WELL FOR THOSE LIKE… TWO PEOPLE, HERE YOU GO.
Title: AIN’T GOT NO TITLE YET
Author: ME I’M SORRY
Rating: I GUESS IT WOULD BE T FOR CURSING IF I GAVE A SHIT ABOUT CURSING?
Words: 1,969
Pairing(s): Teddy Altman/Billy Kaplan, Kate Bishop/Eli Bradley, Kate Bishop/Tommy Shepherd
Characters: Teddy Altman, Kate Bishop, Eli Bradley, Tommy Shepherd, Billy Kaplan (at the moment)
Summary: Kate has two awesome boyfriends she wants to see make out, but all Teddy and Billy have is a lot of unfortunate history.
No idea if it will come to anything, but.
( • WRITING MUSE IS A DRUNK • I JUST WANT ALL THE AUS OKAY • a good way to get me to write • apparently • is to do a shitty job at an idea I like • )“Why did I agree to this?” Teddy groans, tugging at the hem of his shirt in discomfort. It’s not uncomfortable, of course; it’s one of his favorites, soft from how often he’s worn it, but he needs to do something with his hands and the last time he had pulled out his phone to fiddle with it Kate had smacked him on the arm. And yeah, in hindsight, maybe doing it every minute or so had been a little excessive, but he doesn’t know what Kate expects from him. He’s really not a party… person.
“You’ve been here for a year,” Kate replies, unnervingly aware of her surroundings despite the fact she’s focused entirely on her phone. In complete contrast to him, she’s wearing something he’s never seen before, shiny and draped, because in Kate Bishop’s world, ‘it’s no big deal, just dress casual’ is something that only happens to other people. “And your social life remains nonexistent. You agreed to this because I’m your friend and I love you and I’m worried, and possibly also because I bribed you.” She looked up long enough to give him a bit of a smirk. “It’s not going to be that bad. Maybe you’ll meet a nice guy.”
“If you haven’t started dating them all,” Teddy mutters to himself, sulky and unfair, and Kate gives him a significantly longer, cooler look.
“I am going to interpret that as an expression of frustrated jealousy as opposed to you passing judgement on my lifestyle,” she says, after a moment. Teddy huffs, and reaches up to rub his forehead.
“Yeah,” he says, “Sorry, Kate. You know I would never -”
“I know. And that is why you are allowed to be in my company with all your limbs intact,” Kate says, breezily, and Teddy has seen first hand that she’s not exaggerating. Daniel DuBois made the mistake of calling her a whore, once, and she responded by putting him in a shoulder lock until he cried while she lectured him on the concept of slut shaming.
For some reason, when I posted this on AO3 last night, it fucked up and only let me see it or something? IDK! It hadn’t fixed itself so I just went ahead and reposted it, if you’re the kind of person that likes that sort of thing. This is now a link to it (which works, this time, I’ve checked)!
( • jkhsgkjhhds • LOOK AT YOUR LIFE • LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES • fuck my life • anyhow • Writing Muse is a drunk • Psych • Carlton Lassiter • Shawn Spencer • ALTERNATE UNIVERSE I GUESS • kinda sorta PWP • sex is the worst place for uncomfortable realizations • I will regret this in the morning • )Tonight is apparently bad decision night, so I am finally posting my shitty Psych fanfic! It has also been crossposted on AO3.
The Worst In Me
Fandom: Psych
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Shawn Spencer
Words: 1577Summary: ”Lassiter may have, at one point, had extensive issues – possibly subscriptions – with the idea of admitting, even to just himself, that he finds Shawn Spencer attractive. But Spencer is something of a force of nature, and there are certain inescapable truths that Lassiter’s learned to resign himself to as long as the department wants to continue using the so-called psychic. The first among them in his mind, underlined, italicized, and bolded, is that the more Lassiter tries to deny or avoid something, the more out of his way Spencer will go to make that something his new toy for the week.”
Notes: I WATCHED TWO SEASONS OF PSYCH, WROTE A FANFIC, AND THEN DIDN’T WATCH ANYMORE AT ALL, BECAUSE I FAIL AT FANDOM. So, uh, I guess what I’m going for here is: I’ve read enough on Wikipedia to know this does not adhere to canon.
OKAY? LET’S GO.
Tonight is apparently bad decision night, so I am finally posting my shitty Psych fanfic! It has also been crossposted on AO3.
The Worst In Me
Fandom: Psych
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Shawn Spencer
Words: 1577
Summary: ”Lassiter may have, at one point, had extensive issues – possibly subscriptions – with the idea of admitting, even to just himself, that he finds Shawn Spencer attractive. But Spencer is something of a force of nature, and there are certain inescapable truths that Lassiter’s learned to resign himself to as long as the department wants to continue using the so-called psychic. The first among them in his mind, underlined, italicized, and bolded, is that the more Lassiter tries to deny or avoid something, the more out of his way Spencer will go to make that something his new toy for the week.”
Notes: I WATCHED TWO SEASONS OF PSYCH, WROTE A FANFIC, AND THEN DIDN’T WATCH ANYMORE AT ALL, BECAUSE I FAIL AT FANDOM. So, uh, I guess what I’m going for here is: I’ve read enough on Wikipedia to know this does not adhere to canon.
OKAY? LET’S GO.
… here’s that one time I saw a prompt for single father!Erik/manny!Charles and decided I wanted to write it and then I never showed anyone because I have this superstition that if I show people things I’m writing before I’m done I’ll never finish them. Well, it seems I’ll never finish it anyhow, so here we go:
Erik Lehnsherr is 32, gay, and a lawyer. He also has two children, through circumstances that were hilarious and tragic in turn. Because he and Magda sleeping together wasn’t something either of them ever really expected, but then he had been younger, just leaving his first serious relationship under highly unpleasant circumstances, and extremely drunk, and somehow they had both gotten it into their heads that all men were cads and maybe he would try women and of course it might as well be his oldest friend. In the light of the morning, and after a pair of truly amazing hangovers, the whole thing had seemed like the kind of situation they would enjoy mortifying each other with for years to come, and then a few weeks later they found themselves on Magda’s couch, heads together, waiting for lines to appear on a little white stick.
“Oh God,” Erik said.
“I can’t believe it,” Magda said. “You sleep with a woman for the first and only time in your life, and you manage to knock her up.”
Though it certainly took care of the rather intimidating prospect of being a single woman trying to adopt, even if it was slightly earlier than she would have planned.
The twins – Wanda and Pietro – were unexpected; Magda’s death, four years later, was even more so.
Erik took the twins home from the hospital after the doctor had gently pulled him aside and told him Magda was gone. They eventually fell asleep in his bed, and he sat on the sofa, running his mind over their options. There was Magda’s family, of course. Then there was the foster system. Or there was him.
To his knowledge, Wanda and Pietro had never met any member of their extended family. And Erik was intimately familiar with the foster system.
So in the end there really there hadn’t been any option at all.
—
Two years later, Emma Frost drops into a chair across from him at the restaurant they’re meeting for lunch, and immediately offers, “You look like shit, sugar.”
Emma is of indeterminate age (“a lady never tells and a gentleman never asks”), blonde, and from old money. She is terribly catty and makes stylistic choices that would be suicide if attempted by anyone else, and is, in general, Erik’s best friend since Magda’s death. He met her before he went to work for the DA, just after her second husband died, when she was being sued by her stepchildren over the contents of their father’s will. When she sat down in his office, Erik noted that she was young, and coldly beautiful, and dressed completely in white, and made several assumptions, most of which were proven entirely incorrect by the time she walked out.
Which is rather par for the course, when it comes to her, because Emma Frost is an incredibly intelligent if not somewhat vindictive mind wrapped up in blonde hair and a great rack.
She is also the absolute last thing Erik wants to deal with today.
“Why did I agree to this?” he asks. “Why did I think I wanted to see you?”
“Because I said I would pay for lunch,” she replies, with a cool sliver of a smile. “It’s nice to see you too, Erik. Shall I ask how the children are?”
He groans. She laughs, which – as always – is Erik’s cue to make a show of leaving in a huff before she waves one imperious, impeccably manicured hand at him.
“Pietro got out,” is what he offers when he settles back in his chair. “Again. He was halfway down to the lobby before I managed to catch him.” That warrants an arch of one sculpted blonde brow; impressive indeed. “So I stayed up the rest of the night… insane six-year-old proofing.”
“Again.” She’s smirking at him. He’s absolutely positive that she arranges these lunches because she thrives on schadenfreude.
“Again.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. “He defies logic. And possibly physics. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but they’ve chased off our latest nanny.”
“And you happen to be in luck, darling,” she says, and it’s his turn to arch a brow, because this is different from their usual routine (wherein Erik complains and Emma mocks him and pays for lunch). “I happen to have an old friend looking for a job while he’s getting his PhD. And I imagine either your children will eat him alive, or they’ll all get along like a house on fire, and either way, it’s going to be amusing. For me, at least.”
She produces a card from her purse, because Emma is the sort of woman who carries around business cards despite only nominally being involved in a business, and flips it over, writing out a telephone number and then a name in her graceful, looping script.
“Not exactly a vote of confidence,” Erik points out, and she gives him another smile, the one she saves for things like stupid questions.
“Coming from me, sugar?” she hums, and offers him the card with that same smile. “I’ll vouch for him.”
Erik takes it, flipping it over to read the name: Charles F. Xavier.
Well. It’s certainly worth a shot.
—
When Erik gets in touch with him later that evening, Charles F. Xavier proves to have an English accent, and be more than willing to come over the next morning and meet the children. He’s also extremely punctual and, when he arrives, unnervingly cheerful, considering it’s 7 am.
He’s nothing like Erik expected.
Because when Emma had told him Charles was an old friend – “old enough that if you ask him how long we’ve known each other, I’ll deny it” – Erik had pictured… something. He wasn’t sure exactly what, but it certainly wasn’t ridiculously blue eyes and incredibly red lips and a cardigan.
Erik’s mind gropes in vain for an adjective that will suffice to label Charles Xavier, and settles on “fluffy” a bit more firmly than he would have liked.
Charles smiles and introduces himself and then asks when Erik needs to leave for work, and after getting a reply he sweeps into the kitchen and starts making them all breakfast. Erik drifts after him, half-tempted to be vaguely insulted, but then Charles takes the opportunity to ask about the children, their schedules, and what they’d prefer for breakfast, and Erik really doesn’t have a chance.
He leaves eventually to wake the children up, and by the time he returns with Wanda and Pietro in tow Charles has finished making pancakes and eggs and the turkey bacon he found in the fridge.
“Well,” Erik says, at a loss. “Let’s see how today goes.”
Charles offers him a cup of coffee and a brilliant smile.
( • funny story: • while I was trying to decide if this would be powered or not • my musings on the effect of mutant powers in law enforcement branched off into the Law and Order 'verse • anyhow • OH I HAD SO MANY NOTES FOR THIS STORY • it was gonna feature Raven and Azazel and a cameo from Scott as a lawyer with his own homicidal (not homicide) detective • I am legitimately sad that I won't finish it • oh shit • right • descriptive tags • Erik Lehnsherr • Charles Xavier • AU • Writing Muse is a drunk • )
When the wormhole left him, the hammer, the destroyer, the girl – all of that was yet to come, but there was something else, something ancient, something lost. A madman had it, for madmen were the only ones that ever truly realized the power of such things, but there was no hurry, for either Red Skull would succeed or he wouldn’t, and either Loki would have the Tesseract or an especially powerful puppet to control. He put on Hydra’s uniform and was content to wait, for he had been hasty before, and he would not make that mistake again.
You were just another soldier when he found you, when he stood above the table and watched, and smiled, when all they could get from you were the same eight numbers. You were nothing but a passing diversion, until Captain America came, and he saw what you really were, the dark soldier in the shadow of a big blond hero. The chaos he appreciated, but it was you he was following, and what part he had in the train isn’t important; he sealed you in his ice, changed you and claimed you, and if he did the same to your big blond hero it was only so Steve Rogers would be there to see what you would become. You were meant to be so much more than they would ever realize, his pet, his Soldier, his.
This turned out better than I thought it would.
Lines hurr, if you’d like them. I might do something more myself.
( • Writing Muse is a drunk • art art art • Bucky Barnes • Loki • what hath postcard wrought • )That’s why it’s the writing tag, and usually what ultimately become fics start out as snatches of sentences I like that I hopefully manage to string together into workable stories. I posted a bunch back here, but now she is asleep and I have a number of fragments that will probably never become stories, so here are a few I like because despite fangirling over Loki so much I have, in fact, been writing some Tony Stark:
So most people were charmed by him and intelligent people were exasperated by him and the important people were the ones that stuck around long enough to kind of, maybe sort of, like him.
But even people that didn’t like him had to admit he was talented, so when Steve Rogers insinuated that he was nothing without the suit he had initially designed from weapons scrap in a fucking cave, Tony Stark may have thought he was an asshole for a while.
“You should talk to Steve about this,” is what Pepper says when she finds him in the garage, after she happens to show up at the same time Jarvis is showing some nubile young twenty-something out for the third morning in a row.
“Yeah, no,” Tony says, and he doesn’t bother looking up from the engine he’s systematically dismantling, “I don’t. I’m not really good at the whole… sincere personal conversation thing. Tried it once, didn’t take.” And he doesn’t mean it to come out bitter – because it’s only the truth, and she would know – but apparently it does, because Pepper’s voice is significantly cooler when she replies.
“Well, try again. Or go back to California. He doesn’t deserve this.” He hears her let herself out, and wonders at what point he gave any indication of being able to give Steve Rogers anything he deserved.
( • Writing Muse is a drunk • this fic would not in fact have been Tony/Steve • postcard alone knows what it would have been • )“Uhm,” Tony manages. It may have, if one was being extremely generous, been considered a question.
Imma staying.
Expanding on the beginning of the second drabble here, and on themes mentioned here, here, and here.
—
When he is young, Charles doesn’t understand the difference between things people say aloud and what they say in their mind. But he does understand confusion and fear; the way they look at him when he responds to something thought but didn’t say, the way his parents’ wealthy friends won’t let their children play with him, the way they can’t keep a nanny. They look at him in concern and think about sending him away, so Charles stops talking at all until he learns what he’s supposed to hear. And eventually it becomes just another quirk of childhood, and they forget.
But Charles doesn’t.
—
When he meets Raven, he’s beyond excited; he’s ecstatic, because he’s not alone, because there’s someone that will understand and won’t be afraid.
Two years later, she stares at him, hair brown and skin pale but eyes gold and grave, and demands, “Promise me you won’t ever do that again, Charles. Promise me.” And he wants to tell she might as well make him promise not to see, because he can make an effort not to pay attention but he can’t turn it off; it’s just as much a part of him as her blue, shifting skin. There’s a tiny part of him that is actually just 14, not decades older thanks to lifetimes lived in the minds of others, that wants to tell her, I thought I wasn’t alone.
But Charles just smiles instead and says, “Of course, Raven. I’m sorry – I didn’t know it bothered you.” And then he leaves the library and goes upstairs to his bedroom and doesn’t cry.
—
The first time he has a serious relationship, he’s 16 and thinks he’s in love.
They’ve been going on three months when Charles finally tells her, and watches the curious and adoring light in her eyes turn into fear, and then anger, and then disgust. He doesn’t need to be a telepath to know she’s going over every conversation they’ve had, every night they’ve spent together, but he certainly gets it in Technicolor.
Charles carefully takes the memory of the last few minutes, and tells her, “I love you,” when she looks at him, curious once again to know what he wanted to tell her, and he’s never told a bigger lie.
They break up the next week.
—
Charles likes sex – adores sex, really, but it’s lacking. Because beyond their bodies, beyond the physical, there’s something so much more, so much better and deeper and brilliant, and he knows it. No matter how deep or passionate it’s never enough; he’s never satisfied, and even if it’s more his fault than theirs, once he’s alone again and the bitterness wells up he can’t help but associate it with whatever particular partner he entertained for the evening.
He doesn’t promise anything more than one-night stands, these days. But still, he inevitably finds himself back in the bar, commenting on what a “groovy mutation” someone’s eyes or hair are, hoping that maybe this time it’ll be enough.
—
Raven is angry at him, all the time, because he knows he can’t be what she needs. He wonders how, between the thousands of little repetitions – you promised you wouldn’t read my mind, Charles; stay out of my head, Charles – she doesn’t realize she couldn’t be what he needs, either.
( • spiraling ever deeper into angst with him • gonna work on some OT3 to sooth the pain • Writing Muse is a drunk • Writing Muse needs some goddamn medication • )Post a sentence from each WIP you have (as many/few as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than one sentence!
Charles is intensely intelligent to a degree that not only makes Kurt look like an idiot, but seems to actively interfere with his ability to be a normal human being, because no 20-year-old should willingly wear tweed.
“It’s already a flawed system, the Word of God through the hands of humans, but you get up to English and you might as well have ‘I have refrained my feet from every evil way, that I might keep thy word, purple monkey dishwasher.’”
There are feathers everywhere, down caught in Charles’ hair, and Erik adores it a little more than he thinks is strictly healthy.
AND OKAY THEN A FUCKTON FROM THE AU THAT NO ONE HAS SEEN (which I guess is cheating buuut it’s a sentence per section so this meme can deal with it):
Which is rather par for the course, when it comes to her, because Emma Frost is an incredibly intelligent if not somewhat vindictive mind wrapped up in blonde hair and a great rack.
Erik’s mind gropes in vain for an adjective that will suffice to label Charles Xavier, and settles on “fluffy” a bit more firmly than he would have liked.
“Charles Francis Xavier!” she’s shouting, and Erik is momentarily delighted, because Francis?
“And then my stepbrother Cain caught me in bed with Tony Stark. Well, it was less a bed as a coatroom.”
( • schadenfreude is one of my favorite concepts • probably because I am ALL ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME • also this seems an appropriate juncture to admit: • I ship Tony Stark with the FUCKING WORLD • memes • Writing Muse is a drunk • )Scott Summers is not happy to hear from him, but then Erik thinks sometimes that the closest he ever saw Scott Summers get to honest happiness was schadenfreude.
I have decided this takes place in the L&O ‘verse, otherwise known as the “powered universe where nothing intensely miserable happens”. This is in contrast to canon (“powered universe where upsetting things happen”), or my fix-it (“powered universe where utterly fucking miserable things happened, oh my God, why did I write this?”).
Also, spoiler alert: SO YEAH THEY END UP FUCKING IN THIS ‘VERSE. WHAT A SURPRISE FROM SOMEONE WHOSE FIRST EXPOSURE TO PALATABLE YAOI WAS FAKE.
Oh, and it’s a continuation of sorts of themes I initially visited in the second drabble here.
—
Charles fills his mind with surprised, breathless delight when Erik doesn’t shake off the tentative connection between them, and then almost immediately tries to rein it back, because this – it’s an experiment, it’s Erik’s choice, and obviously if he decides it’s unbearable that’s fine. Except that is isn’t, Erik realizes with a twist in his chest so painful that it briefly takes his breath away, because Charles was born with this as much as any of them were, and for his entire life people had been telling him it was a bad thing.
“I’m sorry,” the telepath says, apologetic, but under it Erik can still feel the hidden flash of fear and sorrow that even this simple pleasure of freely using his abilities will be unacceptable, and under that, the brief, bright pain of years of tiny, off-hand rejections and rebukes, suppressed to an extreme and horrible in how guilty it is.
And if anything, Charles looks even worse when he realizes Erik caught all that. “I’m sorry,” he says, again.
“Shut up,” Erik hisses, “God, Charles, just – shut the fuck up.” And he’s grabbing the telepath, yanking him in for a kiss, hard and almost painful before Erik remembers it’s not Charles he’s angry at.
I love you, he tells Charles, reaching up to cup his face, turning the kiss into something slower, deeper. I love you, you stupid beautiful bastard, every fucking part of you. Don’t you fucking dare go back to hiding yourself.
And if Charles makes a noise dangerously close to a sob against Erik’s mouth, he doesn’t pay attention, because Charles’ mind is all happiness and a love so staggeringly intense it might be terrifying if he didn’t feel the exact same way.
( • established relationship fluff • not something I write very often • X-Men: First Class • Charles Xavier • Erik Lehnsherr • Writing Muse is a drunk • )NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
