They really don’t like it, do they? What you do.”

“They don’t like that I’m the one who does it,” Colleen says, “but they like that it’s done, so they have to deal with me.”

Karen snorts. “Yeah,” she says, “I know that one.”

“You must get some of that,” Colleen says. “In your field.”

“Some,” Karen says. “Nobody makes much of a fuss when I’m reporting on fashion or movies or shallow social stuff. It’s when I start edging into crime and politics that I get pushback.”

Maybe that’s why she hesitated, Colleen thinks. They didn’t discuss it on the phone; Karen had just asked for a couple quotes about Rand’s recent, dramatic exit from the studio and its upcoming films. Just color and verification of facts she’d heard, getting an insider’s opinion. (She wasn’t planning to mention Colleen by name, just as a “source close to the star,” so it was fair game.)

But it’s no secret that the studio has connections to the criminal underworld. Most of the details are still under wraps (because there are a lot of reporters who are in the pockets of the same crime lords) but everyone in town has heard stories. Someone’s neighbor’s uncle was working on a picture and accidentally saw someone carrying out a hit; someone’s cousin’s friend got paid off to keep a secret. Maybe it’s just a money-laundering kind of thing, productions being funded by criminal enterprises and paying the criminals in turn; maybe it’s more serious than that.

Colleen knows the truth, but god, she wishes she didn’t.

“That so,” she says carefully.

“It’s too dangerous for a woman, they say,” Karen remarks. “Maybe I won’t even understand, and maybe if I do it’ll get me hurt or killed.”

“There is always that risk,” Colleen nods, “but that’s true no matter if you’re a man or a woman or what.”

“You’d know from experience, I guess?” Karen asks quietly.

“I’ve had to fight off a couple would-be attackers before,” Colleen says, even though that’s not the point Karen’s making and she knows it. Even if she wasn’t criminal-adjacent just by working at the studio, she’s an Asian woman. She spent most of the war in New York, hiding from people that wanted to cart her off to an internment camp just because of her Japanese blood and people who’d treat her like an exotic toy because of her Chinese side. More than once, she’s nearly been assaulted just by virtue of being a woman alone, and she’s only gotten out of it because, unbeknownst to the attackers, she knows how to defend herself. She’s nearly been caught in more than one raid on a club deemed “immoral” just because of who attends it.

“That’s not what I mean,” Karen says.

“You gonna spell it out, or do I have to guess?” Colleen asks, trying to sound cheerful.

“Well, you’re here,” Karen says. “That already tells me some of it.”

Oh.

The Playground, after all, caters to a certain clientele. Sure, there’s an uncomfortably large contingency of drunken lechers and bigoted criminals (not unlike the ones she deals with at work), but on some nights in particular there’s a higher-than-usual proportion of queers and women and people who aren’t white. Most bars wouldn’t brazenly employ a butch Chinese woman like May as their bartender. Most bars wouldn’t be nearly so safe for women with women or men with men or interracial couples just looking to have a nice, normal night. Colleen is obviously a woman, obviously not white, and the odds are that if she’s here (if she’s a known regular) she’s probably into women at least sometimes.

And if Karen knew to find her…

“You’re here too,” Colleen says, looking Karen in the eye for as long as she can manage.

“Yeah,” Karen says, tossing her hair. “I’m good at doing my research.”

Might as well stop beating around the bush, Colleen figures. “Are you here to grill me about my studio’s connection to the criminal underworld or are you here to get a date?” she asks.

“Why can’t it be both?” Karen asks wryly.

Chapter 9: I don't wanna let you love somebody else but me

Summary:

Kate/Hope S.; canon divergence.

Notes:

Specifically, I'm not saying that any of Hope's canonical friends are accountable for her getting kidnapped by Kilgrave. That would be absurd and unfair. However, I am saying that it might have been different if she went to school with and was close to Kate "superhero complex" Bishop.

TW for brief Kilgrave appearance.

I will never stop trying to save Hope Shlottman.

“I don’t know why I bothered coming,” Hope mumbles, tugging her hair.

“Because you deserve to get to blow off steam,” Kate says. She takes Hope by the shoulders and forces her to stand up a little straighter. “You’ve been working crazy-hard, and you kicked ass out there.”

“Number one, baby!” Greer shouts behind them.

“You need to get out and have a little fun,” Kate continues. 

Well, the indoor track season just ended, and Hope did, in fact, get the gold in the high jump; the outdoor season doesn’t start for another two weeks. Ideally, Hope would be using the break to rest up, let her body recover, stay healthy… 

But she’s in college. If ever there was a time to fuck around, this is it, and luckily, if ever there was someone to facilitate it, that’s Kate.

“Okay,” Hope says, faking a sigh. “Fine. But I reserve the right to change my mind.”

“Whoo!” Kate shouts, and she kisses Hope, then drags her into the bar.

 

---

 

Kate’s idea of fun and Hope’s idea of fun are, it turns out, two different things.

Franny orders shots for the table before they’ve even finished their first round of cocktails, and this gets most of the girls so buzzed that they decide to hit the dance floor. The thing is that this isn’t really the kind of club that has one of those, in the strictest sense; there are booths, there are pool tables, and there’s an expanse of floor where a clump of intoxicated thirty- and fortysomethings are swaying to the nineties music playing on the stereo. 

This isn’t much of a problem for a bunch of tipsy archery girls, though. They swarm the floor and start grinding and twerking and all manner of other things that embarrass Hope terribly. She’s glad she thought of the excuse that she was staying back and watching everyone’s coats and purses. 

She will concede that being a little drunk is nice. She’s just sitting in the booth surrounded by coats and playing stupid word games on her phone and feeling pleasantly fuzzy. And what would she be doing otherwise? Sitting in her room surrounded by blankets and rewatching some sitcom she’s seen before and feeling lonely, if Kate was so dead-set and determined to go out.

It’s better than nothing.

And then this guy slides into the booth across from Hope with a drink in hand. “The famous track star,” he says in a British accent. “Congratulations on your victory, love. Must have been hard-won.”

Hope can’t help it, she makes a face. This guy is way too old for her and she’s almost never interested in guys that hit on her just because she’s an award-winning athlete. (They’re better than the guys who treat her like shit because she’s an award-winning athlete, but that’s about it.)

“Yeah, I worked and trained really hard,” she says shortly, looking back at her phone. “It’s something I’ve always been passionate about.”

“It’s paid off,” the guy says. “You’re nothing short of phenomenal.”

“Thanks,” Hope says, trying to project that she doesn't want to talk to him without actually saying anything that will provoke him.

“You’re welcome,” the guy says, not getting the picture. “Here, have one on me.”

He slides the drink across the table to Hope.

“Uh,” Hope says. The first rule of being a girl at a bar is not accepting drinks from strange men, and as such, there’s practically a neon flashing “DANGEROUS CREEP” sign above the guy’s head. She knows this, but she can’t bring herself to do anything about it.

“C’mon, it’ll be nice,” he coaxes. “Let me show you a good time, hm?”

Before Hope can react, a pool ball flies across the room and hits the guy in the back of the head.

“Jesus Christ!” Hope shouts.

Kate comes running over, a little flushed, with the others on her heels. “Sorry, babe,” she says, reaching for everyone’s coats and starting to distribute them. “I should’ve seen him sooner. Better yet, I shouldn’t have let him even get a chance to bother you.”

Hope pulls her own coat on and takes a deep breath. “It’s okay,” she says.

“It’s really not,” Kate frowns. “Who knows what he was planning?”

“Something gross, probably,” Greer says, making a face. “Yikes.”

“Yikes indeed,” Kate agrees. She grabs Hope’s hand. “Next time I want to treat you to a night on the town, don’t let me pick the place, okay?” 

“There are creepy guys everywhere,” Hope points out. 

“Yeah,” Kate says, “but if we go someplace we both want to be, you won’t be left behind at the table while I go have fun. We’ll be doing things together, and if a creepy guy talks to you, I can fight him off before he has the chance to do anything.”

“I feel like I should say that oh, I can defend myself,” Hope says shakily, “but, uh, the night proves otherwise.”

“You’re too nice to hit a guy in the head with a pool ball,” Franny interjects. “It’s okay. Let your girl take care of you.”

“She’s both tough and foolhardy,” Greer agrees. “It’s her job and her natural talent.”

Hope looks from the two of them back to Kate and forces a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” she says, and she lifts Kate’s hand to kiss it as they head for the door. “I guess I can allow that.”

“Hey!” someone shouts behind them. “You coulda killed this guy!”

Kate’s eyes flash. “I didn’t,” she says under her breath, “but, uh, I think we oughta -”

“Run!” Franny and Greer shout, and the four of them dash out into the night before the guy or the bartender or whoever it was that just yelled can catch up with them.

Chapter 10: I see my heart beat inside a television screen

Summary:

Makkari/Sersi/Thena; reverse Scott Pilgrim AU.

Notes:

Which is to say, Sersi, her two girlfriends, and her four good pals have to defeat her one evil ex.

(Phastos and Ben are friends with everyone, too, but I decided to let them stay out of the drama.)

Makkari came to the venue straight from work, so of course she laced her skates back up when they were leaving and sped ahead.

(Makkari: age 23, gotta go fast.)

Sersi and Thena are hand-in-hand and taking their sweet time following her at, y’know, a normal walking speed. It seems like it’s just going to be one of those nice calm mostly-quiet moments they share (Thena is really good at that) when Thena says, “I got an email this morning.”

(Thena: age 26, drummer.)

“Oh?” Sersi asks, trying to stay casual. That’s a pretty vague statement, that could mean anything, but if it was just a spam message or an Amazon notification or something, why would Thena be bringing it up?

(Sersi: age 25, tidsoptimist.)

“Yes.” Thena clears her throat. “I thought it was a joke at first.”

“What did it say?” Sersi asks. She can feel her stomach sinking.

“It was from someone named Ikaris,” Thena continues. “He seemed to think he had a claim on you.”

Sersi heaves a sigh. “I was afraid of this,” she says. “We need to talk. All three of us.”

Thena nods and fires off a text to Makkari, and Makkari whirls around to stare at them as they catch up with her. “Is something wrong?” she signs, making a face.

“If we’re all going to date,” Sersi says, signing along as she does, “you may need to defeat my evil ex.”

“Just the one?” Makkari asks.

“Oh, that’s not too bad,” Thena says nonchalantly.

Sersi blinks, a little surprised. “It’s not exactly desirable,” she points out.

“I don’t mind a fight,” Thena says.

“Defeat,” Sersi interjects. “You’ll have to defeat him.”

“Fun,” Makkari remarks.

 

---

 

Sersi shows up to band practice ten minutes late as usual. Technically, Immortalia is just her, Thena, and Thena’s roommate and best friend Gil. Rehearsals are usually overpopulated, though; their friends have a habit of crashing.

“Is the hair a metaphor, then?” Druig asks, barely looking up from his GameBoy.

(Druig: age 22, resident little shit.)

Sersi wrinkles her nose and tugs on her hair (which was, in fact, dyed last night from green to blue). “Not intentionally,” she says. 

“It looks nice,” says Dane, as earnest as ever.

(Dane: age 25, the brains.)

“Who knew that you were the messy one of the group?” Kingo asks after a minute. He seems pleased by this realization.

(Kingo: age 25, incurably bi.)

Makkari reaches out to punch Kingo in the arm. “Don’t be an ass,” she signs.

“I dye my hair all the time,” Sersi says, a little baffled by the comment. “That’s nothing new.”

Thena rolls her eyes. “We told everyone about the ex-boyfriend situation,” she says, idly twirling her sticks.

“Oh,” Sersi says, and she feels her cheeks getting hot. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to…”

“What, be a bother?” Gil asks, making a face. “You’re not.”

(Gil: age 26, will punch it.)

“I don’t see any of you being haunted by evil exes,” Sersi sighs.

“And you wonder why I bang and run,” Kingo says.

“Not helping,” Makkari signs.

“I was young and dumb, alright?” Sersi says. She goes to sit next to Makkari, leaning her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. “I thought it was love. I thought he was the one.”

“What happened?” Dane asks. (He’s Sersi’s best friend, the one everyone assumes she’s dating. Maybe she could,  if she wasn’t with her girls, but that’s not what happened in this life.)

“I wanted romance, but he only wanted the idea of it,” Sersi says. “He took off when things got hard, and I pined, and I waited, and then one day I decided I had to get on with my life.” She nudges Makkari, smiles sadly over at Thena. “He didn’t want me enough to keep me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me either, I guess.”

“Well, that’s shite,” Druig says. 

“You want me to go talk sense into him?” Gil offers.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Sersi says apologetically.

“Why not? It usually works,” Gil says. (Talking, in his case, is usually more like “talking.” With fists.)

“The rules say it has to be my partner who defeats him,” Sersi explains. “Or partners, I guess. Actually, I think the rules say ‘boyfriend.’ I wasn’t out to him until… well, now.” If said evil ex emailing one of the girlfriends in question counts as coming out.

“Oh, he’s one of those,” Kingo groans.

“Gross,” Makkari signs. She pulls Sersi closer and kisses her head, then adds, “You deserve better.”

“You are better,” Sersi tells her, then she looks at Thena and adds, “Both of you.”

That’s enough of a cue for Thena to come over and (after pushing Druig into the arm of the couch to make room) sit on Sersi’s other side. “Well, we’re going to fight for you.”

“I don’t see why we can’t all do,” Dane remarks. “We all care about you, we all want you to be happy and not get stuck with some possessive arse.”

“You’re family,” Kingo says. 

“I don’t know what he’s going to try to do,” Sersi says. “I wouldn’t want any of you to get hurt on account of me. It’s not worth it.”

“Yes, you are,” Thena says softly. “I could kill him for making you think otherwise.” She runs a hand over the little pack she wears at her waist, the one that everyone knows contains a pocket dimension full of glowing weapons, and Sersi knows that she means it.

Chapter 11: be my woman, babe, and I'll be yours

Summary:

Jemma/Daisy; GLOW AU.

Notes:

Specifically, Jemma/Daisy(/Danny Sousa).

Yes, Jemma is Britannica and that means, unfortunately, that Daisy is Fortune Cookie. Kind of.

“What am I going to do?” Jemma moans, collapsing onto her bed.

“It didn’t go well?” Daisy asks, even though it’s pretty obvious. She comes to sit beside Jemma in case physical comfort is wanted, but she doesn’t presume.

“It was bloody awful,” Jemma moans. “I barely have enough money to cover today’s appointment, and all he said was that he couldn’t help in time. If I want to get a legitimate visa, I’m going to have to go back to England and wait, and even then it’s not a guarantee.”

Daisy frowns. “Do you want to try to get a second opinion? My mom knows a really good immigration lawyer, maybe I could…”

“How good the lawyer is won’t matter,” Jemma sighs. “I let my student visa expire and just rode it out. I’m getting put at the back of the line. God, I don’t even have a right to complain, it’s not like I’m fleeing something awful, I’m just…”

“Your life is here,” Daisy supplies. “If you went back to England, you’d be giving up your job, your friends, your…” She trails off. What she means is her, Jemma’s girlfriend, but she doesn’t want to say it and sound like she’s making it a selfish thing. “Not to mention an intercontinental move would be expensive and from what you’ve said your parents wouldn’t exactly be willing to help.”

Jemma scoffs. “If I asked my parents to help me move back to England, it would come with a cost,” she says. “Putting my degree to proper use, probably in some lifeless Roxxon lab where I wouldn’t seem like an embarrassment for trying to sort out my own path. Living home where my parents could keep an eye on me and make sure I wasn’t behaving inappropriately.”

Daisy knows what that’s stodgy British code for: dating women. Jemma may have come to the States for school, but she stayed here and started working whatever job she could (including women’s wrestling) to save up for a graduate degree instead of going back home and letting her parents cover the cost because they’ve made it very clear that they won’t tolerate a daughter who’s anything less than heterosexual. They don’t love that she took a shine to marine biology instead of something she could use for profit (probably for the conglomerate that employs her father) but they’d let that slide if she just married the kind of man they approved of and settled down.

“I’m sorry,” Daisy says softly.

Jemma heaves a sigh and tugs Daisy down beside her. “Can we stop talking about it for now?” she asks. “I don’t want to waste the time we have left.”

“Of course, honey,” Daisy murmurs, nuzzling into Jemma’s neck. 

She’s starting to get an idea.

 

---

 

The next night, Daisy hurriedly clears all of the other girls out of the dressing room and says to Jemma, “I think I know how to keep you here.”

“What are you talking about?” Jemma asks, frowning into the mirror and deciding, apparently, to take out her frustration on her hair (unbraiding her braids, rebraiding them).

Danny comes wandering out from behind a bank of lockers, waving sheepishly. (He’s already in his sexy mannequin getup, which makes it very hard to think that he could be involved in any serious scheme.) “Hey,” he says. 

“Uh,” Jemma says. “Hello, Danny. Do you have connections with the immigration department that I was unaware of?”

“Not exactly,” Danny says, “but I, uh…”

Daisy rolls her eyes. “Look, Danny and I are a thing, and you and I are a thing,” she says, “but you can’t exactly marry me, so I was thinking you could, y’know.”

“Y’know?” Jemma echoes, blinking a little too rapidly.

“Marry me,” Danny says. “If you married an American citizen, you’d get to stay here.”

“I, uh,” Jemma stammers.

“We don’t have to actually do anything!” Danny exclaims. “You could still be with Daisy, and I could still be with Daisy, but we don’t have to… I know you don’t really like guys. It would just be for paperwork and publicity.”

Jemma worries her lip, and her mind is clearly spinning, so Daisy jumps in to explain, “We figured we could tell everyone that you two fell in love on set, since you work together. Maybe we could even do a special episode where he finally becomes a real boy and proposes to you.”

“We just thought it would be the easiest way to fix it,” Danny says.

Jemma is quiet for a long moment. She ties ribbons around her pigtails and slips on her costume glasses and straightens her pinafore before she turns around to face the pair of them properly.

“You’d do that for me?” she asks quietly.

“Of course,” Danny exclaims. “You’re my friend, and you mean the world to Daisy.”

“And you’d be okay with it?” Jemma asks Daisy.

“We’re never going to get to go public,” Daisy shrugs, “but I don’t want to lose you, and Danny’s my favorite guy. Why not pair you off?”

“Dammit,” Jemma murmurs, looking between them with a shaky smile. “I’m going to start crying.”

“Is that a yes?” Daisy asks playfully.

“Yes,” Jemma says. “Yes, of course I’ll marry Danny and secretly marry you into the bargain.” She throws her arms around Daisy and kisses her on the mouth. “Shit, we’re going to have to fix our lipstick, we can’t go out there like this,” she says breathlessly.

“That’s not hard,” Daisy says. “I love you, Jem.”

“I love you, too,” Jemma murmurs. Before she goes back to the dressing table, she stops and looks Danny over curiously. “Can I try something?” she asks.

“Uh, sure,” Danny says, scratching the back of his neck.

Jemma stands up on her toes to kiss him, too, and she pulls back with a smile. “I don’t usually like guys,” she says, “but I think I might be willing to experiment with you.”

Chapter 12: we could be more than friends but maybe I’m just too shy

Summary:

Carina/Nebula; My Little Pony AU.

Notes:

I feel like some explanation is owed for this one.

After seeing some people complain about the "wokeness" of the new My Little Pony movie (G5) my wife and watched it and loved it. Then we realized both old cartoons are free online to watch, and we did, with the scientific curiosity being: has MLP always been "woke"? The answer is yes. The first series in particular is about a bunch of socialists who are constantly fighting dictators and also environmental degradation.

So when I was trying to come up with stories for this month, my wife jokingly suggested a MLP AU. I took her up on that suggestion because I am crazy and I wanted to see if it would work. Which generation is this supposed to be? It's all of them at once. We have a roughly G1 setting and conflict, some My Little Pony Tales and Friendship is Magic slang, a little bit of G5 meta-awareness.

Carina is Sunbeam Berry. She's a pink Pegasus with a sunshine cutie mark, and temperamentally she's very much like Posey/Sweetheart/Fluttershy. (This is also deep lore in the unwindmyself fanfictional universe: Sunbeam Berry is a nickname of Carina's in our mallverse, since she's sweet and also has a tattoo in the location of a cutie mark.)

Nebula is Midnight Gloom. Was she born with this name? Probably not, since she is pretty directly analogous to Tempest Shadow (with a little bit of Gusty thrown in for good measure, since she's not so much villainous as she is just grumpy). She's a blue unicorn with a broken horn and one silver leg. Was she born with that silver leg? Probably not, but that's a story she doesn't like telling.

After what feels like a full day of travel, mostly spent in uncomfortable silence, Midnight Gloom turns her head and asks, “Do you have anywhere to go?”

“Not really,” Sunbeam Berry says softly. “When the evil wizard destroyed our village, everypony scattered. I didn’t see where any of them went.”

“Right,” Midnight Gloom says, pawing at the ground with a silver hoof. “Because he took you with him.”

Sunbeam Berry nods. “His henchmen caged me before I even had a chance to react.”

Midnight Gloom snorts indignantly. “If I had a jangle for every time an evil wizard kidnapped ponies,” she mutters.

“If you had a jangle for every time an evil wizard kidnapped ponies, what?” Sunbeam Berry asks.

It was sort of a rhetorical remark, sort of her expressing her disbelief that something like that could happen so often, but Midnight Gloom is learning that her companion likes to know what somepony is thinking. “Well,” she says, stalling a little as she thinks about the answer, “I would use the money to stop them from doing that somehow.”

“We could throw a seminar,” Sunbeam Berry suggests earnestly. “One that they would be forced to attend. And the seminar would be about how awful they’ve been and how they need to do better.”

That’s a slightly more innocent way to stop them than Midnight Gloom was imagining, but for all the darkness and terrible things that Sunbeam Berry has seen, she doesn’t seem capable of cruelty.

“And if they really didn’t listen,” the pink pony continues, “we could have a good wizard take their magic away as a punishment.”

Well, that’s a little more severe of a punishment, anyway.

“It’s too bad wizards don’t have to be licensed,” Sunbeam Berry muses. “Otherwise we could just revoke their licenses if they kidnapped anyone.”

“You know there are other ways to stop them,” Midnight Gloom finally says. 

“Like what?”

Sunbeam Berry fixes all of her attention on Midnight Gloom, and she looks so sweet and earnest that all the blue pony can bring herself to say is, “We could put them in a cage.”

“Oh,” Sunbeam Berry exclaims, looking shocked for a moment. Then she pauses to consider this, and presumably to consider her own horrific experiences, and says, “Maybe that would serve them right.”

 

---

 

It’s evening when they decide to stop walking awhile and eat some of the food Midnight Gloom stole for them from the wizard’s pantry before they left. 

“What about you?” Sunbeam Berry asks, delicately nibbling a biscuit.

“What about me, what?” Midnight Gloom asks.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Sunbeam Berry asks.

“No,” Midnight Gloom says shortly.

“Oh,” Sunbeam Berry squeaks. “I, I’m terribly sorry, I just thought that since I don’t have anywhere, perhaps you would, so we would have a destination.”

She looks so embarrassed and even sad, and Midnight Gloom feels genuinely bad for snapping. (That’s odd. She doesn’t usually care how she makes anypony feel, since nopony ever cared how they made her feel. Maybe that’s why it’s affecting her now, since Sunbeam Berry is probably the first pony that’s looked at her for her since - well.)

“I don’t,” Midnight Gloom says, trying (and probably failing) to sound gentler. “I’m an orphan.”

“Oh, dear,” Sunbeam Berry frowns.

“Besides,” Midnight Gloom mutters, staring at her hooves, “even if I had a real family, they wouldn’t want me like this.”

Sunbeam Berry’s eyes well up with tears and she moves to nuzzle Midnight Gloom’s neck. “Please don’t talk about yourself like that!” she yelps. “Being different doesn’t make you any less than anypony else.”

“You’re the only one that thinks so,” Midnight Gloom mumbles. “Nopony ever wanted to be my friend before I broke my horn, and now they just look at me and see a tragedy waiting to happen.”

“That’s foolish of them,” Sunbeam Berry sniffles. “I think you’re wonderful. You’re brave, and resourceful, and you saved me even when you didn’t have to -”

“Of course I had to,” Midnight Gloom interrupts. “You were the reason I decided to escape.”

“I, I was?” Sunbeam Berry asks.

"Yes,” Midnight Gloom says. “I couldn’t stand seeing you kept his prisoner. I had to get you out before he did something awful.”

“Kidnapping is the most awful thing he could do, and he’d already done it,” Sunbeam Berry says, puzzled. “Oh, oh, or was he going to turn us into ice sculptures?”

One of these days, Midnight Gloom is going to break the news to the other pony that there are, in fact, worse (and more permanent) things than kidnapping or even ice sculptures, but that’s a conversation better saved for later. They’re both (much as it pains Midnight Gloom to admit it) emotionally volatile enough right now that she’s not going to risk it.

“I didn’t want to find out,” she says instead, and, very shyly, she nuzzles Sunbeam Berry back. “You deserve better than that.”

“Well, so do you,” Sunbeam Berry says stubbornly.

Midnight Gloom wants to argue; that’s not what she’s been told over and over, and it’s not what she believes about herself. But Sunbeam Berry is looking at her so sincerely, with so much trust and affection, that she can’t bring herself to argue.

“So,” Sunbeam Berry asks, “is there anywhere you want us to go?”

“Us?” Midnight Gloom echoes.

“I’m not leaving unless you want me to,” Sunbeam Berry declares, wrapping her wing around the other pony.

Chapter 13: and even just a blink and I might miss it, you're giving me the look I know

Summary:

Vanessa/Elektra; neo-noir.

Notes:

As such.

“How’s my favorite social climber?” Elektra purrs, appearing in the doorway. She’s holding a champagne glass so loosely it ought to be spilling; one of the straps of her evening gown is falling down her shoulder. She ought to look a mess, and it’s nothing short of absurd that she doesn’t.

“How’s my favorite brat?” Vanessa asks. Her expression is perfectly calm (she only glances up for a quick second before returning her attention to whatever paperwork she’s looking over) and her tone is even, but that just makes her words even more cutting. 

“Oh, that’s unfair,” Elektra pouts, even though she knows it’s not.

Vanessa shrugs, nonchalant and calculated and infuriating. 

“Come on,” Elektra presses, swaying toward Vanessa’s desk (it’s possible she’s drunk, or possible she’s just putting it on). “you must be up to something fascinating if it’s keeping you from the party downstairs.” 

“Not fascinating so much as it is necessary,” Vanessa says. “You might be surprised to learn that those of us in the real world have to follow deadlines.” 

Strictly speaking, she’s not on a pressing one, since the work she’s doing doesn’t need to be finished for another week and a half. She just likes making Elektra feel spoiled and foolish, and she seems to be getting her wish: the younger woman flounces over, indignant as anything, and flops down in the chair across from hers. She sets her champagne flute on a stack of papers (unimportant ones, thankfully) and leans forward, head in hands, elbows on the desk.

“You wound me,” Elektra sighs.

“The truth can hurt,” Vanessa replies.

The truth, as Vanessa is referring to it and as everyone downstairs knows it: Elektra is every bit the rich dilettante, a society dame, a butterfly with no responsibilities but to look perfect and throw money around in a mostly-appropriate way. As long as she shows up eventually, flashes a pretty smile and a bit of leg, plays just nice enough, nobody will ask questions.

The truth, as Vanessa knows it and as everyone downstairs is conveniently ignorant to: all of that coexists with a second Elektra, a deadly, vicious woman who’d as soon slit someone’s throat as try to sweet-talk them. Sometimes she kills for money, not because she needs it but because she likes having the excuse; sometimes she kills because she wants to. She tries to have a conscience, but it wars with the part of her that’s beholden to the social hierarchy she was born into and the other, more dangerous part that would just as soon see everything go up in flames.

Vanessa has fought to find her place in that same hierarchy. She came in as less than nothing and now sits in a position of - not power, exactly, but relative comfort. She doesn’t have to worry as long as she puts in the work, and it galls her that Elektra is so impulsive and willing, even eager to throw it away.

She doesn’t disagree that it deserves to burn, exactly. She knows she’s playing a fixed game and that if she was a truly good person she’d get the hell out. But she doesn’t want some ninja socialite to end the game before she has a chance to make her move, either.

Elektra is smart, for all of the ditzy airs she puts on when it suits her, so she knows all of this, and Vanessa knows she knows, and she knows that Vanessa knows she knows, and so on. Their whole routine depends on it.

“You make sure of it, don’t you?” Elektra asks in a low voice. “You want to see me put in my place.”

Vanessa finally meets her eyes. “Sounds like a bored little rich girl projecting.”

This is the moment it hinges on: will Elektra fall for the bait? 

(The answer is almost always yes. She wouldn’t seek Vanessa out if she didn’t intend that. She may draw it out, try to make Vanessa squirm, but she knows what she wants.)

“Well?” Vanessa prompts.

“Va te faire chier,” Elektra whispers, eyes blazing.

“That’s your job, mon bijou,” Vanessa says archly.

She takes a sip of Elektra’s champagne like a challenge. This is one of her favorite parts: seeing Elektra shift from arrogant to not-quite-demure, seeing her toss her head like she’s thinking about asserting her power and then fall to her knees before she can talk herself out of it. She crawls around the side of the desk and nudges Vanessa’s thigh until Vanessa turns her chair and faces her.

“You’re beautiful like that,” Vanessa murmurs, reaching down to stroke Elektra’s cheek and then all at once grabbing her by the hair. “Like you were made to be on your knees for me.”

A shiver runs up Elektra’s spine at that, though she tries to hide it. “I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,” she says, because that’s true enough.

“I know, bijou,” Vanessa says. “Just imagine, a pretty thing like you letting just anyone use you.”

They both know Elektra is usually the one doing the using.

“I couldn’t,” Elektra says. “Nobody else deserves it.”

Vanessa smirks. That, too, is the point of all of this: she’s worked to deserve respect, though she hasn’t always been shown it, and Elektra has always been told she’s owed it without giving any in return. Elektra lets Vanessa humble and even degrade her because it’s novel (and maybe because she feels like she needs it, or at least a part of her does) and Vanessa makes Elektra work for something for once in her goddamn life. 

“What do you deserve?” Vanessa asks, soft and taunting.

Notes:

va te faire chier; "go fuck yourself"
mon bijou; "my jewel"

Chapter 14: so scared I'll lose me to the dark, I don't want to lose you to the dark

Summary:

Wanda/Natasha; hurt/comfort.

Notes:

In the form of eventual soft domming.

TW self-harm, discussions of blood and canon trauma.

They invite Wanda to join the Avengers, join them in America, train with them and live at the Compound and rebuild her life, and she says yes, but it’s not clear if that’s because she wants to or because she doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

Natasha doesn’t immediately reach out to her, even though she feels like (as the only other woman on the team, not counting Maria or Helen) she ought to. At first, it’s because she’s wary; she trusts that Wanda is on their side, Clint and Steve both said so and their word is good enough for her, but she isn’t sure how she’ll see Wanda seeing her. She can’t control her own image with a telepath.

(She’s not sure telepath is the right word for whatever Wanda can do, but it’s the closest one she’s got.)

She trains with Wanda, she tries to involve her or at least acknowledge her during group conversations, but she doesn’t let herself be alone with her. She can’t bring herself to.

And then suddenly she doesn’t have a choice.

Wanda skips lunch and dinner (not for the first time) and the boys decide that Natasha should be the one to go make sure she’s okay. “Well,” Rhodey says, making a face, “if she’s having, you know, female troubles, she’ll probably feel more comfortable talking to you than to any of us.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but she knows they mean well, so she makes some tea and a few peanut butter sandwiches and knocks on Wanda’s door. 

“Please go away,” Wanda calls.

“It’s Natasha,” Natasha says, like she hasn’t just been told off. “I brought you food.”

“Leave it and go,” Wanda says. “Please.”

It’s possible that the boys also sent Natasha because they know she won’t take that for an answer. She knows when that actually means she needs to intervene, and now that she’s outside Wanda’s room, she can tell it’s one of those times.

After the life she’s lived, Natasha would recognize the smell of blood anywhere. That’s not the kind of thing she admits in polite company; it’s more than a little unnerving, and in a group like the Avengers - which is to say, one that’s full of people that are constantly trying to hide their little hurts - it would be awkward if she spoke up about it every time. But Wanda hasn’t been fighting or training, so there’s no reason she should be bleeding, which means - 

She pushes the door open, sets the food on Wanda’s desk, and - after a quick glance around the room, during which her stomach drops - steps into the bathroom. 

“Please go away,” Wanda repeats. She’s curled up in the bathtub, dry and fully dressed, and for a second Natasha thinks she is having a bad period from the blood on her thighs - but then she notices the scissors on the floor. 

“No,” Natasha says, a little too firm. She sees how it makes Wanda flinch, but she doesn’t know what else to do. “You hurt yourself. That’s not something I’m going to ignore.”

Wanda scoffs, but her eyes don’t light up and she doesn’t make any moves, so Natasha doesn’t leave.

“I didn’t even cut deep enough to scar,” Wanda says.

“But you cut,” Natasha says. She goes to the medicine cabinet (the bathrooms are all stocked the same, with first aid kits and ibuprofen and variety packs of bandages) and starts pulling out supplies. “Can you stand up?”

“Yes,” Wanda says, and she’s a little wobbly as she does, but she manages.

“Hold onto the curtain rod,” Natasha instructs. “I don’t want you falling over.” Or fighting back, but that seems too much to say. She comes to sit on the closed toilet and holds up a washcloth. “I’m going to clean you up and then we’ll see about bandages, alright?”

“Alright,” Wanda says faintly. “I… alright.”

They’re silent for a little while as Natasha works, wiping away the blood, gently applying bacitracin to the cuts, applying band-aids (she’s going to need to get a refill of extra-large ones in here), but eventually, the silence gets to be too much to bear, so Natasha says (more gruffly than she intends), “You’ve done this before.” It’s not a question.

Wanda shrugs minutely. “It helps,” she says. “For a little while.”

“How the hell does that work?” Natasha asks.

“Everything else gets quieter when I make myself hurt,” Wanda mumbles. She sounds stilted, like she’s trying to overcome the language barrier as she explains it, but Natasha knows perfectly well that she’s fluent in English, so it’s more likely that she just doesn’t know how to put these things into words. 

Natasha shakes her head. She thinks about saying that that’s stupid - it’s stupid to harm yourself on purpose - but she knows she’d be a hypocrite. Wanda’s method is more direct, and potentially more dangerous, but it’s not like Natasha hasn’t pushed herself too far in training or battles just to shut her memories up. It’s not like she hasn’t been doing that exact thing for days.

“Well, you can’t do that anymore,” Natasha says. 

“Why do you care?” Wanda asks. “I’m not… you don’t even want me here.”

“Bullshit,” Natasha says. “If I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t have come to check on you.” She sucks in a breath. Maybe the best way to control her image with Wanda is to tell the truth before Wanda has a chance to find it accidentally, right? Very quietly she adds, “I just don’t know how to be your friend.”

This startles Wanda more than anything else has. “You don’t have to be,” she says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never -”

“I’m not mad at you,” Natasha interrupts, because she doesn’t want to hear apologies. She knows they’re sincere, but, well. “I don’t like being pitied.”

Wanda considers this, and her own response, for a long moment before saying, “It’s more complex than that. I know how it feels to be treated like you’re less than human, told you’re just…”

“A weapon,” Natasha supplies softly. “A tool.”

“A thing,” Wanda adds. She meets Natasha’s eyes, and she’s so gentle and open and raw.

“You’re not a thing,” Natasha says. 

“Neither are you,” Wanda says, and then, after a beat, “I started hurting myself after my parents died, and I stopped doing it when Pietro found out. I didn’t care if I was hurting myself, but I didn’t want to hurt him. Since he’s gone, that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Are you asking me to hold you accountable?” Natasha asks.

“Don’t ask me things,” Wanda says, almost shy. “Tell me.”

Natasha’s eyebrow goes up. What Wanda wants is at once more innocent and intimate than what she’s used to; she’s comfortable giving orders in bed, on the battlefield, but this? 

It’s more than just being in charge. It’s making a promise to notice, care about, share feelings.

“Get out of the tub,” Natasha says. “And go put on some pajamas. I brought tea and sandwiches, I’m not letting you go to bed hungry.”

“Thank you,” Wanda says, but she doesn’t immediately move. She just stares at Natasha like she’s trying to work out what to say next.

“Go on,” Natasha says. “I’m going to clean up this mess, and then I’ll join you.”

“Alright,” Wanda whispers, and she leans down to kiss Natasha’s cheek before she flits out.

Chapter 15: you are a white light stepping out of the dark, you are a white light but you cover it up

Summary:

Yelena/Xialing; Bombshells AU.

Notes:

As such.

“What are you hiding from up here?” 

Yelena startles, and then she blushes with embarrassment. It shouldn’t be so easy to scare her, she’s a Widow. She’s meant to be unflappable. 

She turns to meet the newcomer’s gaze, to prove that she’s tougher than she seemed in that moment, but it’s a foolish attempt. It’s Xialing staring back at her, Xialing the renegade ocean princess, Xialing who talks to water dragons like they’re beloved family pets, Xialing who saunters around the ship in a bathing suit and still manages to demand respect from the sailors and soldiers alike.

Xialing is the kind of person who, well, flaps other people. 

(That’s the kind of thing Yelena knows she can’t say out loud, it doesn’t translate properly, but it makes sense in her head. Language and idioms are ridiculous.)

She’s still looking like she expects an answer, so Yelena lifts her chin and says, as harshly as she can manage, “I’m not hiding. I’m thinking.”

Xialing shrugs and sits beside her. “What are you thinking about up here?” 

Yelena draws her knees into her chest and sighs. “Everything I haven’t seen,” she says.

“What do you mean?” Xialing asks.

A moment passes in silence, and Yelena tries not to wilt under Xialing’s inquisitive gaze. They’re not so different in age, but Xialing seems so much worldlier, like she’s fit three years of living into every one year she’s been alive (and Yelena herself has only lived for one year out of every three). Talking about this runs counter to her training, but… maybe it wouldn’t hurt, just this once. Maybe she just needs to get it out of her system.

“My sister and I were raised on a pig farm near the Khimki Forest,” she says softly. “Our mother taught us how to think and our father taught us how to fight. There were some other people nearby, we played with the children and our parents traded goods and labor with the adults, but our family came first.”

Xialing nods, but she doesn’t say anything yet.

“Natasha only joined the war effort because I persuaded her,” Yelena continues. “I thought I wanted to fight for Russia, because it was the right thing to do, and she wanted to protect me. Our parents acted like they were worried about us, but once we were amongst the recruits, we learned the truth: they’d been indoctrinating us since we were infants, training us to be beautiful sacrifices for the Motherland. They aren’t even our real parents, just other comrades roped into the Widow program.”

“Is that why you left?” Xialing asks, even though she can guess.

Yelena nods. “We tried to forgive our parents, but we couldn’t forgive the system they worked for,” she says. “It was a system that brainwashed people - girls - and tried to use us. Natasha and I were held up as poster girls, the perfect Russian soldiers, but the second we tried to fight back they turned on us. We defected to the Bombshells because they were willing to protect us and listen to us.”

“You took your life into your own hands,” Xialing says. “That’s stronger than anything they tried to force you to do.”

“There are dozens of girls still stuck there,” Yelena says. “Sheltered and sculpted just like us. I’m sure we’ve already been replaced, and there’s nothing we can do to help them.”

“That’s not true,” Xialing says. “You’ve shown them they can get out.”

“Or we’ve been made martyrs and our truth has been covered up,” Yelena mutters, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised. When you only know the world they’ve created, their lies are easier to believe than the truth.”

Xialing makes a little “hm” noise in the back of her throat and nods again, more thoughtful this time.

“I’m sure it’s different for you,” Yelena says shyly. “Being a princess and all.”

“Not as different as you’d think,” Xialing replies with a shrug. “In some ways, the world I grew up in is more advanced than the surface. There’s better social care, more widespread technological advances, less skepticism toward magic.” She leans back and stares up at the sky. “My father was insistent that I know my place, though. He refused to teach me to fight, refused to teach me to rule. The only thing he tried to teach me was how worthless I was.”

“Svoloch’,” Yelena swears. “I would have killed him.”

“I thought about it,” Xialing says. “My brother would have been so upset, though.” 

“Your brother?” Yelena asks softly. 

“He was older than me, and a boy, so our father favored him,” Xialing explains. “And then our mother died and I was a bitter reminder of her. My brother was sent after those that killed her, but he never returned. I asked for permission to go after him, to rescue him or avenge him.”

“And?” Yelena whispers.

“Father refused,” Xialing says. “I was too young, I was too much a girl. So instead of being kept prisoner in my own home, I ran. We’re like each other in that way.”

Since Xialing’s brother isn’t here, Yelena assumes he hasn’t yet been found, and this makes her heart ache for the other girl. She can’t imagine how painful it would be to lose Natasha (she doesn’t even like it when she and Natasha are sent on separate missions and can’t communicate easily).

So she takes a chance. She reaches for Xialing’s hand. “We’re both better than what made us,” she says. 

To her pleasant surprise, Xialing squeezes her hand fondly. “We are,” she says.

Notes:

svoloch'; "bastard"

I normally let the analogues speak for themselves, but I will clarify that yes, the Xu family are in fact our Atlantean royals. Shangqi is Aquaman and Xialing is Mera but instead of dating they're brother-sister and everything I laid out in this story and yes, they'll eventually reconnect. Considering how important having the physical reality of the ocean kingdom is to the Bombshells storyline, I needed to give it to some of the characters.

Also, Yelena is functionally Stargirl but is not going to meet Stargirl's fate.

Chapter 16: I've never been with anybody like you, there is nobody with a body like you

Summary:

Victoria/Isabelle; first time.

Notes:

With no actual smut, just a lot of vaguely d/s flirting.

As referred to here.

“God, I can’t wait to get out of this coat,” Victoria mutters, staring disdainfully at her reflection in the elevator’s doors.

Naturally, this makes Isabelle raise her eyebrow suggestively. “Is that so?”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “I just hate wearing fur,” she says.

“Aw,” Isabelle says. “That’s cute.”

“It’s cute that I don’t like having another creature’s skin on top of my own?” Victoria asks.

“It’s cute that you’re admitting it,” Isabelle says. “Big tough Victoria Hand owning up to having soft squishy feelings about animals.”

Victoria makes a face. “You’re telling me it doesn’t bother you?”

“I don’t usually have to wear fur,” Isabelle says, “so I never really thought about it.”

The doors spring open and Victoria immediately lifts her head proudly. A hotel maid is waiting to be let in, and that means there’s someone to play parts for. “Come on,” Victoria says haughtily, waving a dismissive hand at Isabelle. She saunters out without looking to make sure Isabelle is following, but she knows. 

She lets herself into their hotel room with the same nonchalance, and Isabelle has to scurry to get through the door before it closes.

“You’re good at this whole queen bitch act,” Isabelle remarks, coming up behind Victoria and slipping the accursed coat off of her shoulders. 

“I didn’t get a reputation for being big tough Victoria Hand because I could take anyone in a fight,” Victoria says archly.

“You could, though,” Isabelle says. “Or you’d do your damnedest.”

Victoria shrugs and steps out of her pumps. “Point is, I’m too femme to seem scary to most people, so I learned to play to my strengths,” she says. “Hang the coat up? I have to get it back to storage in decent condition.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Isabelle chuckles, and she obliges. 

“You’re not bad at this, either,” Victoria remarks. “This whole -”

“Oh, you really are being soft,” Isabelle snorts. She looks down at her outfit - black dress, white apron, very stereotypical (though blessedly unfrilly) - and makes a face. “Nobody in their right mind would hire me as a real French maid.”

“You’re not French,” Victoria points out. “You’re not a French maid unless you’re French. Or wearing one of those stupid sexy outfits, I guess.”

“Well, a proper maid, anyway,” Isabelle shrugs. “I’m not feminine. I’m not graceful.” She smirks deviously. “I can do subservient in the right mood, but I don’t exactly look it.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Victoria murmurs.

Oh, it is on. 

“I kind of like you like this,” Victoria continues. “Following orders, not talking back.” She crooks a finger and summons Isabelle to her side.

Isabelle slinks over, unbuttoning her stupid dress as she does. “I’m not a total brat,” she remarks. “I can be good.”

“Yeah, I’m learning that,” Victoria purrs.

“So what, you want me to… serve you?” Isabelle asks in a low murmur.

Victoria smirks. “You’ve been trying to get in my pants since we got on the plane to come here,” she says.

“And you were just waiting for the right moment?” Isabelle asks.

“I was waiting for proof that you’re not just some cocky flirt,” Victoria corrects. “I wanted to see that you’re really as good at this as you’ve bragged. I wanted to see that you take shit seriously.”

“And now that you have your proof?” Isabelle asks.

“I’m willing to entertain the possibility of you,” Victoria says.

She pulls Isabelle into her lap and makes quick work of the maid’s uniform as she kisses her. 

“Goddamn,” Isabelle murmurs. 

“We’re gonna have to be quiet,” Victoria points out. It’s a decent hotel, the walls aren’t paper-thin, but they are on a mission in a country that’s even more homophobic than their own. 

“I can think of things I want to do that don’t involve talking,” Isabelle smirks. She pushes Victoria down against the bed, hikes her ridiculous sparkly dress up around her hips, and tugs her panties off.

“Not a brat, huh?” Victoria snarks.

“Takes one to know one.”

Chapter 17: a dream come true and we don't even need to explore

Summary:

Bobbi/Jemma/Daisy; All I Wanna Do AU.

Notes:

Which is to say, 1960s all-girl boarding school AU.

All I Wanna Do is a movie from the 90s that nobody saw but that I absolutely love, largely for the inherent Sapphism.

“Man on the floor!”

As it always does, this announcement makes most of the girls scurry into their rooms frantically. Even at an all-girls’ school, there aren’t many spaces where they can just be themselves, messy and bare-faced and loud. In the classrooms or dining hall, on the green, they’re still expected to look presentable and behave like ladies; act out, and they’ll look improper to their male teachers or, worse, the female teachers (or board members) who care more about impressing men than inspiring other women. In the dorms, the girls can run around in their slips and rollers, play their records loud, gossip about townie boys. 

Men on the floor means hiding all of that away.

Soon there comes a knock on Jemma and Daisy’s door, and they spring apart. “Here,” Daisy says, tossing a scarf at Jemma.

Jemma smirks and wraps it around her neck. It’s a little suspicious, wearing a knit scarf indoors in the afternoon, but it’s less suspicious than the pink lipstick that’s all over her throat. 

“Come in,” Daisy calls, sweet as anything. She perches on the edge of her bed; Jemma stays sat on her own, though she picks up a book at random and opens it.

“You’re getting a new roommate,” the hall mother explains through the door as the men in question haul a new bed in and set it up. “Try to behave.”

“We promise,” says Jemma, because it’s more believable coming from her.

As soon as they’ve cleared out, Daisy rolls her eyes. “Guess we’re going to need to start putting a sock on the door,” she says.

“Probably not that,” Jemma says. “Everyone knows what that means.”

“Ugh,” Daisy says. “Just… ugh.”

There’s no point in getting back to fooling around when the new girl could show up at any minute, so Daisy switches on the radio and starts doing her nails while Jemma, true to her neurotic reputation, hops up and starts making sure the room is presentable. Laundry goes in the hamper, trash in the bin, clothes are pushed over in the closet to make room.

“We’re going to have to rearrange the dressers, too,” she frets.

“I’m not bothering until we know we won’t scare her off,” Daisy replies airily.

Soon enough, a tall strawberry-blonde appears in the door with a suitcase and a trunk. Between her angry expression and the fact that she’s showing up suddenly in the middle of the term, Daisy feels comfortable saying, “Your parents caught you with your boyfriend, right?”

Jemma tosses a pillow at her. "What she means to say is hello,” she corrects, offering a hand. “Hello! I’m Jemma. That’s Daisy.”

The blonde sighs and shakes Jemma’s hand. “Bobbi,” she says. She kicks her luggage into the room and flops on the bare mattress.

“So your parents caught you with your boyfriend, right?” Daisy repeats.

“God, I’m a cliche,” Bobbi groans.

“Your parents are a cliche,” Jemma says helpfully. “You’re just a teenager.”

“You’re an optimist,” Bobbi remarks. “It was my brother, actually. He found me sneaking in after curfew and decided to be a little snitch.”

“But had you been out with your boyfriend?” Daisy presses.

“I was out with someone,” Bobbi says evasively. “I wouldn’t say we’re going steady or anything.”

Daisy nods. “Very progressive of you,” she says. (She notices that Bobbi doesn’t gender that someone, and that’s a very good sign.)

Bobbi snorts. “Why’d you get sent here, then?” she asks. 

“I was raised by nuns,” Daisy says cheerily. “When they gave up trying to find parents for me, they shipped me off. I got kicked out of two good wholesome Catholic schools before they gave in and sent me here.”

“I wasn’t a planned child,” Jemma says. “My parents love me, but they’d already raised two children by the time I came along. This is proper, but it’s also easier for them.”

“Should I apologize?” Bobbi asks.

“Oh, no,” Jemma laughs. “I love it here. It’s academically satisfying, and…” She trails off and glances shyly at Daisy. “I’ve made such close friends.”

“That so,” Bobbi murmurs, sitting up with a curious expression. “And it doesn’t feel too much like a convent?”

“Not at all!” Jemma exclaims.

“We actually get taken seriously here,” Daisy explains. “There aren’t boys overshadowing us in class or trying to boss us around outside of it.”

“There are some absolutely amazing teachers, “Jemma adds. “And the headmistress is glorious.”

“We’re encouraged to really make something of ourselves,” Daisy says. She looks at Jemma pointedly, as if to say let’s just go for it. She’s got a good feeling about Bobbi. “We’re told to be ourselves. If you get too bored, I guess you can go try to get with a townie, but…”

“There are other alternatives,” Jemma concludes, casually rearranging her scarf to show Bobbi the lipstick on her neck. “And we’re very… open-minded.”

“Is that gonna be an issue for you?” Daisy asks.

“No,” Bobbi says, smiling wickedly. “This just might be a perfect punishment.”

Chapter 18: starting to live the lies we tell ourselves

Summary:

Kara/Raina; Nightmare Alley AU.

Notes:

tw for mentions of abuse and sexism and racism and pretty much anything else you can expect when Grant Ward is an (offscreen) character in the story.

This was one of my favorite movies of the past year, and pretty much the only way to improve it would be to add in some gay content. That said, I also just read the book, and the book is weird and also, uh, very of its time. Guillermo del Toro held the story by the feet and shook it until most of its problematic elements (or at least the uncritical presentation of them) fell out, but if I'm writing the story starring two brown women I can't ignore them. (I'm white, so if I've gotten something wrong please let me know.)

Raina turns a few corners and winds up someplace she knows she shouldn’t be (but isn’t that what she’s been doing her whole life, and it’s worked out just fine) and she sort of knows what she’s expecting to find, or rather who.

The mentalist’s faithful assistant, the lovely Miss Lynn, except instead of standing by his side and smiling emptily she’s all alone and sobbing.

“Oh, dear,” Raina croons, low and warm and just this side of maternal (even though she’d be wretched as a mother and she knows it). She makes her footsteps deliberately loud as she approaches, giving the girl a chance to react before she reaches out and touches her shoulder.

She doesn’t, though. She just keeps crying, almost like she’s not even noticed Raina standing there and touching her (or like she’s used to crying while strange people touch her).

Raina steps a bit closer and asks, slow and deliberate, “Are you alright, darling?”

“Yes,” Miss Lynn wails, and she pounds the wall that’s supporting her weight with a balled-up fist. “I’m lovely, I’m just having a moment, I -”

Raina takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her around, lowers her to the floor so they’re both kneeling, wraps arms around her. “Poor thing,” she murmurs. “Just let it out, that’s alright.”

They stay like that for god knows how long, Miss Lynn weeping into Raina’s shoulder on the floor of some forgotten alcove in the bowels of the hotel, and when the girl finally pulls back, she nearly screams. “Oh, oh, I’m - I’ve - your dress,” she yelps. “It’s so beautiful, and I’ve dirtied it making you sit on the floor, and…” She waves a hand at Raina’s collar.

Raina glances down for just a second, so she knows what she’s going to brush off. There are trails of pancake makeup staining the straps of her evening gown, and it’s not ideal, but that’s what dry cleaners are for, after all.

She’s more concerned with Miss Lynn, specifically what crying her makeup off has revealed: angry scarring all down the left side of her face, around and under her eye and across her cheek and over her jaw.

“Did he do that to you?” Raina asks softly.

Miss Lynn shakes her head. “No, I, he - I worked the electric girl attraction at, at a traveling carny,” she stammers out. “For years before he showed up. It was just, it, I, there was an accident. I was awfully young, it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

She’s clearly had to share this story before, but it doesn’t play like a lie. (She’s probably not that good of an actress yet.) 

Raina touches the girl’s cheek gently, like a lover might, like she’s almost positive will come as a new and thrilling experience, and she asks, “What’s your name, darling?”

“Kara,” she breathes out, shutting her eyes and leaning into Raina’s hand. “I’m, my name is Kara.”

“Kara,” Raina repeats. “Beloved. Is it short for anything?”

Kara shakes her head. “Lynn is my middle name,” she says, like it’s a secret. “I’ve been called Kara Lynn before, like it’s all one name, but it isn’t. My last name is Palamas, it’d be bad for business.”

“Why in the world,” Raina asks, even though she can guess.

“People think it’s Mexican,” Kara says. “Spanish. It’s not, it’s Greek, but it’s easier to just drop it and avoid more people looking at me funny like they can’t tell what I am. There’s enough of that already.”

“What you are is a woman,” Raina says (prompts).

Kara gives Raina a look like she can’t be that stupid. “You must know how people get,” she says. “When you’re not a white girl. Suddenly you’re some exotic treat to sample, just so they can say they have.”

Raina doesn’t even have to tell herself to wince at that. “It’s the same in show business or high society,” she agrees, acerbic as anything. “You’re never really welcome, just some people are louder about it.”

“Grant sort of likes it,” Kara mutters. “There’s those who see an Asian girl in a mentalism act and are even more inclined to take it seriously. Like I’m the ideal set dressing. Grant says I oughtn’t to mind, it helps him seem legit and gives me steady work.”

This confirms Raina’s suspicions about the man; not all of them, of course, but she’s known something was off about him since he showed up in the city and started peddling his bullshit. What she didn’t suspect was how having that confirmed would make her heart ache, specifically on Kara’s behalf.

“What else does Grant say?” Raina asks carefully.

“That I’m lucky to have him,” Kara says, and this does sound rehearsed, like he’s beat it into her (maybe literally: Raina can’t help but notice the edge of a bruise hiding under Kara’s decolletage). “That there aren’t many men who’d want to look after a carny broad with a wrecked face, I should be thankful for him.”

That does it.

Raina puts her hands on either side of Kara’s face and kisses her hard, and Kara squeaks but she doesn’t break away. 

“You are worth more than any man,” Raina whispers heatedly. “Especially that louse.”

“I’ve said all this, and I don’t know your name,” Kara says, like she’s not ready to confront that truth.

“Dr. Raina Kelly,” Raina says. “Psychologist. I’ve been studying your act all week.”

“Oh, oh no,” Kara exclaims, looking panicked. “If Grant finds out I’ve…” She can’t even bring herself to finish the sentence, it seems, she’s so afraid of the possibilities.

“He won’t,” Raina says. “How would you like to see him undone once and for all?”

Chapter 19: see your body in the skyline, took so long for you to be mine

Summary:

Darcy/Monica; She-Ra AU.

Notes:

Just like last time, everyone's got ridiculous new names!
Monica is Princess Momenta, a kingdomless royal with basically her canon powers.
Darcy is Princess Darkaryana, a kingdomless royal with dark matter manipulation powers.
Wanda is Princess Scarlettia, a kingdomless royal with basically her canon powers.
Karolina is Princess Kimberlita of Iridesse, a kingdom I just made up, and she has basically her canon powers.. (Kimberlite is a type of stone that yields diamonds, and doesn't that just sound perfectly 1980s?)
Molly is Princess Miaolly of Plumeria, and she's got Catra-like powers; she was adopted as a very young kid by the Plumerian monarchs.
Nico is Princess Nocturne of Umbrania, another made-up kingdom, with basically her canon powers.
Agatha is Agantine, an evil sorceress in the Horde's high command.

As such.

The best, most responsible use of her time would be to actually do battle in this battle; doubtless there’s one of her fellow princesses or other allies that would welcome her showing up and blasting one of the Horde opposition with a bolt of energy. 

Momenta can’t be her best or most responsible, though, not when her wife is still missing.

The others are careful not to talk about the situation around her anymore - they expect, probably correctly, that she’ll get hysterical - but she’s eavesdropped on scraps of whispered conversations.

(Miaolly, sounding like she might cry: “Will Darkaryana be okay?”

Kimberlita, warily: “We know she’s still alive…”

Nocturne, after a long pause: “That kind of magic can be difficult to reverse, even if we do get her back.”)

Momenta tries not to take it personally. They’re trying to be realistic, to not get their hopes up. They don’t want to convince themselves that they won’t lose someone else and then be devastated when they do. They’ve lost so many people already; their parents are dead or turned or both, there have been countless casualties in this fight. It makes sense that they wouldn’t want to expect something they can’t guarantee.

But they don’t know Darkaryana, they don’t love her, the way Momenta does.

They didn’t swear to spend their lives with her.

They haven’t woken up next to her and felt, for a moment, like nothing but that sleepy smile on her face mattered.

They don’t know with every part of their soul that she’s theirs, just as they’re hers.

So as the battle rages, Momenta does what she can. She zaps Horde soldiers, she punches, she kicks, but she’s always looking for her wife. Maybe she’ll be in the middle of everything like a taunt, or maybe she’ll be hidden away. Maybe she’ll be set up as one of the soldiers guarding Agantine and the others in her inner circle. 

(Momenta won’t argue the potential chance to go up against the evil sorceress. She’s not sure she can take her out alone, but it wouldn’t hurt to weaken her a little, make her suffer, before one of the others, Scarlettia maybe, could do the job.)

The truth is somewhere between all of those: her wife, eyes glowing that unnatural green, isn’t in the center of the battle, but she’s not hiding either. She’s on the edge of the field, near but not so near a path that might lead to their archnemeses. She’s wielding dark energy like it’s nothing, like she doesn’t even notice the damage she’s doing. 

Momenta is going to stop this happening, or she’s going to die trying.

“Hey!” she shouts, gathering blue energy in her palms.

Darkaryana hesitates for a moment, then turns to face Momenta, smiling faintly. “Oh, you again,” she says in a voice that’s not entirely her own.

“Yeah,” Momenta shouts. “Me.”

Last time, she was too afraid of injuring her wife to really hit her with anything. She knows better now. They have people that can heal wounds. (They even have people, like Scarlettia or - despite her doubts - Nocturne, that could probably heal the magical damage, but Momenta knows she wouldn’t be able to get her wife to them without at least mitigating some of the hypnotism.)

She sends a blue blast at Darkaryana, but the other woman catches it in a miniature black hole. “Cute,” she hums, and it dawns on Momenta that perhaps the wicked sorceress is even speaking through those she’s hypnotized. “Go on, waste your energy.”

Momenta shakes her head. “It’s not a waste,” she says. “I’m getting you back.” She grits her teeth. “Even if I have to rip that witch out of you.”

Darkaryana laughs and starts forming another black hole. “Good luck,” she says.

Momenta runs at her wife, blasting more energy, and it’s all getting caught and disappeared into the hole, she’s starting to doubt her plan, but then!

A red bolt of power knocks Darkaryana over from behind and she falls into Momenta. As they hit the ground, Momenta sees Scarlettia floating in the air, flexing her wrists. “I hope that helps,” she says.

“Mo?” Darkaryana whispers, pulling back just enough to make eye contact (perfect, as it shows Momenta that the green glow has vanished). “Are you… am I…”

“Yeah, baby,” Momenta whispers, and she wraps her arms around her wife tightly. “You’re okay. We’re okay.” She nods at Scarlettia. “Thanks for the assist.”

“You were doing the hard part,” Scarlettia says, and it’s obvious she doesn’t just mean in the battle. “I could just provide something you couldn’t.” An instant de-hypnotization.

“Still,” Momenta murmurs, “thank you.” Darkaryana echoes her, managing a shaky smile.

Scarlettia nods and flies off, leaving the pair of them alone. The chaos in the background fades to nothing as they hold each other.

“I knew you’d come,” Darkaryana whispers.

“I couldn’t not,” Momenta replies.

“I love you,” Darkaryana says.

“I love you too.”

They stay cuddled up like that for a moment before Darkaryana raises an eyebrow. “I’m suddenly feeling like fighting some jerks,” she says.

Momenta laughs and nods. “C’mon,” she says, clambering to her feet and offering her wife a hand. “Let’s help our friends finish this.”

Chapter 20: carried like a suitcase covered in stars, funny kind of blanket for a cold heart

Summary:

Carol/Maria; Palm Springs AU.

Notes:

Fun fact: Carol's canonical brother, her brother in both the comics and the film Captain Marvel, is in fact named Steve. Because there weren't already +10 Steve/n (Stephen/Stephanie/etc.) characters in the MCU or anything.

His wife is my own invention.

cw (religious) homophobia and also Carol is very drunk.

Carol is having, objectively, a shitty time.

She’s wearing a shitty dress (and she’s grading on a curve, since she hates wearing dresses most of the time; this one is just exceptionally ugly because her brother’s new wife apparently has the gaudiest taste imaginable) and stranded at a bougie resort (not even the fun kind, where there are other groups of people to get lost in: her family rented out the whole damn place) and being dragged through the motions while her brother partakes in an institution that she’s, frankly, not even sure she believes in.

“It’s total bullshit,” she mumbles into her lemon drop. Technically, she’s talking to the bartender, but it doesn’t really matter if they’re listening or what. They’re just doing their bartender thing while Carol sits slumped at the counter, dejectedly ordering drink after drink. “Not your drink, your drink is good. I mean, there’s like, no alcohol in it, it’s not doing anything to me.” She hiccups. “Not doing anything” is code, in Carol-speak, for “I’m tipsy but I should be tipsier.” She knows what she’s about. “Dad wouldn’t let Steve have me on his side of the bridal party because ‘there’s no such thing as a groomswoman’ or whatever, but there clearly could be. It’s not grammatically incorrect. But no, Dad just had to put his foot down, so I’m stuck flanking Stoli in a frilly monstrosity of a dress.”

“Have you eaten?” the bartender asks. “You’ve had a lot to drink. You should eat some rolls or something, at least.”

Carol rolls her eyes. She suspects that’s not asked out of concern for her well-being but out of concern for the bartender’s setup (i.e., if she gets sick they’re the one who’s going to have to clean it up). “Yeah,” she says. “It’s all fancy people food, so four courses barely make a full serving.”

“Okay,” the bartender says.

“And another thing! Stoli,” Carol rants. “I know that was a name before it was booze, but it’s booze now. Don’t name your kids after booze, and if you’re an adult, you can just change that shit. Also, Steve and Stoli - ugh, that’s so sickeningly cute. She’s not even awful, she’s just… not the person I came here for, you know? I would’ve skipped if Steve hadn’t asked really really nicely.” She sighs and finishes her drink. “I’m never getting married, but if I do, I’m just gonna go to the courthouse and skip all this shit.”

“Good to know,” comes a new voice, and Carol lifts her head to see a fucking gorgeous woman at the bar beside her. “Vodka soda, please?”

The bartender nods and gets to making her drink, and Carol groans. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just having a pity party. Tonight kind of sucks.”

“It doesn’t seem like your best night ever,” the woman replies, looking Carol over. “You’re…?”

“Steve’s sister Carol,” Carol says. “Black sheep of the Danvers clan.”

“Maria,” the woman says, holding out her hand. “Friend of the bride, if by friend you mean we were in youth group together in high school.”

“Oh, god,” Carol says, and then she slaps a hand over her mouth. “Gosh. Gosh darn.”

Maria snorts. “The past tense is the important part of that sentence,” she says. “I’m not one of those Christians. I’m barely even a Christian anymore.”

“I’m… sorry?” Carol supposes. “Is that the kind of thing I should apologize for? Is it super traumatic?”

“Yes and no,” Maria says. “I’m too gay for a lot of churches, which is the perfect amount of gay to try to convert by inviting me to witness a good heterosexual marriage ceremony.”

Before Carol thinks better of it, she lifts her empty glass and shouts, “Dykes unite.”

“So you know how it goes,” Maria laughs. “My condolences. You wanna get out of here?”

“Please?” Carol asks. “I might as well have fun disappointing my parents.”

Maria helps Carol off her barstool and escorts her away from the party, chatting about nothing as they go. At least it’s an objectively pretty night, they’re far enough away from the city that they have a clear view of the sky and all the stars in it.

They get out into the desert (it’s technically still resort property, but it’s not really maintained, it’s mostly just rocks and sand and scrubby plants) and Maria takes off her suit jacket.

(She’s wearing a suit! Carol shouldn’t have even needed the explanation that she was gay. This night sucks so much that she, a gay woman, can’t even pick out other gay women in a crowd. She’s that confused by the sucking.)

“I know you don’t like laying right on the sand,” Maria says by way of explanation as she lays her jacket on the ground.

Carol raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t work that into the conversation,” she says. “I’m not totally sure, I’ve kind of just been running my mouth, but, uh…”

“Uh,” Maria says, and suddenly she looks doubtful. “It’s a funny story, actually.”

Notes:

The funny story is that it's a time loop, if you haven't seen the movie. They're in a time loop, which at this point only one of them (Maria in this version) knows. See the movie! It's pretty good.

Chapter 21: small change in the universe, and she speaks to herself out loud, nobody ever looks up at her

Summary:

Ajak/Thena; long distance.

Notes:

Mentioned Thena/Gilgamesh of a variety too, and general poly!Eternals.

Ajak visits them, of course she does. She doesn’t usually give them much warning (or maybe she lets Gilgamesh know, since he’s the one who has to do things like prepare more food or set up space in the house or shuttle her to and from town) but she’s always welcome.

Nobody else comes to visit them. Thena tries not to take it personally. They write sometimes, but they’re all so busy with their big important lives that there’s no time to jaunt off to the middle of nowhere and visit their invalid sister.

(They’re a family, but she doesn’t usually think of them as brothers or sisters specifically except in this context. It’s one she learned from novels, especially Edwardian and Victorian ones, and it’s an easier way to explain her than she’s found otherwise.)

Ajak comes, though, because she’s Ajak and now that their fight is over (it’s not, it will never be over, but it’s dormant for everyone else but Thena) everyone else is her life. She travels and she sees the people they’ve made the world safe (safer) for and she brings back stories and artifacts and other little things that keep them connected to what’s outside.

(She brings them technology, too, a radio that miraculously gets service even out in the desert, later a phone, a television, even a computer, but Thena doesn’t spend a lot of time with them. She likes listening to music, watching films even though they never have the current ones, but she avoids the news. She knows she can’t do anything about it, no matter how awful it is, so she tries not to think about it. 

Mostly it works. 

Well. Gilgamesh tells her what she needs to know, anyway.)

This time, Ajak shows up in the late afternoon, dragging an old suitcase behind her. (She only needs the one; she’s come to stay enough times that she has some things, clothes and a toothbrush and such, here waiting for her.) Gilgamesh lets her in, apparently, because she comes up behind Thena while the other woman is doing her damnedest to decorate a cake (it’s not one of her better artistic efforts, but it will still taste good) and puts a hand on her shoulder. 

“Ginekara mu atelioti,” she whispers, like she’s done a thosuand times, and Thena melts a little.

It’s a good day, and made better still by Ajak’s presence, so Thena turns her head and kisses Ajak on the lips. “Hello,” she says, even though it feels like too small of a word. 

“Is this for me?” Ajak asks, looking down at the cake and smiling a little (maybe teasing, maybe not).

“It can be,” Thena says. The truth is that Gilgamesh made it because he wanted to make a cake, and she started frosting it because she thought it would be easy. She’s a little embarrassed that it looks like a mess, but if Ajak likes it that’s what matters.

Ajak is what matters.

They finish decorating the cake together (it makes Thena feel better that Ajak is even worse at it than she is) and retreat to the couch (Gilgamesh is nowhere to be found, because he understands that the women need some time alone). Without saying anything about it, Ajak urges Thena to lay down, head in her lap, and begins stroking her hair. “I was just in the Netherlands,” she says softly. 

Thena sighs contentedly. It’s encouragement for Ajak to continue talking.

“It’s historic,” Ajak remarks. “Their parliament passed a bill to allow same-sex marriages, and to treat them like anyone else.”

Thena raises an eyebrow. They, as a group, have never had issue with same-sex relationships. Phastos made his preference for men clear early on, and over time there have been countless dalliances between the rest of them, regardless of gender. Sersi and Ikaris are the only ones who ever bothered to get legally married (they were mostly monogamous, to Kingo’s great disappointment) but when you live with others for so long, things are bound to happen, and it’s no great concern.

Ajak in particular has always kept track of human prejudices, or lacks thereof: social movements, religious upheaval, conflicts and victories and anything like that. Her family has tangled up in dozens of different configurations, but so many of those have had to stay private, and it hurts her. She’s seen people, humans she’s grown to care about, face awful persecution because of who or how they love, and that hurts her even more.

Thena knows this, and she sympathizes; learning that ancient Greece is now regarded as an idyllic gay utopia by some pleased her, because (though it wasn’t as perfect as some people try to make it seem now, and it wasn’t as perfect as she’d have wanted it to be) she did use her influence in that period to destigmatize such things. And, given her centuries-long relationship with Ajak, these things are obviously relevant to her.

Still, she’s not sure how serious Ajak wants to be in the moment, so she flashes a smirk (the kind that almost nobody has ever gotten to see) and says, “Is this your way of proposing to me?”

Ajak laughs warmly and strokes Thena’s cheek. “No, my Thena,” she says. “I would not ask you to choose between us.” 

Us, meaning her and Gilgamesh. Of course.

Thena-and-Ajak are different than Thena-and-Gilgamesh, and that’s always been true, but both relationships are important. Ajak is a great love, Gilgamesh is what humans think of as soulmates. And neither relationship is as simply categorized as a human marriage.

Thena also knows this, and she’s mostly teasing when she brings it up. She couldn’t choose. She wouldn’t want to. “Thank you,” she says.

“Besides, you’re here, and I…” Ajak trails off.

“You could be here, too,” Thena murmurs. It’s not the first time she’s brought it up (Gilgamesh wouldn’t mind, they’ve discussed it). But - well - “I won’t make you choose between me and the rest of the world, though. That wouldn’t be fair either.”

Ajak nods. “I love you,” she says, instead of addressing it.

“I love you too,” Thena says, because it’s true and that has to be enough.

Notes:

ginekara mu atelioti; "my endless woman" (Greek)

Chapter 22: and I like that about you, I feel sacred in your arms

Summary:

Ava/Tess; Deadwood AU.

Notes:

As such.

tw discussions of abuse and shitty men.

Tess knocks, and soon enough Doc Simmons’ door opens a crack. The doctor reaches for Tess’ wrist and pulls her inside, quick as anything, like she’s afraid of being seen. 

“What’s going on?” Tess asks, frowning. The doctor’s office is generally considered neutral, safe territory, and the doctor herself isn’t known to show her fear where just anyone could see it. (Those close to her know that’s a carefully-constructed artifice, that she’s more prone to panic than she lets on, but she can’t let it interfere with her practice or her reputation.)

Simmons swallows heavily. “Elena didn’t come?” she asks, though that’s obvious and she’s really just looking for an explanation.

“She set out early this morning,” Tess says, shaking her head. “It’s her week to do a mail run.” 

“Oh, of course,” Simmons says, seeming embarrassed. There’s no reason to expect that she’d have a perfect memory of the post office’s schedules, she’s not one of the employees and neither is her partner Daisy, but she doesn’t like admitting she doesn’t know things, no matter how inconsequential.

“What’d you need her for?” Tess asks. She can guess - her guardian of sorts is among those that have offered to provide security to vulnerable folk in camp - but the doctor is, as mentioned, rarely in need of those services.

Simmons looks furtively toward the door. “I’ve got a patient that needs looking after,” she says. “I don’t want to leave her alone, or without protection either, but I need to get down to the saloon, I was due to check up on the girls an hour ago…”

“I can stay,” Tess says.

“You sure?” Simmons asks. “I meant to ask Elena because, well. I’m worried that her former employer isn’t willing to let her go so easy.”

Tess shrugs. “You got a gun?” she asks. “I know how to defend myself.”

Simmons blinks. Tess isn’t a child, but she’s young enough that such revelations are unexpected. “There’s a rifle behind my desk,” she says, “and a pistol on it. I’ll get it for you.” She takes a breath (maybe her first proper one in a while) and waves Tess into the back of the building. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Ava.”

There’s a beautiful dark-skinned woman laid out in one of the beds, eyes closed and bandages around her head, and before Tess even has a chance to guess at what happened to her Simmons taps her ankle to get her attention and says, “Ava, I have to step out for a little while.”

Ava pushes herself up to sitting and nods. “I’ll be alright,” she says quickly, like she’s used to lying about such things.

“Tess is going to sit with you,” Simmons explains, gesturing to the younger woman. “In case you need anything, or just if you want some company.”

“Hi, Ava,” Tess says shyly, feeling herself blush fiercely and hoping that Ava doesn’t notice.

“Hello,” Ava murmurs. 

Simmons fetches the pistol for Tess as she pulls up a chair beside Ava’s bed, and they wave the good doctor out. Silence falls over them for a good long minute, one they both spend trying to collect their racing and perhaps not totally appropriate thoughts.

Finally Ava asks, “What’s your name again?”

“Tess,” says Tess, and this time she notices how Ava watches her mouth as she speaks.

“Tess,” Ava repeats. “It suits you.” She glances away, worries her lip for a moment before she adds, “Sorry. I don’t hear so well, since…”

Tess frowns. She can guess that whatever it’s since has to do with the head trauma she incurred and is being treated for, and she won’t push. Instead she says, talking just a little slowly in case that helps, “Simmons’ll get you fixed up. She’s a better doctor than this camp deserves, but it’s for that reason that we’re lucky to have her.”

Ava takes a second to process this and then she nods.

“Could I ask,” Tess begins, “what she meant? About your employer?”

Ava’s eyes drop. “I guess you deserve to know who you might be defending me from,” she says. “I was working for Mr. Kasius.” 

She pauses to let this sink in: of course Tess knows who she’s referring to, he’s one of the camp’s most notorious figures. He’s a pimp and a criminal, the sort of man that thinks he’s better than everyone else because of the name he was born into, and most everyone Tess knows would just as soon drive him out but lack the resources to do so fully.

“Oh, no,” Tess murmurs, and she offers her hand to Ava before she can think better of it.

Ava takes it, with a grateful smile, and continues, “It was one of his men did this to me. He’d never get his hands dirty, but he watched. He smiled.”

“Cocksucker,” Tess hisses. 

“Maybe I’ll never hear right again,” Ava adds, eyes filling up with tears. “He didn’t mind devaluing me ‘cause he thought it meant I’d never leave him. He could just use me up till I died.”

“But he’s not gonna,” Tess says earnestly, and she squeezes Ava’s hand like a promise. “Simmons won’t let him, Sheriff May won’t. I won’t.”

“Still haven’t figured out why I matter to you all,” Ava mumbles.

“Because,” Tess says, and she makes sure Ava is picking up every word she says (or at least the sentiment behind them). “You’re worth a thousand of him. I just met you and I can tell that.”

“How?” Ava asks, furiously wiping at her eyes.

“Just can,” Tess says. “You’re strong. You’ve endured. You’ve got a soul, where he has none.”

Ava laughs weakly. “You’re awful sweet to a stranger,” she says.

“Sometimes you know when to take a chance on people.”

Chapter 23: I hadn’t figured out where I belong

Summary:

Maya L./Elektra; canon divergence.

Notes:

Specifically, my universe where Peggy is Captain Britain, as such. Of note:
-Elektra and Matt's relationship started basically the same as it did in canon. After they broke up, Elektra also spent some time dating Colleen.
-Elektra has technically died twice (the times she did in canon) and Matt has died once (again, the end of Defenders). They both came back after that, together and for reasons they're still figuring out.
-Matt is kind of the de facto leader of the Defenders (which, in addition to Elektra, includes Jessica and Luke and Colleen and Misty and Trish). He and Elektra are very much dating again...
-...but this is the verse where everyone is dating everyone, so there's that.
-At this point in the timeline, Maya has learned the truth about Kingpin ordering the hit on her dad (we can all agree that fake Hawkeye was Bullseye, right? Even though in this verse Hawkeye has, uh, been dead for some time so here it was fake Daredevil like in the comics) and has sworn vengeance, but she's playing a long con.
-I should also point out that while I'm not sure yet how the Snap went down in this timeline, I'm leaning toward more of a "the five post-Snap years were undone in the timeline by magic and only the very immediate Avengers know that" thing.

Let me know if I mess up anything with Maya and sign language/Deafness.

Matthew will be so disappointed in her.

She knows it’s wrong that her first thought upon waking up next to someone is of someone else. She slips out of bed, trying not to disturb the woman still sleeping, and pads into her bathroom so she can look herself in the eye as she - 

What? 

Chastizes herself? 

She’s allowed to sleep with whoever she wants. She knows that. (She also knows that certain people, namely Franklin, judge her for sleeping with whoever she wants, because he’s always looking for excuses to judge her.) She’s not worried about being unfaithful.

The issue is that the woman, girl, Maya - she’s not just some beautiful stranger met at an inconsequential party. She’s more important than she wants anyone to notice, and Elektra sought her out for a purpose. Matthew’s purpose.

He didn’t send her. He doesn’t treat her like Stick did. He doesn’t give orders. He’s not in charge of her.

But they work together, more officially than they ever did in their past lives, and that means that Elektra knows what, who, he’s concerned with. She knows he’s been keeping track of this shadow of a woman, taking note of when and where she shows up, what she intends. He can’t tell if she’s an enemy or an ally, if he can trust that they want the same things or if he’ll have to talk her down.

(He can’t tell if she’s more like Elektra herself or like Frank.)

Elektra decided of her own volition to find Maya, try to figure her out. That’s all she wanted to do - to save her devil boy the trouble - but maybe she can’t get close to someone without getting them in bed. Maybe she’s predictable. Maybe when she tells Matthew (she will, she can’t bear keeping secrets anymore) he’ll scoff and - well, he won’t say it outright, but she’ll be able to tell that he’s thinking she can’t break her old habits, that she was trained a certain way and she can’t escape it no matter how hard she tries. Maybe she can’t help but corrupt innocent people (and Maya, despite her criminal ties, is innocent).

Maybe he won’t, and this is just her own anxiety. (Anxiety! She didn’t used to have that, or if she did she could push it down and ignore it. She came back stronger than ever in her body, but more fragile in her mind. She doesn’t like it.)

The bathroom door swings open and Maya is standing there, looking at her inquisitively. 

“Sorry,” Elektra says (that’s also new, how easily she apologizes now) and then she winces because, for a second, she forgot that Maya is Deaf. She reaches back in her memory for the sign language she knows (it’s more tactical than conversational, but it’ll have to do) and she repeats herself with a sign.

Maya reaches out and adjusts the position of her thumb (on top of her fist, not inside it) and nods her encouragement. “That’s better,” she signs.

Elektra signs “sorry” again, trying not to show how frustrated she is with herself for making a stupid mistake. (That’s not new, she’s always hated doing that.)

“Why?” Maya asks, tilting her head.

“I left you,” Elektra signs slowly. 

Maya rolls her eyes and replies with - something about the bathroom, Elektra is fairly sure. She gets the point (going to the bathroom isn’t leaving).

Elektra shrugs, feeling uncomfortably helpless, and gestures into the room. Does Maya need to do anything, she means. She steps aside to let Maya pass, just in case.

Maya goes to splash water on her face, but that’s all. Then they stand there staring at each other for a moment, neither sure what to do next.

Finally Elektra says (basing herself in this moment on Matthew on a morning after) “Breakfast?” She follows with the sign for “food,” because she can’t remember anything more specific.

Maya nods, so they go into the mostly unused kitchen. 

Elektra rummages through the pantry, feeling an unusual wave of shame wash over her. This time it’s not for what she’s done, but for who she is, namely something of a princess. She doesn’t know how to make proper breakfast food! (She skips breakfast more often than not.) She has bagels and cereal, but they don’t seem wholly appropriate to offer in this case. She thinks for a moment about ordering in, but she doesn’t want to try to fill the time til the food arrives.

So she takes two boxes of cereal out - Cheerios (whole grain), Frosted Flakes - and raises an eyebrow. WIll these do?

Maya nods again and points to the Cheerios, and she signs, “I can read lips.” (These are new signs to Elektra, but she can figure them out.)

Elektra breathes a sigh of relief, but then she signs, “I still want to try.” It’s polite, it’s good practice, and she’s suddenly unsure about whether her accent would complicate matters.

She gets bowls from the cupboard and milk from the fridge, then leads Maya over to her sad excuse for a dining table. “Coffee?” she asks once Maya is sitting.

Maya signs something in the affirmative (it’s beyond what Elektra knows, but she gets the gist from the other woman’s expression) so Elektra starts the coffee maker and (after making sure Maya’s attention is off her) starts doing stretches to alleviate her nerves. 

When the coffee is done, she brings it and two mugs to the table. “Do you want anything else?” she asks.

“You don’t have to spoil me,” Maya signs. 

The problem is, that’s Elektra’s way. She spoils the people she cares about - she bought Colleen’s building for her, she apologized to sweet Karen with a designer handbag, she’s given Matthew more than she can count (including her own life) - and she doesn’t know how to stop.

“I know who you are,” Maya adds, mistaking Elektra’s pause. “You’re Daredevil’s girlfriend.”

Elektra knows “girlfriend,” and she can figure out “Daredevil.”

“What do you want from me?” Maya asks.

Elektra thinks about this, then she signs, “I want to know you and help you.”

“I’m going to kill Kingpin,” Maya signs. “Daredevil doesn’t kill.”

“I do,” Elektra signs. 

Matthew will be so disappointed in her.

Chapter 24: you're different I like it; you're from another planet, huh?

Summary:

Valkyrie/Peggy/Sersi; canon divergence.

Notes:

Also in the Captain Britain verse, as such. Of note:
-Despite my not knowing how I want to play the Snap yet, the events around the fall of Asgard and the creation of New Asgard are basically the same.
-Likewise the events of the film Eternals.
-Peggy is decently well-adjusted to the modern world by this point.
-Again, everyone is outrageously poly.

Somehow, New Asgard has become a spot for Avengers’ corporate retreats.

It’s rarely the whole team (considering that if you counted everyone designated an Avenger or one of their allies, you’d fill up a whole hotel and one that’s bigger than anything New Asgard actually has to offer) but smaller groups of them will come to train and bond and learn things. Sometimes Valkyrie will pause her kingly duties and join them, if it’s particularly interesting or relevant to her, but more often than that she just puts them up and hosts them for dinner and listens to their news from the outside.

(Some of them genuinely seem to forget that, despite the out-of-the-way nature of New Asgard, they have television and internet just like anyone else. It’s sort of sweet, having them eagerly catch her up on basic obvious things, so Valkyrie mostly doesn’t mind.)

This time round, she actually called the meet herself. It’s a little bit to satisfy her own curiosity - since yet more heroes have appeared that she hasn’t met - and a little bit educational - because she’s learned that nobody refuses invitations to come to learn to ride pegasi. It’s also even smaller than usual, just two other women - because she might have other ulterior motives.

It’s not like they don’t all swap around with each other, that shouldn’t be a surprise.

They first meet in the sitting room that adjoins the stables. It’s not at all fancy; the furniture is scuffed and well-worn and there’s a faint but definite hay smell in the air. She’s hoping it will give her guests the message that they don’t have to be prim and proper with her, despite her technical royalty.

(Sometimes it’s cute when people do that, when they blush and treat her with deference and mumble politenesses. Sometimes that means she can stop them, lift their chins gently, whisper that there’s no need to be formal, love.)

When she enters, one of her guests is already there, sunk into one of the overstuffed chairs. Peggy Carter, alias Captain Britain: the woman out of time, one of the founding Avengers, and still something of a mystery. They’ve met before, but usually in the time immediately preceding or following a battle and never alone. 

The time has come, Valkyrie thinks, for that to change.

“Afternoon, Captain,” she drawls, coming to sit across from the other woman. She’s not surprised to see that Peggy is dressed straight out of an illustration, jodhpurs and tall boots and her hair pulled back in a prim bun. It suits her.

“Peggy, if you please,” Peggy says, and there’s a sparkle in her eye that tells Valkyrie she’s not the only one with ulterior motives. “I prefer to save Captain for working environments.”

Valkyrie nods, just a little teasing. “You can just call me Val,” she says. She nods at Peggy’s outfit and asks, “Do you have riding experience, then?”

Peggy shrugs. “When I was young,” she says, with a raise of her eyebrows that clearly means “before I was frozen and then defrosted.” “I still remember how to dress the part, but I’ll need reminders on the rest.”

“Suits me,” Valkyrie says. “I’ve been told I’m a good teacher.”

“I’ll bet,” Peggy replies. Yes, they’re definitely on the same page here.

The door swings open and in rushes Valkyrie’s other guest. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she exclaims, though she’s only a few minutes past schedule and with a face like hers she could be forgiven for anything.

This is Sersi: new leader of the even-more-newly-revealed Eternals. They’re immortals, or almost immortals, or something like that; Valkyrie isn’t entirely sure of the details, but recent events have put them on her (and the Avengers’) radar and that means it’s time to play get-to-know-you. She’s dressed more casually, leggings and a green flannel, hair braided, and there’s the slightest lovely flush on her cheeks.

It only grows when she meets Peggy’s eyes, and Peggy exclaims, “Sylvia Fan, is that really you?”

They both laugh and run at each other, arms outstretched, and Valkyrie remarks, “Seems I’ve accidentally hosted a reunion.”

Peggy, who’s suddenly quite flustered, explains, “We ran in some of the same circles before the war, and when I saw the news I thought that certainly couldn’t be her.”

“Surprise,” Sersi says with a nervous giggle. “I hope you’re not bothered, that I couldn’t tell you back then.” About being almost-immortal, presumably.

“I understand,” Peggy says, and she does. “I’m more glad you’re here now.” She nods seriously, and Valkyrie can guess exactly the nature of their past relationship and the circles they ran in. “Is Sylvia your real name? I don’t want to call you the wrong thing.”

Sersi tucks hair behind her ear. “It’s Sersi, actually,” she says. “S-e-r-s-i. I can get away with using it these days, and it’s not as if I’m a secret anymore.”

“Sersi,” Peggy repeats. “Lovely.”

“Very,” Valkyrie adds, and she stands to shake the other woman’s hand. “Shall we get started, then? I can tell we have a lot of ground to cover.”

Chapter 25: I'll write a song for you, that's me, just a sweet melody

Summary:

Monica/Crystal; Schmigadoon AU.

Notes:

As someone with a musical theatre background, I thought this show was absolutely hilarious, but, like many things, it could have been improved by Sapphic content.

The characters here were chosen to fill the show's roles (Crystal being the Dove Cameron farmer's daughter, Monica being the Ariana DeBose schoolteacher). And yes, I kept certain other characters vague on purpose.

“It’s beautiful up here,” comes a voice behind Crystal, and it’s all the young woman can do not to jump out of her skin. 

But she makes herself take a breath, smooth her skirt over her legs, fluff her hair. It wouldn’t do to act like a loon just because someone snuck up on her. “Yes, it is,” she says, and she turns to face the newcomer.

To her surprise, it’s Miss Rambeau, who hadn’t spoken three words to her before a few days ago. She feels her cheeks getting hot all over again at the memory of the schoolteacher’s assertive ranting; it’s nobody’s fault but Max’s that he thought he had the right to dictate who and when and why Crystal married, but she still feels foolish for almost going along with it, especially in front of such a strong, independent, brilliant woman like Miss Rambeau.

“I’m not going to bite,” Miss Rambeau says, and she probably means her smile to be reassuring but it just makes Crystal’s heart skip a beat.

“I didn’t think you would,” Crystal says, wrinkling her nose. “I just wasn’t expecting company.”

“I wasn’t either,” Monica says. “May I sit?”

She nods to Crystal’s picnic blanket, and before Crystal can think better of it she nods back to give her consent.

“I come up here to think sometimes,” she explains, a little shy. “It doesn’t always work, because there are a lot of kids who come here to - well -” She flusters, suddenly not sure if she should describe the more amorous activities that take place up here to someone as mature and proper as Miss Rambeau. “I’m not always alone, is the point. But I like it here. There’s a lovely view of the town, and that tree? The forsythia there, with the yellow flowers? My father planted that in my honor, and being near it makes me feel like I’m near him, sort of. And… oh dear, I’m going on, aren’t I?”

Miss Rambeau shakes her head. “I don’t mind,” she says. “You might have noticed that I don’t have many friends here. I’m always willing to make more.”

“Well, if we’re going to be friends, you have to get approval from my dog,” Crystal says earnestly. She whistles and Lockjaw comes lumbering over, tongue lolling. “What do you think? Should I make friends with Miss Rambeau?”

Lockjaw pants happily and licks Miss Rambeau’s outstretched hand.

“You pass,” Crystal giggles. “I knew you would, of course. He can recognize a good person miles off.” She lowers her voice, but not all that much. “He doesn’t like my brother-in-law very much.”

Miss Rambeau laughs in spite of herself. “I don’t know if it’s very hard to tell that he’s unkind,” she says, and she holds her (non-licked) hand out to Crystal. “Friends, then. You can call me Monica.”

“Monica,” Crystal repeats. “That’s a lovely name! I’m Crystal, but I’m sure you know that.” She’s not anyone particularly important, but everyone here knows at least one of everyone else’s names, and she’s young enough that she’s known by her Christian name first and foremost.

“It’s very apt,” Monica remarks. “You have a certain sparkle to you that sets you apart.”

“Oh!” Crystal exclaims, one hand flying to her mouth in shock. “That’s the most splendid compliment I’ve ever received. Of course, I’m sure you know all sorts of beautiful things to say, since you’ve read so much.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Monica says. “I’m not interested in playing games.”

“Oh,” Crystal repeats, and she looks straight into Monica’s eyes. That fluttery feeling in her stomach is back, and to quell it, she asks, “Did you just want to come here and think, too?”

Monica shrugs. “I needed a break from all the dancing,” she says.

“I understand perfectly,” Crystal says with a nervous laugh. “I’m very happy that everyone is, that we’re all going to be a bit more honest with ourselves and each other, but there’s only so much celebrating one girl can do.” 

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you,” Monica says, apropos of nothing. “With…”

“Oh, I’m alright,” Crystal says lightly. “I think I was more drawn in by the idea of something new, and by the chance to get out of my sister’s shadow, than by him in particular. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, either. I think you would have been much more well-matched.”

“Perhaps,” Monica says. “But some things are just written in the stars.”

“Yes,” Crystal agrees. “I’m sure there’s someone wonderful written in the stars for you. You’re so kind, and intelligent, and you know things that nobody else does, and you’re willing to stand up for them…”

“I’m sure there’s someone perfect for you, too,” Monica murmurs, leaning a bit closer. “You’re sweet, and vivacious, and such an optimist, and you have a very cute dog…”

Crystal leans in, too. “It would be an honor to be loved by someone like you,” she whispers.

Somewhere behind them, a plaintive violin starts playing.

“Maybe we can be socialists together,” Monica says, and she leans in to kiss Crystal passionately.

Chapter 26: I’m not sure if I’m just thinking ‘bout it too much

Summary:

Betty/MJ; Bye Bye Birdie AU.

Notes:

I did this show in high school, and some of my friends did it at theatre camp before that (I wasn't in it that time, but I might as well have been). It's very dumb and very 1960 and I'm very fond of it despite its flaws. This AU specifically came about because my brain decided to spit out the pun "Bye Bye Spidey" and I challenged myself to run with it. No Spideys are actually going bye-bye in this version, because if the plot involved any war the story would just be 1k of MJ talking about why war is bad and the actual story would get sidelined, but uh. Yeah.

Also, the three Spideys as a goofy 60s rock band is just a really charming mental image.

cw for 1960esque societal homophobia and stuff.

“Did you hear?” Betty exclaims, running into the Soda Shoppe and sitting across from MJ with a dramatic flop. “They’re finally going to unmask Peter One, and on national TV at that!”

MJ raises an eyebrow and sips on her milkshake. “Is that so,” she asks dryly.

Betty nods eagerly. “It’s all they can talk about on the radio,” she says eagerly. “They’re going to be selling tickets to raise money for the Council on the Arts, and they’re going to play a concert, and then one lucky member of the Spider-Men Fanclub is going to get to go on stage with the band and take his mask off and - and maybe he’ll even kiss her!”

“It’s sort of odd to turn strangers kissing into a charity event,” MJ muses.

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” Betty chides, reaching across the table to nudge MJ. “She’ll get to spend time with them in the days leading up to it, I think, so they won’t be strangers. Maybe she’ll even get to take his mask off in private before they go onstage. I guess it depends on how much chemistry they have.” She sighs wistfully. “I think it’s romantic.”

“It sounds archaic,” MJ counters. “It’s marketing affection. It’s basically an arranged marriage.”

Betty groans. “Don’t be like that,” she says. “Why would a girl join the Spider-Men fanclub if she wasn’t interested in at least possibly kissing them?”

“Because she likes their music?” MJ suggests. “Because all of her friends have, and she needs to join the club too if she wants to spend any time with them?”

The Spider-Men are one of the most popular rock bands in the world, after all, especially among teenage girls. They’re young and sort of mysterious, in large part because of the coy masks they wear (they’re not all that concealing, but it's a good gimmick). They’re all three named Peter: Peter One, the youngest and only one whose civilian identity has never been revealed until now, sings and plays the guitar, while Peter Two, the goofy one, plays the drums and Peter Three, the bad boy, plays bass and sings backup. They’re tailor-made to inspire obsession.

And Betty Brant is nothing if not one of their most devoted fans.

“You’re no fun,” Betty sighs.

“Besides,” MJ says, “even if someone might possibly want to kiss one of the boys, that doesn’t mean she wants to on short notice, or without any consideration for anything else. What if she’s already got a steady?”

“Well, she wouldn’t have to kiss anyone else if she didn’t want to,” Betty reasons. “But if I was seeing a boy, I would hope he’d be okay with me getting to have that kind of once-in-a-lifetime experience!”

MJ looks at Betty pointedly. Sure, they’re not really going steady, because they can’t; girls can’t go steady with other girls, at least at this age. Maybe they live in New York City, where there are communities for people like that, but they’re still in high school! They still live with their parents. They can’t just come out and admit that they like to kiss each other. MJ can’t just ask Betty to the prom like she could if she was a boy. Betty will never get to have the kind of big, elaborate wedding she dreams of with MJ. 

It’s possible that whatever it is they’re doing doesn’t mean the same thing to Betty as it does to MJ, because Betty cares more about having a nice, normal life. MJ is going to run away into the heart of the city as soon as she has a chance, but Betty is the kind of girl who could be just as happy in a house in the suburbs. MJ knows this, and she tries to be okay with it.

But it still seems silly for Betty not to think about this at all when she’s talking about these hypotheticals.

“Well,” Betty says again, withering under MJ’s stare, “it’s just that this wouldn’t have to mean anything. I know I’m not going to get to date Peter One, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t at least take the chance to kiss him. That’s the stuff fantasies are made of!”

“I guess so,” MJ says. “It’d be a heck of a story to tell people at parties, being the girl that got to unmask one of the Spider-Men on TV.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Betty replies. “She’s going to be a little bit famous!”

“That’s the first argument for it I’ve heard,” MJ declares.

“You don’t care about things like that,” Betty giggles. 

“Not for its own sake, but I bet I could turn the spotlight on important things,” MJ says. “Civil rights leaders and things like that. People who really have something to contribute to the world. Maybe I could even get the Spider-Men to speak up about those things, too.”

“It’s nice to dream, isn’t it?” Betty says, clearly pleased.

MJ rubs the back of her neck. “About that…”

“What?” Betty asks, her eyes going wide. “What are you saying?”

“I got a call this afternoon,” MJ admits. “I wasn’t sure I was going to accept it, but I think now that I will. I was selected to be the one to unmask Peter One.”

Betty’s jaw drops. 

“Is that alright with you?” MJ asks shyly. It would be a bit hypocritical if Betty didn’t agree to it, all things considered, but she’s not going to do it without permission.

“Of course!” Betty squeals. “You absolutely have to do it! You have to do it for all of us, and you have to tell me every single thing that happens, and if you want to kiss him of course you’re allowed, I’m not going to stand in the way of that.”

MJ watches Betty’s face as she speaks, and maybe she’s just imagining the hint of jealousy, or misattributing it (it’s more likely that Betty is jealous of MJ getting to possibly kiss Peter One than that she’s jealous of Peter One kissing MJ, isn’t it?) but she has to admit that it’s a little exciting.

Chapter 27: couple touches of a button, won't you gimme a lift, baby?

Summary:

Katy/Darcy; (pre) public sex.

Notes:

"Pre" is the operative word here. This is short and sweet because it's more about the vibes (pun intended) of these two getting ready to play than the actual play (which I'm sure you can imagine more satisfyingly than I can write it).

“Remember that thing we were talking about the other day?” Darcy asks.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” Katy points out. “We’re talking about everything all the time.”

That’s not untrue. If they’re not together, they’re usually texting.

“The thing,” Darcy says meaningfully, raising her eyebrows. “The thing that we were talking about in private? The one that we could maybe do in public.”

Katy considers this for a moment. The first thing she thinks of is the conversation they were having about maybe going to Rocky Horror soon, but considering that it’s A) the middle of the day and B) something they’ve both done before it wouldn’t necessitate this level of secrecy.

And then she gets it.

“Oh, the thing,” Katy echoes, nodding exaggeratedly. “Right, yeah. The thing. With the… stuff.”

“Exactly,” Darcy says. She pulls something out of her purse and hands it to Katy with a flourish. “May I present to you the Moxie.”

It’s a little 50s-diner-teal vibrator with a remote control. “Very cool,” Katy says. “Did you go out and buy this just for me?”

Darcy shrugs. “It’s not like I’m not getting some enjoyment out of it too,” she says.

“So you just, like… shove it down there and go for a walk or something?” Katy asks, looking the toy over. 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure you could shove it down there and just stay home, too, but that’s not what we were talking about trying,” Darcy says.

“Right,” Katy says, and then something occurs to her. “Wait a second, who’s shoving what where? Does this go down your pants and then I play mad scientist, or vice-versa? You’re the actual scientist, so that could make more sense, or maybe that’s why you’d want me to be that instead, or…”

Darcy smirks wickedly and pulls out a second one. “¿Por qué no los dos?”

“Daaaamn,” Katy exclaims. “You’re a devious genius.”

“I know,” Darcy says. “Shall we?”

Chapter 28: the bird is flying low over the lake and you told me that you were mine

Summary:

Peggy/Angie; hurt/comfort.

Given Peggy’s job, her returning at all hours and in various states of disarray is fairly expected. Angie is used to it, and most of the time, it’s not anything to worry about. Peggy just gets in her pajamas and brushes her hair and crawls into bed, and Angie kisses the frown off her face, and then they fall asleep.

Tonight is not one of those nights. 

Peggy is loud entering the house - this is unusual enough in and of itself, given that she’s trained to be stealthy and she doesn’t want to disturb Angie any more than she absolutely has to - and her footsteps get even heavier as she climbs the stairs. By the time she stumbles into the bedroom, Angie is already up and alert.

“Geez, Peg,” she sighs, looking her partner over. 

Her dress is ripped (maybe a casualty of whatever fight she found herself in or maybe an intentional decision so she could run easier - there’s precedent for either) and the blonde wig she’d been wearing is hanging out of her purse and she’s not wearing any shoes (they might have been lost in the battle, or they might just be downstairs). She’s got a black eye and at least three other bruises forming, the remnants of a bloody nose obvious on her face, and she’s holding her left hand close to her body like there’s something wrong with it.

“Sorry,” Peggy says.

“Sit down,” Angie demands, scrambling off the bed to make room.

Peggy sits, and then just flops backward with a dazed giggle and a hiccup. “Oops.”

“Christ, are you drunk and beat to hell?” Angie asks, shaking her head. She goes for the first aid kit - she’s no nurse, but by now she knows enough to take care of Peggy when she’s gotten banged up in a fight.

“No,” Peggy says petulantly. “I had a drink earlier in the evening, because we were set up in a bar and it would be odd not to, and then Howard poured me a shot before Jarvis popped my shoulder back into place so it wouldn’t hurt as much.” She says this like it should be obvious.

Angie groans. “Howard’s a goddamn menace,” she mutters, because - sure, he clearly meant well, but he tries to solve all his problems with alcohol.

“He is,” Peggy agrees. “He gets into such terrible scrapes and then we have to dig him out.”

“He’s not your responsibility,” Angie points out, even though she knows it won’t take (it never does).

“He’s my business partner, sort of,” Peggy says. “His scrapes have the potential to come back on all of us if we don’t fix it, so we fix it.”

“Yeah, but who fixes you?” Angie tuts.

“You do,” Peggy says, and she’s suddenly gone from tipsy to heartbreakingly earnest. “You’d be much better off without me. Finding yourself a nice, normal girl who doesn’t come home in pieces. But you haven’t done. You’ve stuck with me.”

She sounds so young, so awed, and Angie has to frown. “Of course I have,” she says. “You’re my girl. I knew what I was getting into.” She brings a handkerchief up to Peggy’s face and starts wiping some of the blood away gently.

“You’re much too good for me,” Peggy murmurs. 

“Bullshit,” Angie counters. “You’re an international hero. I’m just a chorus girl.”

“I’m a spy,” Peggy corrects. “I’m violent and deceitful and, and -” Her eyes fill up with tears all of a sudden. “And you’re so sweet and genuine and you take such care of me.”

“That’s what I’m for,” Angie says. “You’re my girl. No matter what.”

“Really?” 

“Really.” Angie takes Peggy’s right hand and kisses it. “You gonna be okay if I go get you some ice?”

Peggy sniffles, but she nods. “Sorry,” she says again. “I must be having an adrenaline crash, I…”

Angie kisses Peggy’s hand again, then dashes out of the room. A few minutes later, she returns with a glass of water, a glass of ice, and a slew of washcloths. “Let me get you undressed,” she says softly. “Then we’re gonna put ice on your eye and your shoulder and anywhere else you need it. Are you concussed?”

Peggy shrugs. “Don’t think so,” she says, slowly working at her buttons.

“Well, we’re gonna keep you awake for a couple hours anyway, just in case,” Angie decides. “You want me to read to you?”

“Would you?” Peggy asks, sounding pitiful.

“Yeah, of course,” Angie says. “I’ve got that Midsummer audition coming up, that work for you?”

“I don’t care what you read,” Peggy says. “I just like listening to you. I like being with you, Angie.”

“Yeah, I like being with you too, English.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 9 of no one's got it all (anthologies)