#Martin specifically would rip your hand off

[jl-otdc]

Post apocalyptic boyfriends

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (14/22)

Chapter summary: Vision sends you a demand letter for physical assault; Yelena makes a discovery that could shake the delicate foundations of your newfound 'friendship' with Wanda.

Chapter word count: 5.6k | Warnings: None | Ship: Wanda x Reader, Yelena x Reader

Author's note: Enjoy? :)

AO3 | Masterlist 

Next chapter: Fifteen

--

Fourteen

The demand letter sits in front of you, openly mocking you with its mere existence. It arrived at the most unanticipated time, suspiciously just a few days after your birthday. It is drafted by one of the most sought-after law firms in New York and co-signed by one Victor Shade, but you doubt that he had any hand in composing it. 

You've read it at least a dozen times now, its words wasting no time diving into the heart of the matter, “On January 4th, 2022 I suffered severe and critical injuries, when the actions of your insured, Ms. Y/N L/N…”

Deep down, you think you’ve been expecting this. The way Vision looked at Wanda the last time you saw them hinted at his lingering feelings. You knew he would do something to ease Wanda's rejection of him, and now he wants a specific amount as compensation: "Total Damages - $831,615.60."

With steady breaths, you carefully fold the letter back into its envelope. 

You wonder if Wanda knows about this. Clearly, whatever she and Vision previously agreed on to delay this matter has now unraveled. And if that’s the case, you want to make sure that Wanda stays out of this, and that her ties to Vision are permanently severed.

As you’re pondering the financial repercussions should you opt to settle, and the added frustration of Natasha not returning any of your calls, your office phone rings, startling you.

"Yes?" you answer when your assistant speaks.

"Sorry to bother you, but Ms. Yelena Romanoff is here to see you," your assistant tells you.

"Send her in, Martin. Thanks." you say and hang up, hurriedly clearing your desk, thoughtlessly placing the letter on top of the pile of documents you need to burn through for today.

A few moments pass, and then Yelena appears at the doorway of your office, wearing a bright smile that matches her vibrant pink lipstick. Coyly, she taps on the door, even though it's already slightly ajar. She's dressed in tight, ripped jeans, paired with knee-high boots and a vibrant red jacket–easily a sight for sore eyes. 

“Hey, baby, you busy?” she asks sort of mischievously. 

You shake your head, grinning “Not for you.”

"Good," she replies, stepping into the room and locking the door behind her. You begin to rise from your seat, but she stops you with a hand. Making her way around your desk, she forcefully pushes you back into your executive chair.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, entranced, and watch as she straddles your thighs.

"Assaulting my girlfriend," she murmurs with a wink, her choice of words momentarily freezing you in place. But as her lips find their way to your neck, any further thoughts dissipate, distracting you from everything else in that electrifying moment. Your hands rest innocently on her hips, massaging her gently as her hips start a slow, gentle rhythm. Tilting your head back, you surrender to her fervor as she traces the length of your throat with her nose, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the way.

Yelena's jacket slips from her shoulders, cascading to the floor, revealing a thin turtleneck that clings to her form. With haste, you lift it up, exposing her flushed chest that’s heaving with her every breath. But before you can bury your face into her soft mounds, the phone rings again, prompting your girlfriend to get off your lap. 

You let out a frustrated curse under your breath, while Yelena giggled, amused at your striking annoyance.

"What is it, Martin?" you answer as calmly as you could while trying to get the image of Yelena’s breast out of your head. 

"Mr. Stark is calling in the managers for an emergency meeting," Martin informs you.

That completely diverts your attention away from a half-naked Yelena panting on your desk. 

“He’s here?”

"Yes, ma'am," Martin confirms.

"Uh, okay. Give me two minutes," you say, ending the call. 

Having overheard the conversation, Yelena quickly retrieves some tissues and proceeds to gently wipe away the lipstick stains she had left on your neck. “Shit, sorry, babe.”

"Don't worry about it," you stammer, still finding it difficult to concentrate amidst your lingering arousal.

“Yeah,” Yelena smiles knowingly. “Maybe another time, then.”

"Would it be more practical if I put that in my calendar?" you suggest, half-jokingly.

Yelena scrunches her nose at the idea of scheduling sex. “Where's the fun in that?” she retorts.

"You're right. I’m a fussy nerd, I know," you admit with a chuckle.

"A sexy nerd," Yelena corrects, planting a full kiss on your lips. "Now, go get 'em, tiger."

She playfully nudges you towards the door, urging you to make your way to the meeting. As you straighten the creases on your skirt, you quickly reassure her, “I'll be back in a few, okay?” There's a hint of worry in your voice, as if you fear she might leave without your knowledge.

Yelena's eyes meet yours, and she gives you a reassuring smile. “I'll be here,” she promises.

As soon as you leave the room, Yelena retrieves her jacket from the floor and tidies her appearance. In an instant, she transforms into the journalist persona that she hasn’t allowed you to see. She had visited you for another purpose today, and the unexpected opportunity that presented itself left her both surprised and eager to fulfill her intentions. 

Call it an instinct or a persistent gut feeling, but Yelena had been on edge since your birthday. A sense of unease had settled within her, accompanied by an unexplained nagging sensation that there’s something she needed to uncover. It feels as though you’ve been keeping a secret from her for quite some time.

Carefully, she rummages through your drawer, cautious to leave things as they are. And then, out of the corner of her eye, something catches her attention—an envelope. It doesn’t look like it belongs there, on top of documents and folders that have the stamp of Stark Industries in them. No, this envelope bears the distinct markings of an infamous law firm. And clearly, you’ve read whatever is inside, considering the gaping tear on the side of the envelope.

With steady hands, she retrieves the envelope, her movements purposeful and precise. Carefully unfolding the letter, her eyes swiftly scan its contents, absorbing the information with speed and accuracy. She knows that time is of the essence, aware that you could return at any moment, leaving her with limited opportunity to delve into its contents.

Yelena slips the letter back in its envelope and returns it to its original position, making sure to arrange it exactly as she found it. Were you going to tell her about this? Would you have asked for her help or her input as your partner? Or would you just go through the tides without her ever knowing? 

Her intuition had been spot-on; there was indeed something to uncover, and it was undeniably connected to your ex-wife.

She promised you she’d be waiting, but if she wants to help you out of your situation, she better get going.

***

Later that same day, Wanda stands behind the sleek espresso machine, a confident smile on her face as she prepares to demonstrate to Peter a coffee technique known as "pour-over brewing". The café is relatively quiet, with only a few customers lingering over their cups of coffee. Valkyrie left just a while ago after enjoying her usual brew. Before leaving, she had presented Wanda with a thoughtful gift—a bag of exotic coffee beans collected during her recent business trip to Cape Town. Valkyrie had hoped to impress Wanda not only with the beans themselves but also by showcasing herself as a renowned photographer. Eager to try them, Wanda saw this as the perfect opportunity to share one of her favorite brewing techniques with Peter.

As Wanda expertly pours hot water over the meticulously arranged coffee grounds, she explains the process. "Pour-over brewing allows us to extract the full flavor from the coffee grounds. It's all about precision and patience. The water must be heated to the right temperature, and the pouring technique should be slow and steady. It results in a clean and nuanced cup of coffee."

Crouching down to bring himself to eye level with the coffee, Peter’s concentration deepens as he poses a question: "So, how can you tell when it's ready?"

“Generally, it takes around two to three minutes for the water to pass through the coffee bed, depending on the desired strength and flavor profile." 

Wanda leans in, pointing out the subtleties of the process. “As you observe the flow of water, pay attention to the color and consistency. The water should form a gentle, controlled stream, evenly saturating the grounds. If it rushes too quickly or seems to pool in one spot, it may be a sign to adjust your pouring technique.”

“Additionally,” Wanda continues, “Watch for the final stages of the pour-over. As the water nears the end of its journey, the drips become slower and more intermittent. This gradual decrease signifies that the process is almost complete.”

With a smile, Peter watches as the coffee brewing process unfolds before his eyes, precisely as Wanda had described. As the last drops fall into the waiting cups, Wanda proceeds to pour the freshly brewed coffee, dividing it between two cups—one for herself and one for Peter to try.

“For the rest of the week, you’ll be covering all the coffee orders, alright?” Wanda says.

Peter nods eagerly in excitement. 

Just as Wanda is about to bring the cup to her lips, the cheerful chime of the café's entrance sounds. Her eyes widen in surprise as she catches sight of the least expected person to walk through the doors of her coffee shop.

Yelena. 

Confusion immediately clouds Wanda's face, but before she can react, Peter takes the initiative to greet their customer. Yelena responds with a faint smile as she approaches the counter, drawing closer to Wanda until they’re standing face to face, finding themselves in a similar situation just a few weeks prior.

“One cup of coffee, please,” Yelena orders meekly, pulling a twenty-dollar bill off her purse.

“Coming right up,” Peter promptly replies, ready to assist, but Wanda interjects.

“I'll get this, Peter. Why don't you attend to the stock for now?” Wanda suggests.

“Certainly, Ms. Max–Wanda,” Peter says and scurries off to the back room, giving the two some space. 

Wanda's smile brims with gratitude as Peter leaves, granting them a moment of privacy. She then shifts her undivided attention to Yelena, whose growing discomfort doesn't go unnoticed, stoking Wanda’s own anxiety about the purpose of her visit.

Pushing aside her inner reservations, Wanda adopts a professional demeanor, masking her own concerns. From this point onward, it’s all business.

"Specifically, what coffee would you like?" she asks.

Yelena shrugs. "Anything, really."

Wanda chuckles softly, appreciating Yelena's laid-back approach. "Alright, then. Would you prefer it hot or iced?"

Yelena raises an eyebrow. "Who drinks cold coffee?"

Wanda's smile widens, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Actually, many people do. But I have something special for you. I just brewed some off-the-menu grounds from Cape Town. Would you like to try that?"

“Sure. How much?” 

Waving her hand dismissively, she insists, “On the house. It's a gift from a friend anyway.”

It’s met with a quiet nod from Yelena, who slips the twenty dollar bill into the tip jar as a token of appreciation.

“How about something to eat?” Wanda asks.

“I’m good,” Yelena politely declines, shaking her head.

However, the next words that escape Yelena's mouth are anything but polite, catching Wanda off guard. 

“Are you trying to get her back?” 

Wanda almost drops the cup she was in the midst of placing on a tray for Yelena.

Staring at each other, tension lingering palpably before Yelena clears her throat, breaking the moment. She gestures towards a more secluded area of the café. “Should we, uh, talk over there?”

With a hesitant nod, Wanda acquiesces, her thoughts filled with a flicker of doubt about her choice to open a café rather than a bar. At this very moment, she wishes for nothing more than a shot of whisky before having this ‘talk’.

Yelena doesn’t jump back right in after they are seated. Instead, she takes a sip of her coffee, humming pleasantly at the flavor that touches her taste buds.

“How did you find this place?” Wanda asks. How did you know where to find me?

Yelena, unfazed by the question, responds matter-of-factly, “I'm a journalist. Finding out things isn't too hard for me to do.”

"So, are you trying to get her back?" Yelena repeats as her eyes lock on Wanda’s.

Wanda's response is swift and sincere. “I'm not,” she states firmly. If Yelena had asked her that question before the night she nearly died, she would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. But now, she has nothing but respect for your relationship with Yelena, and doesn’t want to come in between the happiness you’ve found with her.

“But you still love her, don’t you?”

Wanda acknowledges her feelings for you in a slow, deliberate nod, seeing no point in denying it.

“I don’t know why you feel the need to ask me this,” Wanda says. "Y/N loves you. She wouldn't be with you if she didn't."

“I know,” Yelena says with conviction. "But that doesn't mean she’s mine completely."

Wanda's eyes narrow, searching for the true intent behind Yelena's words. Does Yelena genuinely believe that? Could there really be a possibility that you still love her?

Wanda swallows dryly. “I–”

Yelena interrupts, her tone heavy with resignation. "You should have just stayed away," she sighs, her gaze shifting downwards, as if the realization dawned on her just a little too late. She didn’t mean to start talking to Wanda about her insecurities, but Yelena couldn’t help but think about the depth of your attachment to this woman the more she looks at her. 

As she gazes at Wanda, she can't help but wonder where your love for Wanda ends and hers begin.

“I am staying away,” Wanda firmly declares, her posture shifting as she straightens her spine in the chair. All of her encounters with you except for the time you were the one to come to her have been purely coincidental–despite how often they happen.

“Except for matters concerning Sparky,” she adds, correcting herself, “He used to be Y/N's dog as well. It was important for her to be informed about what was happening with him.”

“So, you didn't contact her on her birthday?” Yelena probes, watching Wanda intently for anything that would suggest that she might be lying with her answer.

Wanda, to her credit, doesn't even flinch as she replies, “I did.” It’s immediately clear that Yelena has no idea that you ran into her that night. Wanda understands that it is a matter to be discussed between you and your girlfriend, and she has no intention of revealing something that is not hers to disclose. But it’s another question that will definitely consume her thoughts later.

Yelena tightly clenches her jaw, trying to stay calm. She's always trusted you and never invaded your privacy, never checked your messages. But now, she can't help but wonder if she should have been a bit more vigilant.

“I see,” she drawls, and then finishes the last of her coffee. She doesn’t think she wants to know the details of that any further. “You claim that you’re trying to stay away from Y/N, but obviously, you’re not doing such a great job of it.”

Confused, Wanda furrows her brows and asks, "What do you mean?"

Yelena reaches into her purse and retrieves a thumb drive, sliding it in Wanda's direction.

Wanda looks at the curious little device. “What’s this?”

“Before I tell you, there’s something you should know,” Yelena pauses, making sure that Wanda is thoroughly listening before she shares the news. "Victor Shade has just sent Y/N a demand letter for damages related to physical assault."

"V-Vision?" Wanda’s voice trembles as she speaks.

Yelena nods knowingly. "I assume there's only one Victor Shade in your life–"

"He's not in my life." The words escape Wanda's lips with a forcefulness and intensity that surprises them both. “Not anymore.”

A pregnant pause hangs between them, Yelena patiently waiting for Wanda to gather herself as she observes the rapid whirl of thoughts inside her head. 

After a beat, Yelena continues the slew of disclosures. “I assume his decision to exact revenge on Y/N has something to do with you.” 

Wanda's voice rises in defense. “Are you accusing me of conniving with that–”

“No, not exactly,” Yelena says. “He’s a kid who grew up in a wealthy family, never being denied anything in his life. I think his letter was driven by jealousy. All I’m saying is that this could have been avoided if he had not seen you two together.

“Which brings us to that,” Yelena's gaze shifts to the USB device, which sits untouched near Wanda's hands on the table. It's as if Wanda is actively avoiding it, treating it like a dangerous explosive, which in retrospect, could be deemed as such if its contents were ever revealed. 

"Look, I don't have concrete proof of him stalking you, but I believe this is substantial evidence to shake him off balance."

Wanda fixes Yelena with an expectant gaze, her eyes brimming with anticipation.

Yelena lets out a resigned sigh. "Fine, I'll tell you, since you're so patient.”

Wanda resists reacting to the veiled sarcasm, sensing that what Yelena is about to reveal aligns with her worst fears.

“Vision filmed you both having sex,” Yelena states bluntly, not concerned with softening the crude reality of the situation. “I was able to retrieve just one. I don’t know how many there are. And from the way the recording was cut an hour later when you’re already sleeping means you have no idea he was doing this.”

At Wanda's lack of response and the visible dread in her eyes, Yelena decides to speak up again.

“That's an invasion of privacy. In the state of New Jersey, you can send someone to prison for that for up to five years. Now, it’s up to you to decide what to do with this information.

“I know you care about Y/N, “ Yelena takes a deep breath, as if that fact physically hurts too much for her to accept in light of things. “I know you’ll do everything to help her in this situation.”

“How much is he asking from Y/N?” Wanda mumbles after a long time. 

“More than $800,000 in damages.”

“Jesus,” Wanda gasps at the amount, instinctively bringing her hands up to her face, covering her eyes and burying her features in her palms. Although insurance might cover it, it’s still potentially crippling. Determined to figure this out, she finally picks up the USB from the table and secures it inside her pocket. 

“How did you find out all of this? And how did you even get this video?” Wanda inquires curiously.

“I don’t reveal my sources.” Yelena replies with a smile, leaving Wanda suspicious about the legality of her methods. And equally suspicious of Yelena’s intentions, Wanda asks, “Why are you helping me?”

Yelena's snort breaks through, a genuine expression of glee that surprises Wanda. "I'm not. I'm doing all of this for Y/N."

"Fair enough. But why approach me then? You could have immediately gone to Y/N about this, even shown her the video?” Logically, it would be a strategic move for Yelena. Witnessing the gritty details of Wanda’s cheating would undoubtedly reignite the grievances in your heart. And she’d never have to worry about you going back to Wanda ever again. 

The look that Yelena throws at her is a mix of pity and disgust. “I’d never intentionally hurt Y/N. I came to you because it's your responsibility to fix this mess. It's the least you could do for all the pain you've caused her.”

With those words hanging in the air, Yelena rises from her seat. Casting one final glance at Wanda, she adds, "If you think I’d resort to dirty tricks just to keep Y/N, then you really have no idea how to love her in the first place.”

***

“You have no idea how happy I was when you said you wanted to see me.”

Vision smiles at Wanda as her gaze unwillingly falls upon him, her body trembling with a fury she never realized existed within her. The moment Yelena left her café, Wanda wasted no time in reaching out to Vision, and he promptly answered her call, as if he had been eagerly anticipating that very moment all along. She had chosen a crowded restaurant, in one of the busiest streets in Manhattan near Town Square, seeking safety in the presence of a man she knew deep down couldn't be trusted.

"I didn't want to. I had to," Wanda admits sharply, crossing her arms in front of her. "I thought we had an agreement. That you would stay away from Y/N. And your idea of that is extorting money from her?"

“My circumstances have changed,” Vision argues, sounding almost remorseful. “My dad decided to cut me off, and I can no longer fund my move to Tokyo to pursue my film studies.” 

Vision searches Wanda’s face, hoping to see a reaction, but she remains indifferent to his news of departure, seemingly unaffected by what's happening in his life.

“That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” Wanda says spitefully. And then she sighs in defeat. “If I give you the money, will you–”

"I don't want the money from you," Vision declares, placing his fork down with a loud noise. "She did put me into a coma–”

“Because we fucking drove her to it!” Wanda screams her frustration. The outburst attracts the attention of others in the restaurant, and Wanda looks around apologetically before sinking back into her chair with a sigh.

“The assault happened and I can prove it in court if it ever comes to it.” he says after Wanda has grown quiet.

“You’re not going to prove anything because you’re going to retract that letter and you’re going to leave her alone just like you promised.” Wanda’s words carry a sense of finality, as if there is no other option for Vision.

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore–”

“I can,” Wanda says with a bout of confidence. "Otherwise, you're looking at up to five years in prison for filming me without my consent."

It takes Vision a moment to grasp the meaning behind Wanda's words, and Wanda takes pleasure in observing the color drain from his face. 

“You hacked into my stuff?” he stammers in disbelief.

“You fucking filmed me,” Wanda reiterates, as they both remain fixated on their respective grievances. “I can’t believe I ever trusted you. I’ve never felt so betrayed and disgusted with myself as I do now.”

“How did you get the file?” he asks.

“I don’t reveal my sources,” Wanda says, echoing Yelena’s statement from earlier.

He locks eyes with Wanda, attempting to gauge if she's bluffing, but Wanda remains resolute, maintaining a stoic expression. Then, a small laugh escapes him, shaking his head as if the situation is nothing more than a joke. Wanda fumes as she takes a sip of her water and sets it back down heavy-handedly.

“Here’s the thing,” Vision casually signals for the waiter to refill his wine. “We’re all backed into a corner. If you use that against me, she'll find out, and it will only fuel her hatred towards you. Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

Wanda hesitates, her lips parting with uncertainty before closing them in a swift decision. It's a high-stakes gamble, an all-or-nothing move that reveals the vulnerable hand she holds.

You really have no idea how to love her in the first place. She doesn’t exactly know what Yelena meant by that, nevertheless, it makes her doubt her ability to love you properly. She wishes there was a manual that she could read from cover-to-cover until the pages are worn from countless readings. All Wanda can do is prove that she can; even though loving you is the one thing she wants to get right, but has failed multiple times.

“You don’t get to question me about what I’m willing to risk.” she says as she stands up to leave.

Vision calmly wipes his mouth with a table napkin. “Then I guess we’ll just have to find out what Y/N’s next move is.” 

***

Standing on the balcony of your high-rise Manhattan apartment, the view from up here is breathtaking.

The city below pulsates with vibrant energy, resembling a living organism with a heartbeat all its own. Its grandeur is reminiscent of the landscapes that once inspired poets and artists in centuries past. However, the awe-inspiring scenery does little to quell the turmoil raging within you, as you grapple with the decision of whether to pick up the phone and call Wanda or let the silence linger.

You haven't told Yelena about the demand letter that you received from Vision’s law firm yesterday. You want to protect her from getting involved in the convoluted aftermath of Wanda's cheating, which evidently still affects you like aftershocks from an earthquake. You tell yourself that you will let her know, in time, when you figure out what to do. 

With Wanda, there's a strong likelihood that she is already caught in the midst of this storm. You vividly recall the last encounter with Vision, his demeanor exuding a sense of power, as if he held the ability to dismantle your life in a single moment. He subtly implied that it was solely Wanda who prevented him from doing so. 

You wonder if Wanda’s aware that Vision has carried out his plans for revenge; she needed to stop protecting you from him. You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself and accepting the repercussions of your own choices and actions. 

As you deliberate on what to say to Wanda when you eventually call her, the sound of your building lobby intercom blares through the living room. The voice on the other end informs you, "Ms. Y/L/N? A certain Wanda Maximoff here would like to see you. Shall I allow her in?"

Your heart skips a beat and you press the button for you to speak. "Please, thank you.”

There’s the answer to one of your questions–Wanda probably knows about Vision’s stipulation  regarding the substantial sum of almost a million dollars.

It’s a few minutes of waiting before you hear the doorbell ring.

You open the door to find a visibly fatigued Wanda standing timidly before you. Dark circles under her eyes and a certain gauntness in her cheeks catch your attention, details that you may not have noticed before due to her naturally pronounced cheekbones that give her a sharp, distinct look. 

"I should've called," Wanda says, offering a thin smile as you welcome her inside. "But my feet were already bringing me here before I even thought about it."

"It's no problem at all. Would you like some water or something to drink? I have kombucha, tea... There's also a French Cab breathing in the kitchen, though I know it's quite early."

"I think I'll go for a glass of wine," Wanda replies.

"Coming right up," you say with a warm, good-natured smile, playfully mimicking Wanda's typical line in her own café.

“Is Yelena around?” Wanda asks as she nervously takes in her surroundings.

“She’s working,” you reply as you trudge towards the kitchen.

Left on her own, Wanda perches awkwardly on one end of the couch, her eyes scanning your quaint living room. She can discern the details that reflect your personality, but it doesn’t appease the fact that she has never felt more like an outsider in your life.

"Here," Wanda hears you say from behind her. She turns her head to find you giving the wine glass a gentle swirl, observing as the liquid moves about slowly and clings to the sides—a clear indicator of its high alcohol content. Bringing the glass to your nose, you take a whiff, seemingly enticed by its aroma. Finally, you extend the glass towards Wanda, offering it to her.

Wanda takes a sip–it’s rich and heavy, and the warmth it brings immediately spreads to her chest, instantly soothing her.

You look at her expectantly, choosing to sit on the opposite end. Seeing how worried she looks, you feel that she might finish her glass before she could utter a single word about what she came here for. 

Deciding to help her out, you break the silence first. 

“I take it you know about Vision’s demand letter,” you start, running your fingertip along the rim of your own wine glass. “It’s what you came here for right?”

Wanda nods and then raises the glass to her lips once more, taking another sip until she empties its contents. A small dribble of red liquid escapes from the corner of her mouth, which she promptly wipes with her thumb.

“What are you going to do?” Wanda asks, somber eyes fixed on her lap. Guilt weighs heavily on her, feeling like she brought this on you–which, in hindsight, she probably did. 

As Wanda wrestles with her own feelings of culpability, she hears Calliope's voice echoing in her mind. “You can’t shoulder all the blame, Wanda,” she told her. “It just leaves you lonely and stuck in a situation you have no control of.” 

Control is an illusion, Wanda reminds herself.

“I already set an appointment with my own lawyer. She’s going to go over the figures so we can renegotiate.”

It’s not at all what Wanda is expecting.

“You’re paying him off?” she asks, gaping at you openly for a moment.

"I did send him to the hospital. For quite a while actually," you admit, blinking slowly. "And if he had never woken up, I could very well be in prison right now."

As Wanda struggles with lingering guilt, you find yourself unable to deny the truth either and it weighs heavily on you. Frankly, you see no other way around this. Evading the consequences of letting your anger overwhelm you to the point of potential homicide is no longer a viable option.

You can see Wanda struggling with your decision, and you bitterly think that it’s too late for her to protect you in any way. She’s inflicted her own damage; and the consequence for her is watching the implications of it unravel before her.

“I–I have another way,” Wanda says.

Arching an eyebrow, you’re torn between curiosity and doubt. Wanda is aching for another glass of wine, but she has been consciously limiting her alcohol consumption lately. She doesn't want to repeat the countless occasions where she has either blacked out or come close to it.

“Wanda, stop,” you say, your voice gentle. “I don't want to know. I need closure. I need to get it in the right way, not through shortcuts. Please, don't protect me from this.”

Wanda’s eyes close on their own accord at your mention of the word ‘closure’. Does that closure include her?

“Just hear me out, please,” she implores with urgency. “There’s… there’s something he did that you can bring up with the law as well. And Vision has no proof that you were ever in his apartment, right? So if it comes to it, he really can’t prove that you’re the one who attacked him.”

Wanda looks pale even as she speaks with a kind of preternatural calm that you recognize only comes out when Wanda has come to terms with something. You lean back on the arm rest with an expectant look.

“He recorded us having… having the affair,” The words wrench themselves out of Wanda’s mouth and it takes a while for them to sink into your brain; when they do, you quickly look away, wishing you had instructed the concierge to deny Wanda's request to see you earlier. 

You make a conscious effort to rein in your emotions, particularly the anger that wells up inside you. Wanda's infidelity is something you have learned to cope with long ago. But to discover that it can be substantiated with moving pictures and sounds leaves you grappling for answers.

“Did you know?” you ask steadily–while you can. “Did you know you were being recorded?”

Wanda can’t read the emotion behind your words as she shakes her head no. 

Wanda inches closer to you, until your legs are almost touching. With utmost care, she takes hold of one of your hands and places a flash drive in your palm, closing your fingers around it. Your instinctive response is to maintain a firm grip, clenching your fist tightly around the drive.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” she whispers. "If it wasn't for... for what I did, you’d be... we’d be..." Wanda's voice trails off as tears well up in the corners of her eyes, which she hastily wipes away.

Your own eyes moisten at the sight of her, but you manage to hold onto your rage to keep yourself from shattering altogether.

“I'm sorry he's resorting to this,” she continues, her gaze fixed on your clenched fist. “I'm sorry that this exists,” she adds, acknowledging the evidence of her betrayal in your hand. “I’d take it all back if I could.”

You feel the bandaid being ripped off the same wound that refuses to heal. 

How deep does this go and where does it end?

Wanda's breath hitches, her struggle to hold back a sob. You impulsively attempt to create some distance, a physical retreat. Yet, as you lean back, the solid presence of the armrest behind you seems to trap you in a greater sense–of simultaneously wanting Wanda close and wanting her as far away from you as possible.

Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta | @secretbackrooms | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez | @justyourwritter69 | @stanolsevans | @aliherreraaa | @diaryoflife | @justagurlwholikes | @lizziesplant

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐒𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊

Pairing: FEDRA!Javier Peña x firefly!reader

Genre: slice of life, smut, romance, angst, enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, TLOU AU, minors dni

Summary: Javier, a former member of the Federal Disaster Response Agency in Kansas City, is haunted by the guilt and violence he indirectly caused by not taking action when he should have. After fleeing Kansas City in the aftermath of Kathleen's violent overthrow of FEDRA, you and Javier seek refuge in an abandoned train in the middle of a forest.

As you and Javier turn the train into a living space and learn to navigate the dangers of a post-apocalyptic world, you gradually overcome your differences and form an unlikely bond. But when your pasts catch up with you, you must confront the demons that haunt you and make a choice that could mean the difference between life and death. Will you choose to protect each other and find a way to build a new life together, or will the ghosts of your pasts tear you apart?

word count: 8.4k

chapter summary: you and javier go for a swim.

warnings: canon typical violence, no y/n, mentions of blood, nightmares, brief mentions of reader suffering from anxiety attacks pre outbreak, PTSD, more references to the main hbo tlou plot specifically episode 5, overall wholesome and full of fluff, mention of body hair, piv, vaginal fingering, dirty talking, biting, mild edging, one small mention of him threading his fingers through your hair but nothing else specified

a/n: it's all about communication, baby. It's a long one so get your warm drink of choice and settle in!

Semaphore - A signaling system used on railroads to communicate between trains and stations, typically using a system of flags or lights.

The cell was always so fucking cold. 

Javier hated being here, staring at the gray walls and reading that damn FEDRA sign over and over again all day long. He couldn’t help himself; it was right there within his eyesight. He wished it wasn't, that he could just rip it off and throw it in the corner.

YOUR RIGHTS WHILE IN DETENTION

YOU ARE ENTITLED TO:

LAWYER

MEDICAL ATTENTION 

FAMILY VISIT

FOOD

CLOTHING

Just a huge load of fucking bullshit. If you’re in here, you’re in here for one reason only: to give up names. Either that, or you never see the sight of daylight again. He took a sharp breath. With that, the man sitting across from him on the bench stiffened. A drop of water continuously dripped from the ceiling. Every time the sound echoed, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Javier preferred to be alone during interrogations.

A young man stood next to him. Unlike Javier, who was leaning against the cage, he stood fully upright and alert, rifle in hand. He glared daggers at the man sitting helplessly; his cheek was cut, and his right eye bruised. Javier wanted to place a hand on Adam’s shoulder and tell him to calm down, to let him know that this broken man was no threat to them. But he couldn't do that, not when he had to keep his mask on.

“What’s your name?” Javier asked the man, he scoffed in return. 

“You already know my name.” 

Javier sighed once again, and Adam narrowed his eyes. The newcomers were always like this: eager to put others in their place, eager for violence. FEDRA didn't teach them anything else, just how to take orders and to see the world in black and white. But that was another bullshit lie. Javier had told Carillo a million times that he didn't want anyone paired with him. Murphy was enough. However, like many things, his request was ignored.

There was just something starkly painful about seeing a nineteen- or eighteen year old so eager to kill.

I want to hear it from you," Javier spoke calmly as he pushed himself away from the fence and took a step closer. The man cowered back. "If you tell me what I want to hear, we won't hurt you.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by a meek whisper of a name: Martin. Javier swallowed, realizing that this man would probably give away all the information they asked for, if he had the information to give.

“Alright, Martin," Javier said, taking slow steps and kneeling in front of him. Adam was right behind him, standing and being as menacing as ever. "I need you to tell me who is a part of this..." Javier made air quotes with his fingers, causing Martin to flinch. "...'Resistance'."

“I don’t know anythin’ about that.” 

"Are you sure?" Javier asked with a raised eyebrow. "Not even a whisper?"

Javier heard Adam puffing up his chest and almost rolled his eyes. But he didn't look away; he kept his gaze fixed on Martin. He liked using silence as a tactic. He just stared, watching the other man sweat. It was clear to him that Martin was protecting someone. Javier could tell by the way Martin's tongue poked inwardly from one cheek to another; he was having trouble meeting Javier's gaze.

“You won’t be getting out of here,” he said, keeping his voice even. “If you don’t tell me who’s leading it.” 

"I can't," he murmured, looking down at Javier's knees. "I won't."

Shit. This wasn't good.

Adam shifted from one leg to another, fidgeting with his rifle. A chill settled at the base of Javier's spine.

"Fucking answer the question," Adam spat, pointing the rifle. "Or we'll blow your head off. Ungrateful shit."

The worst part of all this was that Javier couldn't stop Adam if he were to do something. Stopping him meant blowing his cover and revealing that he cared about these so-called "traitors." Javier hissed between clenched teeth and nearly gave Martin a pleading look.

Javier averted his gaze at the last second. And with a heave, he stood up, towering over the man. 

“Are you sure you’re not going to give us the name?” he asked one last time. “Any name.” 

Martin shook his head.

Javier wakes with a jolt. He hears something akin to a whimper. A cry. He slowly rises from his bed, his eyes moving toward the curtain that stretches in the middle of the car, making two sections. Their setup isn’t perfect yet, but the curtain accompanied by the beds gave a sense of home and belonging. He attempts to rub the sleep away from his eyes, his mind was still in a deep sleep, a fog slowing his thoughts and reason. 

Another whimper follows, and Javier's thighs quiver as he stands up. He reaches for the curtain, slowly pulling it aside.

There you are, crying in your sleep. Half of your face is tucked into the dirty pillow as your body contorts in the most unnatural ways. Javier's eyes follow the curves of your body: one knee nearly touching your chest while your other leg is straight like a stick, tense. Sweat makes your shirt cling to your skin. Moonlight trickles in from the freshly cleaned windows, giving you an almost ethereal glow.

Javier steps closer. This isn't the first time you've had a nightmare. And he's certain that you've also been awoken from sleep by his own night terrors. You probably wouldn’t believe him, but he hates seeing you like this. He can’t help but blame himself. He wonders how many more people were suffering due to the system he’s been a part of for so long. 

He takes a gentle seat on the bed, bringing your head to his lap, he makes himself comfortable. Again, this isn’t the first time he’d done this. 

Your whimpers and crying slowly subside, drifting into soft sniffles. Your tear streaks dry as you nuzzle your cheek into his thigh. He’s happy to see that this still works. You loosely wrap your arms around him, tugging him closer. Javier obliges shifting nearer. 

In a moment of impulse, he finds himself reaching out for the blanket that you had kicked away in your frenzied attempt to escape your nightmares. The seasonal shift worries him. They’re not ready for the cruel temperature drop yet. 

Javier pulls the blanket and you seem to melt at the warmth, your body becoming pliant over his lap. He adores seeing you like this. Your face softens, the tension that had hardened it dissolving.

Javier wants to hold you like this when you’re awake too. He thinks that you’d enjoy it, he never received any complaints about it before. His thumb moves down your cheek, he feels the scars he can’t see, and soon the pad of his thumb moves to your neck, your pulse thrumming under his touch. 

A deep inhale expands his lungs, he leans back. His head hits the glass with a thud. Javier licks his lips, his fingers start to twitch. He wants to smoke. 

By some miracle, he hadn’t touched a single cigarette all day, but that was only because he was going to be running out soon. What the hell was he supposed to do then? Chew on a straw? Like a cowboy?

He smiles at his own joke, his palm resting on your shoulder. He’s glad he’s not afraid of this. The apocalypse has made him a brave man. You’re probably more afraid of this attraction than he is. He can see it in your eyes; you hold his gaze for a beat too long, your hands lingering on his skin as if searching for something. He can’t help the boost of ego he gets from how you behave. He smiles every time he catches you but you miss it, turning your head away in a fit of panic.

A soft snore parts your lips and you bury your face deeper into his legs. Javier swallows, a thick knot in his throat as he feels his dick twitching under his zipper. 

He lets out another deep sigh. It’s going to be a long night. 

You find Javier outside, leaning against the train with a cigarette hanging between his lips. Holding your head, and still feeling a bit groggy, you join him. But instead of staying upright, you drop to the dirt, crossing your legs as you rest your back against the cool metal. 

“You saw a nightmare last night,” he says nonchalantly.

“Did I?” you ask, looking between the fence chain. “Sorry.” 

Your crinkle your nose when you inhale smoke instead of oxygen. Javier notices and tucks the hand holding the death stick between his waist and the train. It’s a chilly morning and you hug your coat tight around you. 

“I didn’t say that for you to apologize. I was trying to ask if you’re alright.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t really get that from what you said.” you answer, with a smile you rest the crown of your head against his knee. He stiffens, but other than that says nothing. “I don’t know. I don’t really remember what I saw if I’m being honest. Probably just a shit ton of death.” 

“That good old apocalypse classic.” Javier nods, bringing the cigarette to his lips. “Can’t live without it.” 

“So what’s the plan for today?” 

He shifts his weight from one foot to another, he slightly slides them forward, burying the soles further into the grass. Much similar to yours, the tips of his boots are worn out around the corners. It would be great to find some new ones. But wearing—taking someone else's boots isn’t easy. As if there isn’t enough death going around, you had to be reminded of it in every uncomfortable step. 

“I was thinking we go for a swim.” 

“A swim?” 

Javier laughs at the sound of your shock. His leg presses into your shoulder and you enjoy the heat, a small smile of your own blossoming. He crouches over, balancing himself by leaning against you. Your gaze is fixed ahead. If you look at him, you fear he might see right through you. He’s too observant not to hear your heartbeat. 

“Blue River isn’t that far off from where we are,” he explains. “Winter’s coming, it would be good to get clean thoroughly. And we should at least try to stock up on water too. I know rain and snow is an option but still, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” 

“Guess not,” you murmur, looking up to the sky. 

“You have something against swimming? It’ll be fun. And, most importantly, distracting.” 

Your eyes widen, and your pulse skyrockets. He thought about this plan. He heard you crying in your sleep, woke up, went outside, and thought about something to do to cheer you up. You don’t remember the last time someone offered you their thoughtfulness. On your birthday, the third year you’d joined the fireflies, Amy had brought you a twinkie with a burning stick stabbed into it. And that was it. No one actually thought about your feelings. 

God, you missed it. 

It’s like a hug. A caress from the wind. The sun on your skin. It feels like breathing again. There’s no weight on your chest, because he’s helping you lift it. Someone fucking cares. A giggle bubbles up from your chest. Tears sting your eyes. Your head falls back against the train with a thud and you breathe out; fuck. You’re ridiculous. But Javier doesn’t seem to care. He’s just looking at you with those big brown puppy dog eyes, brows pinched in the middle. 

Heat coils in your stomach, searing, burning up your insides. 

“What do you suggest we swim in? Our underwear?” you tease without much thought. 

You don’t expect to see the mischief in his eyes, the hints of arousal splattered over dark irises like stars in the night sky. You swallow. He must’ve sensed it because he leans in, slowly, lips only an inch away from your parted ones. Javier takes a deep inhale, those same eyes you love, and hate, drop to your lips. 

You shudder. 

“Whatever the rebel is comfortable in,” he murmurs, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “If you don’t want your panties getting wet, might be better to take them off.” 

The drop of his voice. The heat of his breath. Emotions spin wildly in your head, forcing you to be the one to take the metaphorical step back. Which is just you turning your head back to the fence. It doesn’t do much. You can still feel his breath fanning your cheek. It’s hard to hide the hitch of your breath, your chest rises up with the inhale you take, and, fuck, you just know he’s looking at your breasts. His gaze like a branding iron. 

“I think I’ll keep my panties on, thank you very much,” you manage to choke out, the tremble of your voice too noticeable to ignore. “But, hey, if you want to flash the clickers out there be my guest, handsome.” 

“Handsome?” 

Shitshitshit. 

You practically jump as you get up, and head inside the train. You hear him laugh, something dark and possessive lingering underneath. 

“Let’s just go!” you call out. “I don’t want to be outside the fence when the sun goes down.” 

Sex has been something you hadn’t allowed yourself to think about for a long time. 

But now, as you’re standing under a giant oak tree, your shirt on the ground and pants unbuttoned, you’re reminded of how enticing the mere thought of sex can be. Javier’s already in the water, head bobbing up and down with the waves with his hair slicked back. Before he went in, you got a good look at him—before the outbreak, you might’ve been shyer about it. Maybe you would’ve turned your gaze away with heated cheeks. You still had the latter going on, but you most certainly didn’t shy away with your obvious ogling. 

You might be dead the next day. No need to turn your sight away from something beautiful. 

And Javier is just that. The epitome of beauty. 

Javier stripping in front of you will forever be engraved in your mind; he shrugged off his plaided shirt and kicked off his pants, only leaving him in a black undershirt and his boxers. He was surprisingly lean and muscular, he wasn’t a big man, but he wasn’t quite the opposite either. You were surprised to see him jumping into the water with his undershirt, you tucked the question for a later conversation. 

He swims closer to you, resting his elbows above the soil. His gaze blatantly exploring your newly exposed skin. 

“So you ever plan on getting in, perla? Or are you planning on stealing my clothes and leaving me here?” 

A snort bubbles from the back of your throat. “You poor thing. That happened to you?” 

“Maybe,” he grins and pushes himself back enough so the back of his head is submerged in running water. “Just get in.” 

Finally, with a burst of unfounded courage, you kick off your boots and pants. The chill of the forest embraces your skin. With a pleasant tingle buzzing in your muscles, you walk ankle-deep into the water. You try not to think about your old bra, or your underwear that is scattered with small holes. You especially don’t think about the small hairs dusted above your legs and other patches of skin. 

You swallow. The knot in your throat makes it difficult. 

You wade further into the river, the cool water embracing your skin, as you turn to him with a hint of uncertainty in your voice. 'Perla?' you ask, and he responds with a fluid motion, gliding effortlessly above the water, following you. 

“It means pearl.” he answers, not giving much explanation. 

You drop yourself into the water, your head submerged along with your body. Your eyes are squeezed shut as you feel the water rushing around you. The river sings to you in a beautiful hum. Javier is moving somewhere in the water, you can sense his presence. You want to open your eyes, but sadly that is one of the skills you can’t seem to force yourself to gain. You wonder if the water is muddy or crystal clear. You like to think it’s the latter. 

You rise to the surface and take in a deep breath of fresh air. You wipe your eyes with the heels of your palm, ringing the excess water from your brows and lashes. 

“I know what perla means,” you murmur, blinking at him. “I was trying to ask why you called me that.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t really get that from what you said.” he grins, his answer a reminder of this morning. “To answer your question, I don’t really have a satisfying one. I just like pearls and it just came out. I won’t call you that if you don’t want me to.” 

Moving your feet, you move upright to face him. Water drops trickle down his sunkissed skin, rolling down his cheeks and down to his neck. Momentarily your eyes drop to his lips, only for you to pull them back up again. Meeting his gaze, you move closer, the heat of his skin plausible despite the cool water running between you two. 

“No, I like it.” you answer, you swear your heart nearly stops. “I was just curious.” 

You’re not sure if it’s the water or him, but he’s closer. Your pebbled nipples graze against his chest. You suck in a sharp breath. 

“When I was a kid, I didn’t have the toughest stomach. I would get sick from almost everything,” he explains. It’s hard to focus on his words when he’s so close. “My abuela— let her soul rest in peace— had these crazy remedies. She would use crushed pearls and mix it with honey or ginger, to make a weird paste thing. Then she would make me eat it. It tasted like shit but supposedly it was supposed to make my nausea go away.” 

“Did it?” you ask. Your eyes are wide with innocent, child-like, curiosity. Javier is a natural storyteller. It’s hard not to get sucked into the cadence of his voice. 

He shakes his head, laughing. You feel his breath on your cheeks and you lean in. Only a trickle of water moves between you two now. 

“It did not, obviously. But I believe it did. I still do. And no matter how bad it tasted and how much I complained…I still took my chances.” 

“So you decided to name me after a remedy that doesn’t work?” 

“No. I named you after a remedy that I believe works. And I’ll take it, every time.” 

In the quiet moment between blinks, the world seems to pause. Your eyelids, like two curtains, draw gently closed and then part again. His words heavy in the clear air. It's a fleeting moment, barely noticeable, and that’s when it happens. 

You feel his lips, warm and wet pressing against your mouth. It’s such a simple motion. A tender closeness. Nothing more, nothing less. You don’t even taste his tongue and he’s already pulling back. With a moment of panic, you chase him, capturing his lips once more in a more heated kiss. 

That’s when you feel his hands on your waist, pulling you closer underwater, your bodies swimming in unison. He inhales you. And you him. You don’t remember the last time you kissed someone or the last time you thought about it. You groan as his tongue cheats between your lips, your own hands white-knuckled as you hold onto his shoulders. 

Javier’s hands grab at your ass, kneading the soft flesh and tracing the crease between them with the tips of his fingers. Suddenly, he’s towering over you, pushing himself further above the waterline as he claims your lips again and again, sucking the air from your lungs and garnering you breathless. 

It's not you or him, not really, but rather the river that pushes you apart. A wave rises up, and crashes down. Water rushes into your mouth and nose, filling your lungs with a bitter, icy taste. You're forced back, coughing and gasping for air, as the wave pulls you away from each other. 

You move to the riverside, grasping at the slippery rocks. You wait for your breathing to return to normal. Javier’s hands are on your back in an instant, soothing you before they slip in front to rest on your stomach. His chest is flush against your back. You take a shaky inhale and let out a deep breath. 

“Are you alright?” he asks and you can barely hear him from the blood rush in your ears. 

“I’m fine.” you gasp. “You—You kissed me. Why?” 

You’re happy he can’t see your face. The question sounds so juvenile, so unimportant. What did it matter why he kissed you? He did and that was that, and you liked it. 

“Instinct. Felt like you needed a kiss.” 

You choke out a burst of laughter. Your eyes sting from, what you hope, the water of the river. “Asshole. Don’t try to make it seem like it was for my benefit.” 

“I’m willing to say it was for both our benefits.” 

“So, it was a one time thing then?” 

“Not if you don’t want it to be.” 

You turn around and his arms cage you in. You’re smiling. And it’s not the smile you make when you’re awkward, or angry, or sad—it’s genuine. You’re heart feels light and if the beat of it wasn’t steady, you would’ve thought it disappeared. It feels foreign. 

Javier rolls his hips, the outline of his cock leaving little to the imagination. It sends electricity up your spine, blinding, and mind-numbing. He’s grinning at you in a way a confident man does when he knows what he’s doing. His face dips into the hallow of your neck. Small, ticklish kisses are left upon your burning skin. With a shudder, your hands tug at the hem of his undershirt. 

“Why do you still have this on?” you whine, smiling against his lips. “Can I take it off?” 

He tenses under your palms and you stop. His lips are above your pulse, which makes it hard to differentiate the line between right and wrong. Your fingertips buzz with the need to touch and take. His tongue sneaks from between his lips and licks a line up the column, nipping at your jaw. 

“Would it kill the mood if I said no?” 

You retract your hands and your fingers smooth over the fabric, tugging it down. Your lips part with a soft whimper, arousal gushing between your legs and fading into the water. It wouldn’t kill the mood, no, not when you’re so worked up. But it does make you think. Maybe this isn’t the perfect way to go about this, whatever perfect means in this day and age. There’s still so much you don’t know about him. Your feelings are a whirlwind, threatening to throw you up into the sky and leave you to crash down into the earth. 

Your meek sounds of pleasure subside. Javier senses your hesitation. He peels himself unwillingly from your neck and stares fixes you with a leveled gaze. 

“You want to get out?” 

Entranced, you nod. Your heart beats in your throat, uncomfortable and larger than life itself.  

“Yeah,” you answer, a beat above a whisper. “That’s probably for the best.” 

“Understood.” 

There’s a deep stillness in his eyes. With a dry mouth, all you can do is parrot his answer back to him. 

“Understood.” 

“What do you miss the most?” 

The grass beneath you is soft and cool against your skin, the wind blows warm. A blessing considering the growing cold. The earth is comfortable against your back, a welcomed reprieve from the warmth of the sun above. You feel the trickle of water, your skin damp and pliant from the droplets that still cling to you.

The sun's gentle warmth kisses your skin, the light filtered through rustling leaves. The branches dance and tease, occasionally catching your gaze and tugging you away from the clouds overhead. You can’t help but smile. A memory reminiscent of the days you would do absolutely nothing. 

Javier's body lies perpendicular to yours, his face only a breath away. You feel the warmth radiating from his skin, his gaze looking up to the sky, and you wonder what the clouds remind him of. The sun caresses his skin, drying the water droplets that cling to him, much like it does to you.

“What do I miss,” he hums, thoughtful, eyes fluttering shut. “Having a purpose, I guess.” 

“A purpose?” 

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips. “It’s a bit silly I know, but before FEDRA, I was working in the DEA. My life was always hectic, but at least back then I could argue I was doing good. I was helping people. I liked thinking that I had a noble purpose in life. No matter what happened.” 

You turn your head to look at him, taking in his profile against the backdrop of the sky. He slowly opens his eyes, fixes them to the sky. A deep exhale leaves his lungs. 

“But now that I think about it, what I did wasn’t really noble back then either. I wish I spent more time with my family. It wouldn’t have been exciting, and I’d probably be bored out of my mind helping dad in the ranch, but at least I would’ve been happier.” 

You push your hand towards him and shudder at the way his knuckles brush against yours. Your fingers intertwine, his rough callouses fitting perfectly between the spaces of yours.

“What I’m hearing is you were an adrenaline junkie.” 

Your smile widens into a grin when he snorts. 

“Perhaps I was.” he muses. “What about you? What do you miss?” 

“I’m afraid my answer is less philosophical than yours,” What did you miss? You haven’t really thought about it, until now. Family and friends feel like an obvious answer. But you always felt lonely, even before the outbreak. You suffered from weird attacks you never got diagnosed, and when you attempted to explain them by calling them “something like a panic attack” you were always shut down, being told that if it was a panic attack, it would be far more serious. 

So, naturally, you closed up. Simmered in the heavy weight on your chest, crying with your hand between your legs, hoping someone one day would show up and close up the gap that you felt. You were so lonely.  But that person never came along, and then the world ended. 

“Cooking.” you answer, gauging his reaction. He squeezes your hand, thumb moving in circles on your skin. “Well, baking to be precise. I loved baking. Coffee—god, music, I miss music.” 

“Music,” he agrees. “I miss that too. Maybe if we find a guitar or something…” 

“You know how to play?” you perk up, a grin ready to take form. 

His laughter comes at the same time as the wind. The blends seamlessly with the rustling of leaves and the gentle sway of branches. It vibrates in your bones, as though his laughter is a part of the very fabric of nature itself.

“No, but I can learn. Some noise is better than none.” 

“Yeah,” you answer, seamlessly. “It is.” 

Javier was being followed. He walked past the broken-down toy shop, his steps now faster. He could feel the gaze that watched his every step. It was the crack of the morning, which was the only time he and Micheal could meet. Everything was becoming a mess of badly executed plans with feeling motifs. Every nerve felt like a live wire. It was hard sneaking around. Especially when you lived in a time where even the walls had eyes. 

“Peña!”

Javier jumped and turned, gun pointing at whoever was behind him. He saw the sight of familiar green eyes, then let out a breath. 

“Adam?” putting his gun back, he cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell are you following me for?” 

“I wasn’t following you,” he answered, almost offended. “I was looking for you. Murph brought in a lead we might be able to use and Carillo wanted me to let you know.” 

Javier nodded, ignoring the younger man’s curiosity-filled gaze. When they started to move, much to his annoyance, Adam began to voice out his rather loud thoughts. 

“What are you doing here anyway? You weren’t posted here, you were meant to patrol the east side.” 

“Felt like a walk,” he grunted. “And I don’t answer to you, pendejo.” 

Javier and Adam walked in silence as they made their way toward the Fedra headquarters. The old building was barely holding up, with paint peeling off the walls and cracks running through the ceiling. The air inside was stale and smelled of musty old books, a reminder of the once-functioning library that the Fedra headquarters used to be.

They were greeted by Carillo and Murphy, who led them to the interrogation room. A string of curses raised all the way up to the tip of his tongue. On the other side of the glass, a man was sitting down, someone he recognize very vaguely. The man was young-ish, with curly black hair and a mustache supported by a messily shaved beard. His leg bobbed up and down nervously as he waited.

Carillo grinned as he gestured towards the glass. "This is Henry. Apparently, he's willing to give us information in exchange for medicine for his younger brother."

“Is that so,” Javier answered, his gaze never leaving Henry. “And what information might that be?”

The room was small and cramped, with peeling wallpaper and a flickering lightbulb. Javier noticed a small crack in the wall that seemed to grow wider with each passing moment. He couldn't help but feel a sense of unease in this dilapidated building, with its creaking floors and musty air.

“The leader of the resistance. He’s going to help us catch him.” 

The corner of Javier’s lips twitched as he forced a smile. He could barely contain the heave of his chest, the fast-paced breaths he so desperately wanted to let out. 

His mind raced. Everything was about to get a hell of a lot worse. 

Your eyes are wide open, your body stiff and alert. 

It’s been a while since you and Javier decided to go to bed. Moonlight filtered through the windows, long shadows of leaves moving across the ceiling of the train. You breathe slowly; one breath in, a long breath out. You hear him. He’s mumbling something in his sleep, moving, thrashing over his bed, the springs squeaking under his weight. 

On nights like this, you try to ignore it. But it’s different this time. Memories of earlier today flood your mind; him kissing you in the river, his length pressed against the softness of your stomach, his lust-blown pupils. Then there was the moment where you laid on the grass, talking for hours with your fingers interlaced until you had to leave. You don’t have it in you to abandon him. For him to fend off the nightmares alone. 

Just hearing the sounds he makes…so full of pain, raw and emotional— there’s no way you can go back to sleep. 

Heading to his side of the car, you silently watch him. Again, he’s wearing his black undershirt and a pair of boxers. He’s laying on his stomach, one leg outstretched and one curled to the side. One hand is on the pillow whilst the other is balled into a tight fist, touching his lips. A choked whimper comes from the back of his throat. 

“Javier,” you call out, taking a step forward. “Javier wake up.” 

He doesn’t. So you try again. This time you reach out, the heat of your palm pressing into the slope of his shoulder. Honestly, you should’ve known better than to touch someone who’s buried deep in a nightmare. Especially in this day and age. 

“Jav—” 

Your reaction is close to none when you find yourself thrown to the bed, a sharp blade at your neck, drawing the smallest amount of blood. You breathe steadily. His fingers have your wrist in an iron grip, and the look in his eyes— deranged, still wet from the mirages of his past. The physical outburst isn’t enough to phase you, but the look in his eyes surely is. 

“It’s me,” you whisper, careful not to touch him. His jaw is locked, nostrils flaring with heavy breaths. “You were seeing a nightmare. It’s okay. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just you and me—Perla, remember?” 

“Perla,” he repeats slowly, lips remaining parted as he stares down at you. “Mi Perla.” 

The silence stretches between you two. Both of your heartbeats echo loud between the metal walls. Blood continues to trickle down your neck, staining the worn out sheets. His eyes drop to the wound, the small cut, and as if scorched, he throws the knife. It crashes to the floor with a loud clatter. The sound makes you jerk, a moment of fear evident enough for him to see. 

“Sorry.” he blurts out. “Fuck—shit—I…I didn’t mean to. Force of habit.” he shakes his head, his entire body trembling. “Are you okay? I didn’t—Why did you—” 

You raise your hand and his mumbling fades away. Your fingers hover an inch away from his face, you can almost feel the heat, the sweat that gathered in his pores. You give him a pleading look. 

“Can I?” Can I touch you?

He chokes out, “Yes.” Please do.

You rest your hand against his cheek. Just as you expected, his skin is damp. Your thumb rests right under his eye and you caress the soft skin. You’re surprised that he leans into your touch, seeking more of the comfort you promise to provide. You close your eyes and sigh.  You allow your hand to slide to his neck, smoothing out the nooks and crannies in his shoulder.

Javier groans as he dips down, you feel his lips on your neck, tongue darting to clean the blood. A whimper escapes you when he tenderly kisses the wound, his mouth moving slowly, gradually. Like he’s kissing your mouth. Heat coils in your stomach. Arousal pools between your legs. You play with the short hairs that are mussed against the back of his neck. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, breathless. 

He shakes his head, his voice stern. “No.” 

So you don’t. 

Javier crashes into you, breathing you in. It’s desperate, needy, and fearful. In fear of what—you’re not sure, but you have some guesses. 

You throw away your shirt and in a fit, you kick off your sweatpants. Even those brief moments of being a part are too much for you to handle, you drink him in like you would a fine wine. Your lips crashing into his again and again. 

You moan into his mouth and he swallows them all. Sucking your tongue between his teeth, he nips the soft muscle and squeezes your hips, grinding himself against your clothed sex. Your fingers trace the fabric of his shirt, tugging, but not attempting to remove it. He licks your bottom lip before breaking away from you, he sits back on his knees. 

“Sorry,” he says. “You must think I’m trying to be all mysterious. I swear I’m not.” 

“I wasn’t thinking that. You don’t have to remove it if you don’t want to,” your eyes drop to his crotch, a grin tugging at your lips as you witness the bulge. You drag your foot up his thigh. He shudders. “All we need is down here.” 

“Aren’t you charming,” his tongue thoughtfully moves over his bottom lip. You sigh as you remember how it felt against your own. “Just promise me you won’t ask any questions. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.” 

You make a cross over your heart and raise your hand, he chuckles. 

“Alright then.” 

You’re ashamed to admit it, but you’re acting a bit like you’re in heat. He slowly peels the fabric off and your hands immediately find a spot on his waist. Your mouth waters at the exposed skin. You smooth your palms over his stomach, your lips pursing to leave kiss after kiss over his torso. 

You notice it as you start leaning over. Your eyes drawn to the massive white scar that runs from Javier’s heart all the way down to his Adonis belt. It stands out starkly against his tanned skin. Your breath catches in your throat. The veins in your temples throb loudly in your ears. With a dry mouth, you look up to him and he sees the questions in your eyes. 

“You promised.” 

Fuck, you did but you’re regretting it now.

You’re used to small scars, a bullet wound, or two. Everyone has them, including you. But you’ve never seen a scar this big. It’s death carved into his skin. Your mind races and he fixes you a steady gaze. This cut wasn’t from Kathleen and the resistance, so it must’ve happened before that. But what on earth would leave a scar so big? And how the hell did he survive it? 

Your cheeks feeling unbearably warm, you finally tear your gaze away. You feel his fingers thread through your hair, and they slowly move down to your shoulder, an ache for skin on skin contact. 

You dip down, press your lips above the end of his scar, you feel the dip of his adonis through your mouth. Javier inhales deeply and sharply. Ignoring the heaving of his chest, you dart your tongue out and lick a steady line, following the traces of the closed wound. His nails bite into your scalp, his hips stutter forward, the outline of his cock caught against the curve of your shoulder. 

Words die on your tongue. You want to say something, you’re just not sure what. If you apologized, expressed grief for his past, he would think of it as pity. If you asked about it, he’d say you’ve broken your promise. 

So you thank him instead. 

Javier enjoys that. He pushes his hands between the crease of your underarms and pulls you up, kissing you breathless. He squeezes the meat of your ass and pins you against him. You whine into his mouth. With a grin, he bites your bottom lip and tugs it between his teeth. 

“I want to taste you.” 

“Fuck, Javi,” your eyes roll back and you shudder. Your underwear sticks uncomfortably to your pussy, and it pains you that you’re shaking your head. “As much as I want that…I need your cock.” 

Javier cups your mound, fingers digging into your clothed folds. You gasp when the rough fabric brushes against your clit. You brace yourself by holding his shoulder and pressing your lips into his neck. 

“You’re so wet, shit, baby.” he groans as he grinds his hips, you whimper. “How are you this worked up already? When was the last time you’ve been with someone?” 

Your sudden hesitation to answer earns you an understanding gaze from him. Javier pulls back slightly, the movements of his fingers more gentle. 

“It’s been long,” you whisper and look away. 

“How long?”

“None after the outbreak and even before that...two years.”

He snorts and you fix him a not so serious glare. 

“Don’t pity me. It’s not all bad. I learned how to get rather creative when masturbating.”

“I’m sure you have,” he answers, staring at your darkly. “Can’t wait to see it.”

Javier drags his nose up your neck, you’re positive he can hear how excited you are. Like your heart is about to stop. 

“Say it again,” he grunts. “Tell me how bad you want my cock.” 

You sigh. “So bad.” 

“Mi Perla…I thought you learned how to get creative.” 

He sinks his teeth into your neck and you cry out, your entire body quivering as he holds you upright. He’s quick to lap at the teeth marks, lowering his head, he pushes you back so he can swirl his tongue over your peaked nipple. Arousal gushes between your legs. Your nails digging into his shoulders. 

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, fuck me Javier. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life. I want you to fill me up with that big cock of yours, fucking me into submission—” 

The last addition stumbled out of your lips, stunning you into sudden silence. You awkwardly stare up at the ceiling, shadows of trees moving and mocking you. Heat spreads under your skin. You don’t realize how tense you are until Javier nips the swell of your breasts, bringing you back to him. His fingers pull at your chin and you find yourself looking into his big brown eyes. 

Your eyes drop to the curve of his lips, and you stop breathing. 

“Fuck you into submission hmm?” he taunts, his pupils blown wide. “Looks like the little firefly is tired of being a hardened criminal.” 

“Shuddup,” you pout, averting your gaze. “Don’t read much into it. I said it in the heat of the moment.” 

“Sure you did, sweetheart.” 

Javier hooks his fingers into your thighs and suddenly you’re falling back down, the old bed creaking with protest. Before you can say anything, his weight presses into you like a heavy blanket. You moan at the heat, the feel of his skin against yours. His lips latch onto a nipple and you spread your legs wide for him, the soft ache in your thighs making your cunt drip. 

“Let’s see if you’re ready to take my big cock,” he rasps, fingers moving to slide your sticky panties to the side. “You want my fingers, baby?” 

You nod and he clicks his tongue with disapproval. 

“If you want me to fuck you into submission, you gotta use your words.” 

You finally snap.

“God, yes. I want your fingers. How many times am I going to have to say it? I want you, Javier. I’m going to explode if you don’t fuck me soon.” 

He grins at your frustration. Two thick fingers slide up between your wet folds, circling your clit. You gasp, teary eyes fluttering shut. His lips touch one, then the other. Then you feel him on your cheeks, nose, neck. You tremble. 

“Don’t tempt me.” 

Two of his fingers sink into your heat without warning, your head falls back with a moan, your legs tight around his frame. Shit, it feels good. Of course he’s good at fingering, god forbid Javier Peña is bad at anything. Your breathing becomes fast paced, your heart beating a mile in your chest. Scissoring his fingers, Javier nips at your chin. Heat coils tight in your stomach. You whimper his name, not knowing what else to do. One part of you is afraid. If you’re feeling this unbridled with just his fingers, what the hell is going to happen to you when he gives you his cock? 

Your fear goes unnoticed by him. He curls his fingers, applies pressure right where you need him. His eyes follow your every expression. You can feel it. Licking your lips, you raise your hips to meet the thrust of his fingers, Javier hums his approval and fucks them deeper. His knuckles brush your aching clit and you scream out, your fingers grabbing his wrist. 

“Too much?” he asks, but his tone lacks any actual remorse. He sounds pleased. 

Asshole. 

“Javi,” your breath hitches and you push yourself off the bed, pressing your lips right where his scar starts. Above his heart. “I need you.” 

The growl Javier lets out reverberates through his chest, sending tremors through the air and into your bones. It’s a visceral sound, primal and raw. Your lips follow the outline of his jaw. He acts like a beast, nuzzling towards your lips and grinding his molars together. 

He pulls out his fingers, a whine ripping from your throat at the sudden emptiness. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear.

“Good thing about being in an abandoned train,” he says, warm breath fanning your damp skin. You shiver. “You can be as loud as you want to.” 

Javier’s hand comes up to your chest and he pushes you back down. Your breath catches in your throat as he looks down at his cock and spits. He wraps a hand around himself, meeting your gaze as he strokes his cock. You hold your breath as he comes closer, every nerve alive and burning.  The head of his cock sinks into your heat, and you both let out a long, breathless moan. 

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you groan, head falling back. “Fuck, that feels good. Holy shit–”   

“It does,” he hums, capturing your lips and speaking between moments of exchanged breaths. “And this is only the tip, querida.” 

With every inch being buried, you feel your body sinking further into the bed. You feel like lead. Pleasure skims your skin. With shallow thrusts, he works you open, stretching you wide. He nips at your collarbone, the sensitive skin tucked between his teeth, he pushes further until he’s flushed against you. 

You’re shaking, your hips frantically trembling and jerking. Javier waits for you to adjust to his size. He’s incredibly deep. So deep that saliva floods your mouth, a bit of spit trailing down the corner of your lips as you cry out. He flexes his cock, and more slick trickles down your thighs. Your hands frantically pull him closer, as if he wasn’t already flushed against your chest, but he obliges, allowing his weight to fully cave down on you. 

“I’m here,” he mutters. You don’t expect the sudden sting of tears filling your lash line. “We’re both alive. We’re both okay.” 

Your walls flutter around him, and he lets out a sharp breath. Meeting his gaze, you blink. 

A sudden guilt consumes you. You should be the one consoling him. He’s the one that was woken up from a nightmare. It should be you saying those things. Not the other way around. But Javier doesn’t seem to mind. He squeezes your hip and pushes himself upright. 

“Can I move?” 

“Please.” 

He slowly rolls his hips, watching his cock disappear into your quivering cunt with heavy lids, a white ring at the thick base. When your hands aimlessly attempt to grab at him, he takes a hold of your wrists, using your arms as a leash. 

“Messy girl,” he huffs, grinding deeper into you. Your eyes roll back. “You’re taking me so well, baby. You’re so fucking wet for me, I love it.” 

A fire builds in your core, slick sounds flooding the small space. Pulling out almost all the way, Javier slams back into you, emptying the air from your lungs. His pace becomes more frantic and desperate with every thrust. Your arms ache as he yanks your body to meet the flush of his hips. The wry hairs at the base of his cock sending jolts up your body, your clit aching from the rough drag of it. You cry out his name, over and over, repeating it like a chant. His cock throbs at the squeak of your voice. Javier buries himself completely inside, grinding himself impossibly deep, stroking the sensitive spot inside. 

You’re not going to last, and if the shallow stuttering of his hips is any indication, Javier isn’t going to last either. You dig your nails into your sweaty palms. His fingers still tight around your throbbing wrists. 

“Kiss me,” you beg with a choked moan. 

And he does. Breathlessly. Again and again. The lack of oxygen makes your head spin. His lips are so soft, so tender. He licks into your mouth, sucks on your tongue. He lets go of your wrists and cups your breasts, rolling the peaked flesh with his thumbs. Your orgasm crests over you like a tide, your chest stammers, your breath catching in your throat. Your muscles go stiff, and then relax again. His cock twitches as you gush around him, slick pouring between your legs and wetting the mattress underneath. 

With clenched teeth, your body arches into him and you bear your neck. He bites into the offered flesh, blossoms of pain making your walls clench around him. Javier moans, laps at your salty skin, groaning, his hips jerk—deeper and deeper—until he becomes still. 

Your entire body is lit aflame as he spills into you. Instinctively, your hands cover your face, soft whimpers seeping into the heat of your palms. His cock pulses, and your muscles tense as you milk him for every last drop, your cunt clenching and fluttering around him. 

Javier smooths his lips over your knuckles, kissing the back of your hands as you slowly come down from your high. Breathing heavily, you allow your arms to go limp and fall. His eyes flit between your lips and eyes, he dips down to claim your mouth in a less draining kiss. 

“That was great,” he breathes into your mouth. “How are you feeling, perla?” 

“Like a hundred bucks,” you answer, grinning. “I forgot how good sex can be.” 

Your smile falters when he pulls out. Now that the heat of your orgasm is fading, you’re not sure what to do. Your body feels nice and limp, and god, you do not want to move. 

His seed trickles down your folds and you let out a soft gasp, your pussy fluttering. Javier seems to enjoy that, he grins and spreads your legs. 

“Bonita.” he purrs, dipping his thumb into the mess. Your head falls. “I’ll get you cleaned up in the morning.” 

“I’ll take care of it,” you answer, making a show of getting up. Javier frowns and wraps his fingers around your ankle, it’s not a tight grip, he’s just holding you. Your gaze drops. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“You can sleep here,” he drags the pads of his fingers up your legs and you shudder. “With me.” 

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to bother you.” 

“Believe me,” he says, voice dipping. “This is no bother.” 

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

onlyfans

pairing: chad meeks-martin x fem!reader

wc: 1K

warnings: talks of sex (look at the title), no actual smut (cant write for shit)

summary: maybe the internet is starting to influence new ways to make "easy" money.

A/N: y'all...idk. idk.

masterlist / chad meeks-martin

you know how desperate college students get when they need money? really desperate.

especially when you have busy classes and homework that makes you want to rip your hair from the scalp in rage. you want to enjoy the new york life while you're living there, but holy fuck is it expensive! so after scrolling through your socials for way too long when you should have been studying, a specific video popped up and gave you a lightbulb moment.

“holy shit,” you whispered in the library.

-

now see, when you had that lightbulb idea three hours ago, you thought it was the greatest idea in the world for pretty easy money. now when you’re sitting beside your boyfriend on his twin bed in his dorm, you're regretting asking him-

“have you ever thought about starting an only fan?”

pretty sure if he had food in his mouth he would choke or spit take if he was drinking something. and you wouldn’t blame him for that reaction.

chad’s eyes widened so far you thought they would fall from their sockets and he might catch flies with his open mouth. he almost seemed frozen like a statue, hands sitting on his thighs and chest barely moving with his breaths.

“chad… baby… can you- can you say something or nod.” shaking his calf that was beside you.

he squeaked a noise, very high pitched, and nothing else. you were regretting your lightbulb idea. you could always check if the campus has job openings, maybe you can get a part-time job on the weekends, but that would kill your relaxation time. damn, the idea is becoming more appealing with just the knowledge it’s not too hard and you can do it whenever. plus, you can always do it with chad… if he can find his voice.

“baby, i know it’s a weird question, but i just saw how some girls are making good pay. and i need the money. of course if you’re uncomfortable with the idea of me starting one-“ “woah, woah.”

the first two words chad spoke in the past fifteen minutes. your hands laid between your crisscrossed applesauce legs, body facing chad. he changed his position, one leg dangling over the side of his bed with the other bent inward.

“i have no problem with you making an account. it’s your body, your sexuality. you get to decide how you flaunt yourself to the world. i’ll happily support you from the sidelines, would love to have a sugar mama. i was just surprised, you just… i don’t know.” he trailed off with a shrug.

you knew what he meant. you're not outwardly super sexual or outrageous confident. a bit timid when it comes to showing off your body and still a bit shy when it comes to sex with chad even if you’ve been dating since junior year. but you know you have your moments, drunk or sober, where you will feel like the baddest bitch on the planet and nothing can stop you. and you want to chase that feeling more often.

“you know those videos from twitter porn-“ “oh so that's what gets you off.” you shoved at his knee and he flashed a cheeky smile. bastard.

“yeah, yeah. i watch twitter porn. anyway, there are certain videos where they just shoot from the chest and below, with no faces in view. probably what i would do in case anyone from the school finds it.” fingers picking at the bed sheets. acting like you haven’t thought of this all day.

“oh, you worried ethan’s gonna find it.” jaw dropped, “chad!” a high-pitched screech before you swatted at his shoulder, “leave your roommate alone! he’s completely innocent in this conversation.”

“ow, ow! okay, okay. i’ll leave him out of this potential situation.” hands up in surrender but you rolled your eyes.

now you were preparing yourself for the next question that you were sure would make chad have a heart attack. with your palm resting on your knee with your thumb rubbing at the bend, you took a breath.

“also… i was wondering if… you would maybe want to do it… with me. porn- porn with- with me. filming our… sex.” yeah, definitely a good sales pitch. your stuttering and not making eye contact as your body grew hotter.

honestly, you were waiting to hear the words, “i don’t think this is gonna work…” you kept putting your foot into your mouth. 

a meek gander at chad and he was squinting his eyes at you while leaning forward. your eyes widened just a bit, “what? is- is it so crazy i thought about filming our sex?” voice rising in pitch from panic.

now his eyes went from slits to an owl, fully open at your unfiltered words slipping past your defenses. you were a second from jumping off the bed and leaving the space before chad spoke with a teasing lit, “oh, so our sex is that good? you think people would buy from you and constantly watch the two of us, cause i kinda agree. i am very good at sex.”

now you couldn’t help to raise a brow at that, “oh, and i’m not? only chad’s good at sex in this relationship. if i recall just last week this room was filled with a whole lot of whimpering and whining…and it wasn’t from my mouth.” leaning into chad’s space with a seductive drop in your voice.

he didn’t shy away from the closeness that was your hands near his inner thighs and your breath fanning over his face. he, himself, inches closer with the tip of his nose bumping into yours as he dropped his voice, a thick tumble that stirred a warmth deep in your belly. “and i was happy to be at your beckoning.” he turned his head just a tick to the right and planted a feather kiss to the apple of your cheek.

a shaky breath escaped parted lips, eyes fluttering closed as you whispered into one of chad’s ears, “wanna get started on some videos?” chad didn’t say anything, just leaving more feather-light touches to your ear lobe than to the junction of your jawline. he muttered, “why don’t we do a warm-up round before the real performance starts.”

and you didn’t protest at the idea.

-

[intothevoid-afashionblog]

The Beginning

I have always loved fashion & it’s all I ever think about. I daydream about shoes or vintage RedLine Levis that just aren’t made like that anymore. Sometimes, I daydream about the dichotomy of the Hermès Birkin. That it comes with its own custom made raincoat but how Jane Birkin’s own Birkin overflowed with countless nicknacks, womanhood treasures & probably never once wore its chic raincoat. How walking in kitten heels reminds me of my first pair of heels, the plastic princess ones. Regardless of what it is, fashion is running through my mind 24/7. If someone lends an ear to me, I will talk it off with obscure fashion references or ponder about passers-by & where they might have gotten that coat. Is it vintage? Is it her grandfathers or her partners grandfathers? Is it from a curated thrift store somewhere on the westside & she overpaid for it? Even worse, could it be fast fashion? I know it sounds crazy but that is why I love fashion. Just like any form of art or self expression, there’s always a personal story attached to the piece. So, how did I get here?

My love for fashion comes from a culmination of events. I grew up in hair salons as my mother is a hairstylist & has been for the past 30 years. My mother has always worked hard which led to many days, nights & weekends spent in the salon.This was long before Ipads and we only had one gameboy growing up. A Gameboy Color that my older brother took ownership of the moment we got it. So, to keep myself busy at the salon, I would help with cleaning tasks, ripping foils, entertaining her clients or, on occasion, I would get my nails done. (I once got a pedicure & each of my toes were painted a different color of M & Ms) When those weren’t available to me or I got bored, I read magazines. Back in the late 90’s / early 2000’s, one of the ways you picked your hairstyle was out of these magazines. Either gossip, fashion or hairstylist magazines. The piles of magazines at the salon were high and ever evolving. I would get lost in these magazines, staring at the images & letting my mind wander. About the scenes, the vibe, the fashion, the makeup and of course, the hairstyles. All the glitz & glam. I was entranced by photography, specifically fashion photography. After the salon, we would head home where I would watch the show that sealed my fate forever. Lizzie McGuire. 

The Second Event: The Lizzie McGuire show had me in a chokehold. The costumes in that show brought fashion into my life. The one costume that changed me? Season 1, Episode 2. It’s picture day, Lizzie’s mom is making her wear a unicorn sweater while Lizzie’s BFF, Miranda, comes to school in THE outfit. An orange, sleeveless crew neck, and a zebra print midi skirt. Unfortunately, it’s what the school bully was also donned in. Something about this outfit stuck with me. It was the first time I connected with clothing and saw something that I would actually WANT to wear. I was 6 years old. Every episode from there on was magical. It was introducing trends and how to dress in a way that was unapologetic and authentic to me. Thank you to Costume Designers Monique Prudhomme & David C. Robinson for sparking this and creating a muse for my childhood. 

The Main Event: My mom’s closet. Well, it started in my mom’s handbags when I was just a toddler. Adored with a binky in my mouth, I would climb up to wherever my mom set her purse down. I would sit there for what felt like hours and just rummage around in there. I would pull out her lipstick, open it and probably rub it all over my face before returning it back to its home. Her compacts, cash, trinkets and Ricky Martin checkbook all had their time outside of the bag. Eventually, I would be caught red handed and be put back with my dolls to play with. Once I was fully mobile, probably 4 years old, my mom’s closet was next on my list. I would pull out everything. She kept her prom dress from the 80’s that I would waltz around in. With heels on and any accessories I could reach. Just pretending that I was in those photos from the magazines. My mom’s jewelry was phenomenal. She grew up in the 80’s and was a fashionista herself. She would tell me, “Everyday was a fashion show for me in high school. I had endless amounts of Guess Clothes & everything was Name Brand.” 80’s Guess aka a work of art. Perfectly captured the teenage youth of that time to tell us their story through fashion for the years to come. Everyday has been a fashion show for my mom, it didn’t end in her high school years. Anyways, back to her Jewelry. There I was, with all three of her jewelry boxes open, sitting on her closet floor, picking things out and hearing all the stories behind each piece. “Your dad bought me these earrings” or “ Your granny got me that for my birthday”. These memories are seared into my brain forever. These moments made me love fashion and see it in a new light. A light that connected with me and shined on me. A light that showed me the stories that pieces of fashion can tell. 

[xprojectrpg]

Moment of Awesome - Felicia Hardy/Black Cat:Halloween at Harry's Hideaway. Felicia, dressed as Marilyn Munroe, has Opinions on what happened to a certain dress.

"So you aren't going to sing me happy birthday this year? I'm crushed. Crush-" He said as a badly dressed Shrek pumped into him.

"Sorry man. Cool costume. Who are you?"

"Dean Martin."

"Oh, I love 'Only Murders In The Building'!" He said before stumbling off.

Felicia's lips pursed, trying very hard to look serious as she nodded. Across the room, Shrek also had shots he didn't order suddenly delivered to him, as was the will of Felicia's merciless nature and the universe. "Mmm. I mean. Do you want to have to hear my rant about Kim Kardashian destroying that dress again? Because that will be involved."

"Hmm? I missed that." Kevin said, taking a sip. "What happened?"

"MET gala last year, a celebrity decided she needed to wear Marilyn's Happy Birthday dress. It is currently owned by a private collector, who approved it, despite the fact that it's a piece of history, custom made for a very specific woman, height, size, colouring, situation..." Felicia started, fingernails angrily tapping on the table as she ranted. "The dress was damaged - there's some debate about whether or not it was her but come on - and for what? The dress was made for Marilyn! They hand dyed the fabric so it would exactly match her skin tone, the whole point of the dress was for her to look basically naked except coated in diamonds.

"Kim has all the money, she could have recreated the gown but in her size and with the right colouring. It could have been historical but no, wearing an original piece of fucking art for clout was more important."

Kevin was silent for a long moment. "So, Nora inside is twitching hard right now. I somehow missed that. And- why? I mean, fuck them, but why?"

Felicia shrugged, taking another angry chomp out of her flat, ripping the two bones apart. "I almost stole it back afterwards but I'd have to hire a different team for conserving it properly, mine doesn't have the experience. Also, girl date this month? Send me your calendar, I need a new pair of leather leggings and I trust her opinion on my ass more somehow."

"Fair. I mean, I do test anything I send you with your ass." Kevin gave her a grin, almost boyish in nature. "It's a pretty good ass, you know."

"Love. You say the sweetest things," Felicia demured, throwing a small clean carcass aside with a sharp smile.

[creativitycache]

please tell us what about basira frustrated you in ep 177, i was having some similar feelings and youre really eloquent and tend to phrase these sorta things real well

Oh thank you! I’m not sure how eloquent I can be right in the moment, but I’ll try! (I’m technically supposed to be emailing clients right now shh 🤫)

Basira frustrates me immensely, and has always done so.

Actually, I should clarify. I originally enjoyed her- for the first few episodes she was in before it became crystal clear just what kind of person she is.

A hypocrit.

She seems like she’s even keeled, she seems like she’s logical, but she’s not. She looks down on everyone else. She has no empathy for others. And she calls people monsters while using them ruthlessly then shaming them for being tools in her hands.

She forgives Daisy anything. She brushes off Daisy’s atrocities, and she covers for her even before she knew about the excuse of the entities.

But Jon? Oh no, Jon’s a monster. Jon’s a tool. And any time he’s used it’s his fault.

There’s constant examples in the past, but let’s focus on episode 177.

1. She has no drive to connect to Martin’s earnest attempts to reach out. He’s not even asking anything of her, he’s checking in on her. She’s never cared about anyone outside the select few she’s decided to bother with.

2. She dismisses other people’s pain. Jon, because he’s the kind of person who would bleed out on the AE floor without asking to jump the line because he dismisses his own pain in favor of focusing on others, forgives this on the basis that she’s had it worse. Alright, word of the Eye is that Basira’s has it worse. That doesn’t negate the fact she didn’t even ask how either of them were doing. And even when told they had suffered she brushed it off. I’ve been that person who’s been hurt “the most” and I still took time to check in on my friends who are also in the shit- because Martin’s right it’s not a competition.

3. She blamed Jon for everything despite the fact she KNEW Jon didn’t want to and that it was ultimately Elias’s fault. Jon didn’t press the issue because of his own flaws, but I still hold Basira responsible for her reaction. Because SHE KNEW that Elias was manipulative because SHE WAS MANIPULATED BY ELIAS. She KNEW Jon didn’t want it. And she STILL to Jon’s face, in front of Martin who had only ever been kind to her, said she should have killed him.

4. She dismisses Daisy’s victim. Really, Basira? You KNOW what kind of place he’s in because you just listened to Jon’s Statement. So you KNOW the man lying in bloody shreds on the ground has issues with mental health. You, a policewomen, KNOW the stigma attached with having mental health problem and how that impacts how the police and society deal with people who are in the midst of a breakdown that is NOT THEIR FAULT. And then. AND THEN. She tried to LIE. TO JON. TO COVER FOR DAISY. ABOUT WHAT A “PIECE OF WORK” THE MAN DAISY RIPPED TO SHREDS WAS. KNOWING THE WHOLE TIME. THE WHOLE TIME. THAT HE ONLY HURT SOMEONE ELSE IN AN ATTEMPT TO FLEE DAISY. HE DIDNT ACTUALLY EVEN BREAK THE LAW. HE DIDNT TRY TO ROB ANYONE. HE LASHED OUT IN A PANIC WHEN DAISY WAS HUNTING HIM AND HIT THE WRONG PERSON IN THE EYE. AND BASIRA JUST TRIED TO PLAY IT OFF AS THOUGH HE WAS A BURGLAR WHO ATTACKED AN INNOCENT HOMEOWNER.

5. She refuses to admit Daisy is a monster despite hunting her specifically because she’s turned into a monster. That is IMPRESSIVE levels of delusion.

6. She was going to hurt Jon, till she learned it wouldn’t change anything. Then she was going to leave, until she learned Jon had a use to her. Then she complained to Jon that she was stuck with him and it was all his fault.

Basira uses people, dismisses people’s pain to shield her own ego, disregards those who try to help, and warps her narrative to place blame on the easiest target.

It doesn’t even have to be Jon. She made a target out of that victim.

She’s a bully. She attacks the weakest link in any circumstances, all to avoid facing her own sins, which further compounds them into rank hypocrisy.

[theywontletmebeprincipal]

can you give me drowsy headcanons, ramble, or anything please, i am so deprived. do not be afraid to make it super long, the more the better, i just love drowsy chaperone and love to hear other people (plus you’re one of the only people i’ve seen who knows a lot abt it)

ASK AND YE SHALL RECIEVE

I’ll divide this into a few different parts, going from least to most excruciatingly sad :)

1. general headcanons

2. in canon things i noticed and think about daily

3. a full analysis of man in chair’s connections with the drowsy chaperone as an in universe show (trigger warning for abuse ment, alcoholism ment, suicide ment)

SECTION ONE: HEADCANONS

- okay the chaperone is trans I don’t make the rules

- also her name is ambrosia :) she forsook her last name :)

- she’s about 12 years older than janet and kinda hung with janet’s family after leaving her own for a while . essentially she’s a big sister to janet

- aldolpho has some lines where he asks if the bride is big and/or burly and while in canon this is supposed to show he’s kind of a womanizer I like to believe it’s because he was fully prepared to fight her if needed

- speaking of which Of Course janet is ripped she does gymnastics

- my batshit crazy headcanon for this show is that dee dee allen from the prom is a descendant of roman bartelli no I will not elaborate

- is aldolpho one of those bitches with pets that definitely shouldn’t be legal? yessir

- post show kitty becomes a star okay I just want her to be happy

- the “pastry chefs” do discover a love of baking post show and now run a shop along with performing in feldzeig’s follies which might maybe be a front for some crime too

- TRIX DROWSY AND ALDOLPHO WORLD TRAVELING POLYCULE CAUSING PROBLEMS ON PURPOSE

- underling’s name is james I will not elaborate on this either

- show never says what trix does so I’ve decided she’s an explorer. she charts maps and punches colonialists and drags her stupid friends along with her, the only bitch in the show with a braincell

- drowsy was a former vaudeville child star pre transition - she left the business but was a mentor to janet

- I do have a headcanon for mic’s name but in the spirit of every actor who’s ever played him I won’t fucking tell

SECTION TWO: SHIT I NOTICED

- robert refers to himself by full name a lot of the time which is v interesting given he’s named after the writer, bob martin (whose wife is also named janet van de graaf). the real bob martin is like five feet away at all times playing mic

- idk how to describe it but the dynamic kitty and feldzeig (VICTOR felgzeig. we have a name from one (1) line) have when talking to each other is so snappy and funny and good

- aldolpho’s lines in spanish are mostly romantic bullshit but his first one hints that he has/had a wife who, if we’re taking the translation literally, refused to touch him. yeah I’ll bring this up in analysis

- the “pastry chefs” provide liquor for the wedding even though it has absolutely no relevance to their mission of stopping it :)

- drowsy is like. SUPER endearing towards janet and despite her bad social skills it’s super clear she cares a lot about her

- robert speaks fluent french apparently

- everyone says “ew” after aldolpho reveals his affair with drowsy despite her being a certified milf

- the body language of drowsy in the end of the show where she takes mic’s hands and breaks the barrier between reality and fiction is just so good. she was iconic the whole show but I honestly think this final bit is what won beth leavel the Tony in the end

SECTION THREE: OH NO

before diving into the way the drowsy chaperone affects his character, we need to understand what exactly it’s playing off of. to fully understand mic’s attachment to the drowsy chaperone, we need to outline what led him to isolating himself and living in fiction to the extent that he does.

mic’s father left his family at an early age and his semi estranged alcoholic mother was the one who began his love for theatre. mic grew up in a broken household and eventually moved on to land in a one sided marriage, which lasted a few months until he slipped up and expressed his discomfort with the situation, after which he and his wife split. nowadays, he lives alone in his apartment surrounded by records he uses to escape to a better life - his favorite of which being the one his mother gave him, the drowsy chaperone.

symbolism in the drowsy chaperone regarding mic’s life can be split into two main categories - mommy issues and internalized homophobia. there isn’t nearly as much mom symbolism as there is the latter, so I’ll cover that first.

drowsy covers both bases, but she definitely has some undeniable mom symbolism going on. drowsy marries aldolpho and mom dreams of being swept off her feet by a latin lover, both feel they’ve wasted their chances at love, both drink to forget, etc. this is where the idea of the drowsy chaperone being mic’s ideal way for things to work out, a positive parallel, comes into play. given that we don’t hear too much about mic’s mom other than her connections to major life events and the record itself, we can assume they grew apart in one way or another. the key difference is that drowsy finds a happy relationship for herself and retains her bond with janet, unlike what we’re led to assume mom was like.

further elaborating on the drowsy chaperone representing mic’s ideal fantasy version of events is the wedding the drowsy chaperone’s plot centers around. here’s a list of the things that didn’t stop that damn wedding:

- a minister not showing up

- the groom cheating on the bride with the bride

- the bride having a complete mental breakdown

- indirect mafia interference

- direct mafia interference

on the flip side, what little mic says about his wedding indicates it sucked absolute ass. he spent the entire ceremony in internal distress as he went through with a life changing event he, at that point, knew at least a bit that he didn’t want. I think he also implies he had severe diarrhea on the wedding day? it gets worse when you realize mic’s relationship before the wedding wasn’t any good for him either - he was playing along the whole time because it would be cruel not to, right?

throughout the show, mic is pretty clearly shown as an extremely repressed gay man. there are five specific instances that point at romantic and/or sexual attraction to men directly and another moment outside of his commentary that pretty much confirms it if you look a little bit deeper. thus, here is what I propose - to mic, the drowsy chaperone’s wedding plot represents a world where he was able to ignore that part of himself and have a happy marriage with his wife despite all the overwhelming obstacles thrown at him. however, bits and pieces of that internalized homophobia manage to show themselves throughout the drowsy chaperone anyway despite its happy ending. here’s a rundown on a few significant instances:

- by the end of the show, the “pastry chefs”, who had literally been planning to kill feldzeig, have left their life of crime to perform with him. this symbolizes how in mic’s ideal world he would have been able to turn away from what he perceived at the time as living wrongly - his homosexuality

- at the same time, the “pastry chefs” have this line, spoken in regards to janet: “if she gets married and leaves the show... there ain’t no show.” this is a take on mic’s subconscious concern that he might lose himself if he goes on with his marriage pretending everything is alright - of course, as we already know, he doesn’t listen

- “cold feets” is a pretty obvious instance of mic’s hesitation

- aldolpho’s line in spanish regarding the wife who won’t touch him flips to reflect on mic’s treatment of his own ex wife - she was alien to him as a lover, just as aldolpho was to this woman

- janet recalls her meeting robert at a point in the show and states “we spooned, briefly, then he proposed.” though mic’s relationship pre marriage was much longer than that, it must have felt that way to him - just as quick and nonsensical as janet describes

- just as janet is caught in showbiz but has a toxic love for it, so does mic with his own repressed life

- janet has a line in “show off” that alludes to her experiencing harassment/assault: “I don’t wanna be cheered no more/ praised no more/ grabbed no more/ touched no more/ loved no more” , which I believe represents the way mic perceived his intimacy with his wife - labeled as love yet unenjoyable for him

- “I look into his eyes... I get all woozy. and that’s... love, isn’t it?” is another very clear nod to mic’s misconception of love based off the only thing he’s ever experienced, relationships with women he’s had to fake

- this is the part where I tell you the lyrics to toledo surprise are a metaphor for actively suppressing gay thoughts. I’ll just leave you with “if it tries to rise; don’t let it”. these lyrics are not comprehensive enough to make a dish - trust me, I have tried. it’s also notable that they serve a double entendre as instructions on how to beat the shit out of someone, but several lyrics are also directed towards the singer/audience. for example: “it’s a snap/ try it folks/ whip your whites/ split your yolks” is an easy metaphor for the unhealthy mental gymnastics required to repress oneself so wholeheartedly

it’s also worth noting the obvious just for the sake of it - mic copes with all this by isolating himself in a safe spot where he can use musicals to escape and live his ideal fantasy, even if it’s only for a short time. there are plenty of nods to this throughout the drowsy chaperone as well. in “as we stumble along” drowsy notes that “the best that we can do is hope a bluebird/ will sing a song/ as we stumble along” - to mic, musicals are his bluebird. while mic mostly indulges in these fantasies, he knows to a certain extent the sheer amount of time he’s spending in them is unhealthy. the first line of the show is “I hate theatre” and I think that to an extent? he does. obviously mic loves theatre as a concept, that can’t be denied. what he hates is the way he’s allowed it to confine him.

with all that out of the way, let’s move on to the most important moment of the show. if you’ve ever seen the show, you’ll know exactly which scene I’m talking about immediately. I’m referring to, of course, the infamous “l-ve while you can” scene. as janet stands at the alter she asks drowsy for one final word of advice, which is partially obscured by aldolpho dropping his cane. “l-ve while you can.” it’s a simple moment, but mic reveals to us that he’s been agonizing over it for years - did drowsy say “live” or “leave”? it occurs to everyone eventually, whether a couple days after the show like with me, or years after like with bob martin’s replacement on broadway that the most likely answer is that she had said “love while you can”. it’s this moment, when you realize why mic had never seen that as an option, that the drowsy chaperone’s status as a musical within a comedy within a tragedy is solidified. mic had no love in his life - his parents hated each other and he was forcing himself into relationships in which he felt nothing. to him, living and leaving were options, but loving never was. so he locked himself away.

as the final note on the record is playing, all power in mic’s apartment shuts down and the fantasy is ruined. the superintendent arrives and further invades his space, breaking the private sanctity he had built up for so long. she fixes the power and before mic can stop it from happening, the final note of the record plays. and the super recognizes it as a musical. she makes a remark about how much her wife loves musicals and leaves, completely unaware of what she’s just done.

mic sits in silence for a while. and then he begins to sing. gradually, the cast members begin to echo their songs, dancing around him but never touching him. then drowsy appears and sings harmony to mic. and she takes his hands. the show ends with the entire cast, including mic, taking off on trix’s airplane as the curtain falls, drowsy handing mic his record as the plane takes off.

some people interpret the ending as mic committing suicide, finally deciding between live and leave. I don’t personally believe that and neither does writer and original mic bob martin, but it’s still a valid interpretation. the drowsy chaperone’s ending is ambiguous, yes, but not to that extent. no matter what you believe the ending means, it was brought on not by the interruption of the fantasy, but by whatever realization the super’s remark about her wife triggered. as I see it, there are two main options here.

option one - mic realizes he still has time to live and to love. when he was younger the prospect of living as himself was unthinkable to him, yet now he sees that while he was spending countless years alone the world grew. drowsy offers mic her hand, an invitation to finally become what he had admired in her - someone who isn’t anywhere near perfect, but is damn well trying and living life without regret. he accepts.

option two - mic realizes that while he spent years alone the world moved on without him and he’s isolated himself so much from social interaction that he’d no longer be able to make a meaningful connection with anyone outside. so he stays inside instead, never trying, always trapped between live and leave. drowsy offers mic her hand - at least he’ll have a tune to carry with him.

I really want to believe we got option one. I think option one is the intended, really, given mic ends the show with a joyful goodbye to the audience. but the way that the ending is still left open for interpretation makes it so that we can never really know - we as the audience only get to be privy to a small part of mic’s life, and we don’t get the answers we want because at the end of the day they’re irrelevant to us - all we can do is make our own choice.

[mimosaeyes]

Post-176. Jon, Martin, and Basira regroup before continuing the search for Daisy. (Or: everyone is allowed to feel their feelings.) 2.1k, hurt/comfort.

I wrote a few lines of this fic after listening to the episode, but I wasn't going to finish it until I read @dathen's post about how 176 is basically "emotionally repress or die". Then I thought, oh wait, do people actually want the self-indulgent emotional catharsis? So, with @emberidzae's enabling and beta-ing, here we are.

It takes Martin longer than it should to realise that Basira is leading them out of the domain, not farther into it. Because of the way she’d begun hurrying them along, he assumed they were only a few steps behind Daisy, about to catch up with her at any moment.

Instead, the trees begin to thin out around them. Soon there’s enough space between the trunks to render them ineffective camouflage, and Martin stops feeling the urge to check his surroundings for the silhouettes of wolves waiting in ambush. There’s still a tight feeling in his throat, but at least the prickle on the back of his neck has disappeared.

He can still feel where Trevor had pressed the knife, the sharp edge of it right up against his jugular. The man’s voice had been shaking, but never his hand. No, that had been Martin’s own pulse, throbbing sickeningly beneath the blade and rushing loud in his ears.

Lost in the memory, Martin doesn’t notice the root sticking out of the ground until he’s already tripping over it. He has a split-second to think how stupid that is, how this has probably been the downfall of many people being chased by the Hunt — then his elbow is snagged by a familiar, scarred hand.

Jon doesn’t spare him a glance even as he releases his arm to clasp Martin’s hand instead. He just pulls him along, his pace brisk but not overtly hurried by fear or panic. Martin falls into step beside him, gradually regaining his rhythm and composure.

When they finally stumble into open space, Martin senses the difference at once. It’s not that he instantly relaxes; all things considered, he’d managed to remain relatively unfazed. But suddenly it takes much less effort to breathe normally. Suddenly, tension he hadn’t been aware of dissipates from his shoulders and chest.

He looks up to find Basira watching him closely. “Good job,” she says, making no effort to deny her scrutiny. “You’ll need full control over your emotions if you’re planning on following me back in there.”

Ah. There’s the rub. Of course they’re not done with this domain yet; this is only a pit-stop for Basira to make sure she hasn’t taken on liabilities.

“So you’re sure Daisy’s here?” Martin asks, managing to sound far more businesslike than he really feels about the thought of returning to the forest. “You’ve seen her?”

A muscle jumps in Basira’s cheek. Not quite a flinch, but the shadow of one. “I’m sure.”

She turns away from them and starts fiddling with her gun, checking the mechanism even though it had clearly worked fine on Trevor. Perhaps she wants a reason to keep her hands busy. Perhaps she wants to hide her face.

Martin leaves her to it and turns to Jon. He’s about to say something at random, anything to afford Basira the illusion of privacy, but the words die on his lips as Jon lets go of his hand and throws his arms around Martin.

He’s hugging back before he has time to fully register what’s happening. “Jon?” His voice squeaks from how tightly Jon is squeezing. “What’s wrong?”

Jon mumbles something against the crook of his neck. He can’t quite make out what it is. He catches sorry and couldn’t and so scared. Jon is trembling, he realises. It makes his heart lurch. He rubs a hand over his back in what he hopes is a soothing way.

After a long moment, Jon pulls back, gripping his arm with one hand while the other goes to the side of Martin’s face. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

Martin shakes his head. “I, I don’t think so.” But Jon checks anyway, running his fingers lightly over his neck to check for the smallest nick. Martin shivers at the gentle touch.

Then Jon tugs his long sleeve down over his knuckles and starts dabbing at Martin’s cheek and chin, which is when it hits Martin that the damp feeling there isn’t nervous sweat, but the spray of Trevor’s blood from the gunshot that had killed him.

He reels away from Jon — or he tries to, but Jon holds him steady. “Don’t look,” he says softly. “It’s okay, just look at me. It’s okay.” There’s something quietly insistent in his tone that makes Martin go still. Let me do this for you, it seems to say. Let me spare you this.

So he does. Instead of thinking about what happened, instead of peering at the red on Jon’s sleeve in his peripheral vision, Martin watches his face. Part of him is braced for the slightest wrinkling of his nose, indicating revulsion at his task. Mostly, he expects to see regret. They’d come to this domain hoping to find their friends and save Daisy, and instead another person has died because of them. It had happened indirectly, in that Basira had been the one to pull the trigger, but Jon had engineered the situation and Martin had participated in it, and... and it feels different, like this. Martin’s been calling it smiting when Jon turns the Ceaseless Watcher on an avatar, vaporising them. But there was nothing righteous about this, nothing neat and sterile. There is only the visceral, ignominious reality of a body left on the ground, and some of the gore still smeared over Martin’s skin.

Yet he looks, and finds only tenderness in Jon’s expression. All throughout the encounter with Trevor, he had kept his face impassive, his voice calm and in control. Only now is Martin seeing the depth of his fear for him.

Jon finishes cleaning off the blood and without further ado, rips the end of his sleeve off entirely, stuffing it in a pocket so it’s out of sight.

Half-jokingly, Martin laments, “Aww. I liked that shirt.” It’s one of his own, hence the excessively long sleeves on Jon. He’d stolen it a few days into their stay in the safehouse. Martin had teased him about it at the time, but never really minded.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says sombrely. Martin’s about to clarify that he was kidding, but then Jon continues, “I thought Trevor would go for me. I was nearly sure of it, else I would’ve told you more. I thought the worst I was asking of you was to stay calm while he threatened me, and you know nothing can really hurt me, so.”

“It’s alright,” Martin tells him. “I mean, it’s not alright, obviously; that was messed up to have to go through, but.” He offers him a slightly lopsided smile. “I trust you.”

Jon doesn’t return the smile, though. He just looks preoccupied; cagey. Like before, like he’s not telling him something. Martin frowns. “Why did you think he’d pick you? You’re not exactly without defences.” He glances pointedly at the eyes staring down at them from the sky.

“Because...” Jon sighs, shrugs, runs one hand roughly through his hair. “Because I’m the one who’d be prey in this domain. Fear of your friends turning on you? After Jane Prentiss, I staked out Tim’s house, I went through the belongings you’d left at the Institute. I was so easily made to feel paranoid, to dread betrayal. Besides—” He cuts himself off abruptly.

Martin narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What?”

Jon hesitates, reluctant. “And, well. Trevor’s a monster hunter.” 

He seems about to elaborate, but then just makes a vague gesture, encompassing all of himself.

“Oh, Jon...” 

But before Martin can tell him he’s not a monster, smack him, or possibly pull him in for another hug, Basira interjects. “You two do know I can still hear you, right? Honestly, you have definitely been wandering around with no other company for too long.”

Startled and sheepish, they both turn to her. She’s re-holstered her gun and is smirking at them with one hand on her hip. Martin sees the moment when her mirth reverts to steely resolve. “Enough blubbering. Daisy’s after Trevor. If we want to catch her here, we’ll have to move fast. Are you coming with, and can you handle yourselves?”

“Of course,” Jon replies, nodding and stepping out of Martin’s embrace. “Let’s go.”

Even though Martin hadn’t been around at the time, he imagines this is exactly how it went before these two ran off to Ny-Ålesund together. “Wait! Do you even have a plan?”

“Find Daisy,” Jon and Basira say in unison.

Martin resists the urge to slap his forehead. “And then what?” he asks, softening his tone from exasperated to reasonable. He addresses Basira specifically: “You promised to kill Daisy. Is that your first option, or do you have another plan?”

Judging from the way she stiffens ever so slightly at the word kill, there’s at least some doubt in her mind. Basira glances at Jon. “You wouldn’t happen to have any convenient Beholding powers to get through to her, would you?”

Jon winces. “We need a key to a lock in this situation, and I have... the equivalent of a nuclear warhead.”

Basira stares. “I don’t even want to know.”

“What about how we’re finding her, then?” Martin wonders aloud, hastily changing the topic. “If Trevor’s, uh, no longer with us, then we don’t have anyone to follow. Unless we can find Daisy’s tracks.”

“Unlikely,” Basira says. “She’s too good a Hunter to be hunted herself. I’ve been relying on Trevor, mostly.”

“So why’d you kill him?” Martin asks thoughtlessly.

Almost before he’s finished the sentence, he anticipates Basira’s raised eyebrow and sarcastic, “He had you at knifepoint. You’re welcome.”

“And the other reason?” Jon asks quietly.

Immediately, Basira snaps, “Don’t compel me. Do not look in my head.”

“I didn’t, and I won’t,” Jon says, holding up both hands placatingly. He’s telling the truth; there had been no telltale buzz of static. “But you could have shot him without killing him. You could have lamed him and waited for Daisy to come end it. So I know there’s another reason.”

Basira is glaring askance, but Martin can still feel the ferocity of that look. Then, haltingly but with more sincerity than he would have expected, she actually answers. “I found Julia’s body. Trevor is older than her, slower. Which means Daisy let him go on purpose. She — she’s relishing this too much. Trying to prolong the chase. I could’ve kept it going. Could’ve followed him for days, or what used to be days. But the longer that goes on, the longer she gets to toy with him... the less likely she comes back to me as Daisy. So. It’s better this way, with his blood on my hands.”

She takes a deep breath. Then she punches Jon in the arm — not hard, but not very lightly either. “I blame you for all this touchy-feely stuff. It must be contagious.”

Jon has the cheek to smugly say, “You’re welcome.”

Martin barely hears it, though. Basira’s words are echoing through his mind: his blood on my hands, his blood on my hands.

“I know how we can find Daisy,” he says. “Jon. That strip of sleeve? Give it to Basira.”

To Basira’s credit, she barely reacts as Jon uneasily extracts the bloodied cloth from his pocket and helps her tie it around one wrist. “This is Trevor’s blood?” is all she says.

“And now it also smells like me, Jon, and you.” Martin’s eyes flick briefly to the forest. “Daisy might’ve already found Trevor’s body. She’ll be looking for something else worth hunting.”

“It could work,” Jon says slowly. Martin doesn’t miss the worried look he gives him.

Basira holds her arm aloft on the breeze for a few seconds, letting the wind carry the scent into the trees. “Are you sure about this?” she asks them both. “You do understand that we’re making ourselves bait.”

The forest looms before them. Does it look darker than before? It never gets any later in the apocalypse, so it must be his imagination. Or his mind, already being drawn into the mentality of prey. Martin gulps. He tries to sound confident about his plan as he says, “The best bait is friendship?”

“Now I know why we never hung out,” Basira tells him, but without much heat. 

As they begin walking, Martin reaches for Jon’s hand. “Hey,” he says quietly. “It’ll be okay. We’ve got this.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Jon’s eyes. “Apparently so,” he murmurs, giving Martin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

They hold on for a couple more seconds while ignoring Basira’s eye-roll. Then Martin lets go and sets about pulling his emotions into order. They only want one wolf to come after them. 

At the edge of the forest, Basira checks her gun in its holster, glances at Jon and Martin in turn. Then she raises her arm again. “Alright, Daisy,” she murmurs, more to herself than to them. “Hunt this. Hunt me.”

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[galaxy-parchment]

Jon is outed as Steampunk

Hello my beautiful patient followers. I’ve returned with TMA content because it’s my latest obsession. I’m proud to say that my first contribution to the fandom is an obligatory Mechs!Jon fic because I find them hilarious.

--

Tim was doing his best to avoid having to go up to the boss’s office all day, but was very disappointed to find he had no choice but to pop in for a visit to give him some of the ‘possibly true’ statements.

It wasn’t like he was going to believe it anyway - what was even the point? The guy was so uptight Tim didn’t think he knew how to have some fun and imagine the possibility that maybe there was something exciting in the universe. Tim supposed that didn’t really change the fact that he needed to give the guy his precious statements, so he groaned and grabbed the pile he’d gathered up.

He approached the door and stopped short of it, wondering if he would even notice if he didn’t give him the statements. He really didn’t have the energy for whatever job he was going to be given if he dared to walk in. Then something caught his ear.

Was Jon… chanting?

He was talking slightly quieter than his speaking volume and that definitely wasn’t English. It couldn’t be him speaking to himself. Jon had specifically told him the other day he didn’t speak any other languages. He tried picking out his words in case he was just mishearing, but the words were very clear and were certainly not anything coherent. He did catch him occasionally switch to humming. Was Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute singing to himself?

Tim made a mental note of the more coherent words and stepped into the doorway.

“Hey, boss!” he couldn’t help but be amused at how Jon jumped at the sound of him. He ripped his hand away from his face, which was pressed up against it, and readjusted his glasses with the hand.

“What did you need, Tim?” he asked, looking up at him unenthusiastically. 

 “Got a fresh delivery of statements for you!” he said cheerily, stepping up to the desk and placing the pile on an empty part of the table with a satisfying slap.

“Later than usual I see. Doesn’t matter I suppose. Would you mind filing away all of these on your way out?” Jon said, gesturing to a pile of statement files that was even larger than the one he’d just brought in. Great.

“Sure thing, boss! Wouldn’t want you having any of the fun, eh?” He joked, which didn’t seem to carry the same amusement for the other man.

“Shut up, Tim,” he deadpanned, returning to his work, signalling that the exchange was over.

Tim wandered back to his desk faster than usual and frantically wrote down all of the phrases he could remember.

What were they…. He definitely said something that sounded like ‘yai’ and he thought he heard a ‘sothoth’. How was he supposed to find anything with this gibberish? With little hope he opened up his web browser,typing in the words, and was surprised to find it wasn’t gibberish at all. It was some Lovecraftian chant. He doubted Jonathan ‘this-statement-is-wrong-because-this-word-is-mispelled’ Sims would be the sort of guy to worship Cthulhu. 

He’d been humming though, hadn’t he? Maybe it was a song. With his impeccable research skills he added ‘song’ to the end of his search and right there on the first page of results was a song called ‘Red Signal’ by the Mechanisms. He clicked on a video and listened to the song. That was definitely the same tune. It was strange, though. He never really pegged the bossman as someone that listened to this sort of thing. It reminded him of a folksy sort of punk or metal? Then the chanting stopped and switched to a spoken verse and Tim froze.

Was that Jon? It definitely sounded like him… Maybe the voice was a bit deeper and gravelly but Tim could have sworn that it was his voice. He frantically searched up the band. After looking through some photoshoots for some old albums he couldn’t help but stare. That was definitely his boss with quite a bit of makeup and dressed in some very over-the-top steampunk getup and flipping off the camera. He suddenly felt someone pressing up against his chair from behind.

“Is that Jon?” Sasha asked, leaning over his shoulder, squinting at the screen with her head cocked.

“Apparently,” Tim said, grinning ear to ear. “Look, I did some digging and it turns out he used to be in this steampunk band,” he continued, showing Sasha more pictures of Jon and his bandmates on the page.

“That’s amazing. He looks quite good in the pictures though, don’t you think?” she said with a chuckle.

“Right? He actually looks like he’d be fun to have a drink with!” He switched back to ‘Red Signal’ and started playing it. “I mean listen to this, he’s actually good, too!”

“How did you even find this?”

“He was singing it to himself and I used my incredibly advanced skills to track it down,” Tim bragged, making a show of readjusting his lapels.

“If only you put the same effort into actually working,” she chided, giving him a cheerful nudge with her elbow.

“Alas, I don’t think there’d be any work left for the rest of you if I did. It’s a public service to you all.” He grinned.

“Riiiight, because this place could run without me around.” Sasha grinned back.

The door to the shared office opened with a sharp creak and Martin stepped into the room.

They looked up and Tim called, “Hey Martin! How was Bexley?”

“Quite nice, actually! No creepy witches sending body parts to people, but there were some very kind old ladies I had the pleasure of speaking to!”

“Sounds like it was fun!” Sasha replied with a warm smile.

Martin was placing his bag down at his desk when he stopped and looked back at the two of them.

“What song is that?” he asked.

Tim grinned mischievously. “It’s called ‘Red Signal’, it’s by-“

“-by the Mechanisms? I had a friend that loved them, played it all of the time,” Martin finished, chuckling to himself at the memory. “I quite like their music, actually.”

Sasha and Tim took a moment to stare at each other knowingly and beamed innocently at Martin as he turned back to them.

Sasha looked at him with the same warm smile she’d given him before. “Maybe you could ask Jon if he’s heard of them while you give him your report?”

“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d go for,” he wondered.

“People can surprise you all of the time, may as well ask anyway. It’s not like he’s gonna hate your guts any more than he already does.”

Martin made a disappointed wince. “I guess so.”

“Don’t let that grump get you down, Martin, he probably just has a huge crush on you,” Sasha smirked.

“What? N-no! As if, that doesn’t even make any sense!” he stammered, turning back to his desk and sitting down to hide the red that was spreading over his face. 

“Ask him, though, will you? I’ve already had to go up there today and he’s given me a whole stack of files to go through. Not sure I could take another trip,” Tim joked as Sasha moved back to her desk. “Don’t tell him it was me that was wondering, though, he’d probably think it’s a trick or something,” he added casually.

“R-right, sure thing, Tim,” Martin obliged.

—

Martin knocked on Jon’s half-open door later that day, report in hand. Jon spared him a brief glance upwards before looking back down at his work. 

“Did you find anything regarding the Bexley statement?” he asked, not bothering to hide his disinterest as Martin placed his report on the table.

“I didn’t find the woman described in the statement, but I made sure to check every elderly Angela,” he said, a bit disappointed at how useless the trip was. “I did have some wonderful conversations about jigsaw puzzles with a few of them, though!” he added cheerfully. Thankfully Jon didn’t seem to be in a mood to scold him, but wasn’t at all invested in the conversation. Martin was about to leave when he remembered Tim’s request.

“Oh, uh, by the way, we were- well we were talking about it earlier so I was wondering if you’d heard of the Mechanisms? Like that space pirate band that used to play in a lot of London bars?”

Jon froze up for a moment before quickly explaining, “Erm, no I don’t think I have. Not uh…. not a big fan of going to see bands play at shows, you know?”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, okay? I guess it doesn’t seem like something you’d like… are you okay? You seem… off?”

“I’m quite fine, Martin, just a bit of a headache, I suppose. If you’ll excuse me I need to get back to this,” he said dismissively, returning to whatever he was writing down and setting Martin’s report on a stack.

“Sure! Did you need any tea? I’ve got one that’s really good for headaches,” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary, Martin, get back to work.” 

“Right.” Martin concluded as he left the room.

—

Things had been going a bit too slowly for Martin’s liking in the past few days. That usually meant Jon got antsy about people not doing as much work. It wasn’t like there was anything to do in the first place.

He was at least in the break room with Tim having lunch, who was playing more Mechanisms music, so Jon couldn’t tell either of them off right now. As his mind drifted to Jon, the man himself entered the room with his own lunch and made his way to the coffee machine. 

The song Tim was playing was pretty good. Martin curiously looked at Tim’s phone on the table playing the music.

“What song is that, Tim?”

“Ah, it’s called ‘Loki’, it’s from this great album called ‘The Bifrost Incident’,” he said with an obnoxious grin. Jon looked at them and ducked his head when Martin looked back. 

Martin pulled out his own phone and searched up ‘The Bifrost Incident’ and found a video from a show that he opened up. After a bit of pre-show banter the first song started.

That was when Martin heard Johnny DeVille do the song’s introduction. He’d always thought the lead singer sounded familiar, but the paragraph gave Martin a very vivid recollection of the exact tone of voice Jon always used when he recorded statements. 

That couldn’t be right, no way was that him. He took a good look at Johnny and looked between his own phone at the man with black cracks drawn on his face wearing the most steampunk outfit he’d ever seen and Jon, who was standing there, in his sweater vest, making a cup of coffee to go with his sandwich. Tim was looking at both of them struggling not to laugh and Jon was suddenly VERY interested in the coffee he had just poured out.

“JOHNNY DEVILLE?” Martin exclaimed, prompting Tim to bend over, choking on his own stifled laughter.

Jon picked up his coffee and claimed his sandwich from the table behind him and refused to meet Martin’s gaze. 

“Thats- uh- probably just a coincidence… I’m, uh, I’ll just have lunch in my office today,” he mumbled out, clearly not convinced he’d covered it up at all and left the room without another word.

Tim pulled himself back up and let out a heavy breath. “Oh, ha, Martin, sorry, it’s just Sasha and I were wondering how long it was gonna take,” he sighed gleefully. “Hopefully he’ll face society again. Hard to imagine the bossman was ever that cool, huh?”

Martin stared at the door. “Yeah…”

—

The next day Jon came into the office, but hadn’t shown his face for the whole day. Martin felt bad about yesterday, he probably overreacted a bit. Tim assured him it was fine and that the boss just isn’t the type to take a bit of embarrassment on the chin. This didn’t stop Martin from dropping in with a cup of tea when it became clear Jon wasn’t leaving his office for lunch.

Martin knocked on the door and upon getting a gruff ‘yes?’ from the other side he let himself in. Jon was more dismissive than usual and didn’t even spare a glance at him. Martin wasn’t sure how much of it was his usual grumpiness and how much was because of yesterday.

He set the tea down in the spot Jon usually kept it, right next to his coffee mug from yesterday. Martin waited for any acknowledgement. The acknowledgement never came and Jon’s expression was unreadable. The fact that he was looking down intently didn’t help.

“You know, I think it’s pretty cool that you were in a band. It’s not like you’re a murderer or something actually bad,” Martin said, desperate to break the silence. Jon clenched his pen tighter and looked up at him cautiously.

“That’s… kind of you to say…” he responded.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ve all done some pretty silly things. I will be honest, though, Jon, if being the lead singer for the Mechanisms is the most embarrassing thing you’ve done, I am extremely jealous.”

Jon smiled in a way that looked almost bashful on him. “It was a lot of fun, performing. It was a real shame when we all split after university.”

“I can imagine,” Martin sighed, silently cursing himself at how softly he’d said it. “Steampunk outfits really suit you, though, Jon. The makeup was a nice touch too.” He turned and made his way back to the door. 

As Martin went to close the door behind him Jon grumbled, “Shut up, Martin.”

—

The next morning Martin found something on his desk. It was a Mechanisms shirt neatly folded up and a copy of the Bifrost Incident album, both signed by all of the band members. 

The note lying on top of them read ‘I had a few extras at home - J’ and Martin couldn’t help but feel giddy.

[nyctolovian]

sweetheart, you look a little tired

Summary: During a power outage at the observatory he works at, Martin finds a spirit trapped in a lantern, thus meeting Jon. The two find themselves developing a relationship together, and realising they'd stay with the other. No matter what.

Written for TMA Fantasy Week (Prompt: Lantern)

A/N: Hey uhhh warning! It’s a tragedy and there is major character death. So you have been warned. Title is from the lyrics of "two" by Sleeping at Last

There was a lantern in the observatory up the hill. It's hard to notice it, tucked into a corner of the storage room, but when you needed light, it'd be hard to miss. It was a glass lantern, framed with a brass that never seemed to lose its shine. Inside was a tall white candle, and, if you looked closely enough, its wick glowed ever-so-slightly, despite the lack of flame. 

As though it were trying to light itself.

***

There was a power outage again. You'd think an observatory filled with all these science-y people would have figured out a way to stop all these sudden blackouts but perhaps not. The observatory wasn't exactly as well-funded as it used to be so that might be the reason for this.

Still, Martin found himself in the worst place to be during a blackout, the storage room. The storage room wasn't terrible, per se, just difficult. It was littered with things, and when Martin had first arrived, it seemed as though the scientists at this place had been simply chucking things into the storage room carelessly for the past 50 years. To make things worse, being one of the few underground rooms, the storage would fall pitch black in a blackout. Then, here comes the worst part: there was no one else in the observatory. It was close to 11pm and Martin had been the last to leave. It'd take a while before the light came back, he supposed.

So, not wanting to trip and die in some dusty old storage, Martin bent to his knees and held his hands forward, to make sure he didn't bump into anything while feeling his way out. But that's when he noticed it, a faint glow. 

Sitting atop a shelf, was a lantern with a candle in it. For some reason, the wick was slightly glowing, giving off just enough light for it to bounce off its brass beams and allow the lantern to stand out in the pitch black.

Martin frowned and reached for it. As he pulled it towards himself to inspect it, he found that if he squinted hard enough, he could see a box of matches shifting about inside it. He fumbled with the lantern for a while before locating the latch. With the matches in the lantern, he lit the candle. Instantly, the storage room was permeated with the soft light of the flame and Martin could see again. 

Picking up the lantern again, he stood up to leave. With the better light, he could see the lantern better now. Its base was hexagonal and the metal beams at its corners rose to support a round roof. The roof was patterned intricately with roses, leaves and vines. The romantic in Martin couldn't help but twist it around to inspect and stare in awe. 

"Well, I suppose I have to thank you for this," a voice came from behind.

Squeaking, Martin spun around and saw a man standing right behind him. The lantern slipped from his fingers and the other man let out a noise of fear as he tried and failed to catch the lantern. Luckily, Martin saved it in the nick of time. 

"Jesus christ!" the other man hissed. "Don't drop the bloody thing!"

"I— S-Sorry. I j-just, well, you startled me," Martin said, hand over his heavily thumping heart. He inhaled deeply to bring back his customer service voice. "Sir, you're not supposed to be here by the way. This room has restricted access. Were you in the room this entire time? I didn't even notice you when I came in."

"I–" The other man cleared his throat. "Technically, yes, I was in the room the whole time. For about 30 years actually."

"What?"

"I live in this lantern, you see. Or rather, my spirit is trapped in it."

"What?!"

"You released my spirit when you lit the candle," the man went on, gesturing at the lantern, as though to prove a point. That was when Martin noticed it, however, the way the light from the lantern passed through the fingers of the other man. He was translucent. 

A ghost.

Martin felt faint.

***

The other man did not faint, but Jon had to support him as he sat heavily on a cardboard box and cradled his head. This time, the man gently placed the lantern on the floor before he could risk dropping it again. It made Jon feel slightly bad for startling him. 

But Jon was trying to thank him for god's sake. He was trying to be polite. There really was no need for this Victorian era fainting business. And he had nearly dropped the damn lantern too! Jon had no idea what would happen if the thing broke, but he was pretty sure it couldn't be good news for him.

In hindsight, perhaps Jon should have exercised some tact with the man. It could be quite unpleasant business, accidentally releasing a spirit. In his defense, however, it is quite impossible to go about this business pleasantly. 

So, as soon as the other man had calmed down enough, Jon thought it'd be best to establish that he was friendly. "The name is Jonathan Sims," he said, sticking a hand towards the other man. "But you can call me Jon. Nice to meet you."

The man gave him a nervous but gentle smile. "I'm Martin Blackwood. I, uh… am a staff at this observatory. Nice to meet you too!" He received Jon's hand firmly.

As Martin's hand enclosed around his, however, Jon couldn't help the jolt that ran up his arm. He had not had contact with a human being in his 30 odd years of being trapped in the lantern. The warmth and solidness of the other man was… shocking to say the least. But not unwelcome. He had to stop himself from melting into the handshake, like a pathetic wax candle.

Martin must have noticed that reaction because his voice grew concerned. "Are you— are you alright?"

"Just, um, just not used to the physicality of everything," Jon half-lied. He patted his shirt anxiously. 

"Right," Martin said, clearly not quite knowing how to respond. He stood up from the cardboard box with a soft grunt. "I-I hope you don't mind but I do need to use your lantern for a bit. To get out."

"Oh, sure thing. As long as you don't mind me tagging along."

Martin smiled politely. "Of course! It's your lantern after all."

The two of them successfully left the room, and entered a corridor. Martin walked down the long corridor without much fuss while Jon tried to open and peer through as many doors as he could without falling too far behind. Each of the rooms looked so interesting. 

Finally, they reached the entrance. Martin cleared his throat and turned to Jon. "Well, uh, goodbye then? Where should I leave you? Or do you want to come with me…?"

Immediately, Jon replied, "I'd like to stay here. In one of those rooms. I, well, I'd like to take a look around."

Martin blinked. "W- Sure," he said, nodding. He passed the lantern over to Jon, but Jon's fingers phased right through it. 

"Seems like… I can't interact with the lantern specifically," Jon muttered. He pursed his lips. "You can just… leave me…" He frowned.

Martin hummed thoughtfully. Then, he went, "Ah, I know just the thing. Let me just…" He reached behind the front desk and retrieved a battery-powered torchlight. He clicked it on and smiled to himself as it lit up. "Alright! We'll drop you off in an interesting room then!"

***

When Martin next returned to the room, neither Jon nor the lantern was there. He asked Winnie, the janitor, if she had moved it or something, but she said she didn't see any lantern anywhere, though she did note that there were a couple of files strewn across the floor for some reason. Frowning, Martin went to the storage room to take a look and, just as he had suspected, the lantern had returned to the shelf. 

He debated internally if he should light it up again, but he recalled Jon's wide-eyed look the previous night, the way he looked as though he wanted to experience everything. He took out a lighter from his pocket and lit the candle (which strangely had not shrunk an inch since yesterday). 

As he closed the latch of the lantern, he had expected some sort of dramatic entrance. Or a magical-looking one where a wisp of smoke would trickle out and form the man from yesterday perhaps. Instead, all he got was a disgruntled noise behind him.

"I was in the middle of reading something and the flame went out!"

"Morning, Jon. I was wondering where you were," Martin greeted, turning. In the fluorescent light, it was now even more obvious that Jon was not human at all. The light passed through him and he had a bluish tinge to his entire being. 

"The flame went out and the whole lantern simply returned to its original state and position. Can you believe the audacity of the thing? Being bound to this object is unbelievably frustrating." Then, he looked up at Martin. "Will you move the lantern back into that room?" he said, running his hand through his wavy graying locks. "I was still reading about Sirius and I really didn't appreciate being interrupted like this."

"Ah," Martin mumbled. "But… more staff will be entering and it'd be strange to see a ghost hanging around, right?"

Jon's eyebrows twitched with annoyance before he crossed his arms. "You're right."

Martin frowned sympathetically. He looked like an upset puppy, sulking in its dog bed, after its newest toy was ripped out of its muzzle. He had to admit, he was a slight bit weak to puppies like that so he smiled reassuringly at Jon and said, "How about this? I'll move your lantern back before I leave from work."

Jon's eyes practically sparkled with exuberance. "You'd do that?"

***

It became a routine. Martin would enter the observatory early, chat with Jon in storage, go to work, wait till he observatory cleared out, before bringing Jon out. Sometimes, they'd go back to the room Jon was in the previous night before he was rudely yanked back into the lantern and sent back to storage. Sometimes, they'd go to somewhere new, and there was a unique joy in seeing Jon get excited exploring it. He'd usually stick around for an hour longer, chatting with the ghost, before heading home.

Conversations with Jon were pleasant. He was always excited to share whatever new discovery he had made recently, be it a constellation he read about, the theories of black holes or catching a glimpse of Saturn on the observatory's telescope. 

There was a point about 3 days into this arrangement that Jon stopped mid-way through one of his rambling and looked up. There was a reddish tinge to his ears as he apologised for talking too much. 

"I don't mind," Martin replied. "I've worked here as a file clerk for so long and I've never had anyone explain all this stuff to me actually."

"Never?" the ghost mumbled, frowning. "But you're interested?"

It wasn't that Martin had ever had an overt interest in the cosmos. There was a job application, and he just submitted his job application (altering it slightly to suit their needs). But he supposed he was infected by Jon's enthusiasm and curiosity. 

So for an hour or so every night, Martin would sit there, listening to Jon.

***

"Did something happen?" Jon asked as soon as he was released from the lamp.

Martin's eyes looked tired. "Hm? No, it's nothing…" 

At least lie better, Jon thought huffily. Martin didn't drop by for three days. Which was incredibly odd considering this was also the man Jon had tried and failed to convince that there was no need to come back on weekends. This made it the first time in 4 months that Jon hadn't seen Martin.

But if he didn't want to elaborate, Jon wouldn't press the issue either. Instead, he tried to play things according to their usual routine. "I'd like to stargaze tonight," he announced. So he was brought to the outdoors. It was a clear night, and up on the hill, away from the bustling city below, the stars were bright. 

Jon had picked up a telescope on his way out and he began to set it up on the grassy plains behind the observatory. Meanwhile, Martin sat with his back against a tree, simply watching, as he fiddled with the hook ring on the lantern. As usual, Jon filled the silence between them with his usual rambling. 

"I am not expecting anything much today to be honest. But if I had chosen a day that had a supermoon or something, I'd assume there would be more people around and trying to catch it. I think it'd be fun to look at the moon. They say it's the easiest one to start with. And it'd feel more… like a self-made experience to set up a telescope ourselves," Jon said as he tried to align the telescope. He turned around and saw Martin, hunched over himself. "Martin," Jon called.

The other man's head shot up and he plastered on a smile. "Do you need help with anything?"

"Martin, I–" Jon shoved the telescope's cloth bag into the box. "Do you… want to talk to me about it? Whatever's bothering you."

Martin glanced at the ground, and plucked some grass. "I… My mum died."

Jon's eyes widened. "Oh. I-I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," Martin interrupted. "Or… maybe it isn't supposed to be but I… Does it make me a bad person to be relieved that she has?" He looked up, perhaps searching for a reaction from Jon. Jon wasn't sure what he found on his face but whatever Martin saw made him continue, "My mum… she had been ill for a while now and I guess it didn't come as a surprise when the nurses called. Still, to feel… relieved about it. I must be pretty screwed up." Martin ran a hand through his curly reddish locks and looked up at the sky.

Frankly, Jon knew very little about any of this. Loss, family, grief. He'd spent all his existence as a spirit in a lantern by himself. He sat down beside Martin. 

"I took care of her for most of my life. More than half of it mothering my own mother. It… I don't resent her, I don't think. It's just tiring. I worked quite a lot of jobs trying to support her. Stopped schooling early to find a job." Martin pressed his face into his palms. "God, it's like I'm blaming her! It's not her fault she's ill. I'm such a horrible son."

"You did your best."

Martin hummed noncommittally.

Jon's eyes flicked up and down. Then, he took a deep breath and stretched his arms out. "Come here."

Quizzically, Martin frowned, but he slowly eased into arm length anyway. Jon shuffled closer and pulled the other man into a bear hug. 

Sighing into the embrace, Martin mumbled, "I kind of get why she hates me."

Jon frowned at that but said nothing. Instead, he tightened the embrace and rubbed Martin's back gently.

***

The next time they went stargazing, Martin was in a far better mood and he even helped with setting up of the telescope. They ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the moon and its millions of craters for a while before settling on their back and just looked at the stars above with their naked eyes. They draped a black cloth over the lantern and plunged themselves into relative peaceful darkness. The wind blew and the trees and grass rustled gently around them.

It was well past an hour when Jon cleared his throat nervously and asked, "You're not going home?"

Martin shook his head. Just as Jon thought that this was the end, he began, "Frankly, I don't understand about 30% of the things you say. But, I don't know… It feels nice being talked to."

"Does it? I thought it'd be quite annoying," Jon said jokingly.

"Not annoying at all!" Martin quickly said.

Jon blinked at the force with which he said this. 

Eyes fixed upon the sky, Martin pursed his lips. "You know, I never really had someone who would talk to me. Even with my mum, it's usually me telling her something and her just glaring at the corner of the room. If she even wants to see me when I visit. Don't really get along with my coworkers here. Most of them are busy with their science-y astronomy stuff to bother with the file clerk."

Jon looked up at Martin. He supposed he understood that sentiment. Loneliness, that is.

Turning around, Martin smiled. "Gosh, don't look at me like that. What I'm trying to say is I like being with you."

"Oh." Jon felt his face warmed slightly, which was odd. 

Everything was odd ever since Martin came around. A spirit shouldn't be warming up all over the place like a little heating pad. And they shouldn't be feeling their undead hearts fluttering like little moths around a lightbulb whenever they hear the storage door click open either. 

***

Martin had a boyfriend. 

Said boyfriend also kicked him out of the observatory when he suggested staying overnight. "I'm not allowing you to deprive yourself of sleep, Martin Blackwood! You've been sticking around here far too often!" he scolded as he pushed Martin through the door. 

As he lay on his bed, arms folded over his stomach, Martin regretted not arguing that he wouldn't be getting much sleep even if he went home tonight. He'd be too busy thinking about his boyfriend.

It would make Jon sputter and his cheeks darken, just like the moment when they both confirmed that, yes, they both had feelings for each other and, yes, maybe they could try this dating thing. After establishing their new relationship, they had sat together in the storage room, holding hands, and leaning against each other. Martin would occasionally catch Jon glimpsing up at him with awestruck eyes before smiling sweetly to himself.

Martin buried his face into his pillow. He was already missing Jon.

***

"There's a meteor shower tonight," Martin said. "Do you want to watch it outside?"

Jon looked up with a slight frown. "But… But there will be people, right? Watching it too. Isn't it better if we stay here?"

Martin shook his head. "No, there won't be anyone," he replied. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am."

The firmness of that reply unsettled Jon. "Wh- Okay… I'll just, um, grab the telescope."

Jon could sense something was coming, but he couldn't tell what. Martin's face was tense, stiff with an unspoken worry. Jon wanted to prod, but he could tell that whatever it was, Martin was planning to say it outside. Still, his stomach was doing flops as he set up the telescope and lay on the grass, waiting. However, the news was much worse than he could imagine.

"The observatory is closing down."

Jon dropped the telescope cover and dived down to catch it before it rolled out of sight. "Wh-What?"

"The town council thought it was a waste of money so they're closing it down. There aren't any plans of tearing down the building I think. It's quite a useless plot of land since it's so far away from everything else," Martin said. "But it's closing. In about a month."

Jon fidgeted with the cover, twisting it in his hands. His heart was beating like a rabbit's. "Then, what does that… what's it mean for…"

"I don't know. I-I'll try to figure something out. But I won't leave you alone. You're not going to be on your own again," Martin said firmly. He took Jon's hand in his and squeezed it. 

Jon squeezed back and then in front of Martin, who wrapped arms around him so that Jon's back was resting against his chest. It was warm, and Jon could feel the rapid thumping of Martin's heart against his back. 

Gently, Jon lifted Martin's hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. 

***

They tried many things. Putting multiple candles. Lighting the lantern as quickly as they could. Putting an electric bulb inside the lantern instead.

But Jon and his lantern were whisked back into the storage room each time the flame of the original candle snuffed out. 

That pretty much ruled out any possibility of Martin just bringing Jon home. 

Martin was looking ragged by the end of the month, but exhaustion did not beat him up as much as the look of frightened resignation upon Jon's face as the day of the observatory's closure inched towards them.

It was during the last week that Martin moved his bed into the storage room. "I… I'm not sure what else to do," he admitted.

Jon looked so guilty, eyebrows knitted and lips trembling with protest. He tried to tell Martin that it was okay. Martin shouldn't stay here. It was ridiculous. What about his house? What about electricity? What about water? He should take care of himself.

But Martin's made up his mind. It was too cruel to leave Jon alone again. And Martin understood how alone he had been better than anyone else. 

Miraculously, it wasn't so bad in the end. Sure, it was a slight pain in the ass, living in an abandoned observatory. There were many new arrangements they had to make, but it was not bad, all things considered. Winters were arguably the worst, but they could live.

The observatory recommended Martin to another job, and it was near the observatory, so that worked out well. It was slightly tiring, climbing up the hill everyday after work, but it was heartwarming when he could light up the lantern in the storage room, and Jon would trickle into existence, smiling fondly.

Even after many years, nobody really wanted to touch the old observatory. It was built on an inconvenient piece of land, and there was frankly little value in investing in it. Nobody bothered climbing up the hill for the abandoned building either.

So for many years, just like that, Martin and Jon had lived together in the old observatory. 

***

Humans died eventually. Jon knew that.

In Martin's older years, Jon had an inkling that it was ending. Every night might be the last. He had grown so used to the routines they had built by now that he sometimes forgets that it was odd how Martin grew grey and wrinkly, while he remained the same. 

Stuck in space and time, he supposed. 

Every night, as they curled around each other, Jon would cup a hand over Martin's face and trace the wrinkles on his forehead. Martin would huff and press his lips against Jon's forehead. "Not everyone can remain young like you, Jon," he teased.

"I only look young," Jon scoffed. "I'm older than you, alright?" Then, he'd press closer to Martin. 

Martin was less warm than he was in the past. As though the older one got, the more of life's warmth seemed to seep out of one's body.

The last day Jon's lantern was lit, Martin had been especially warm while they lay in bed together. Martin rubbed circles into Jon's cold palms and then kissed his neck, his jaw, and then his eyes. "Good night," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Good night," Jon whispered back as usual.

***

There was a lantern in the old abandoned observatory up the hill. It's easy to notice it, placed in the middle of the table in the old storage room. It was a glass lantern, framed with a brass that never seemed to lose its shine. Inside was a tall white candle, and, if you tried to light it, it would simply snuff out, even though there wasn’t a single draft in the room.

As though it fervently refused to be lit.

[leomitchellart]

So… about this latest Inktober controversy….

Time to begrudgingly chuck in my two penneth… (Remeber you can always press “J” to skip this post altogether)

As most of you may or may not know, Alphonso Dunn released a Youtube video wherein he publicly accused Jake Parker, and creator of the Inktober challenge, of plagiarising his book. Both of these men are public figures, artists specialising in pen & ink. In the video Dunn looks at the preview pages and flip through footage of Parker’s “Inktober All Year Round” and says they draw many similarities in the illustrations, language and layout that he used in his own book, “Pen & Ink Drawing”. Parker’s book was set to this month. Hense why Dunn only used footage and not a physical copy.

Since the video’s release, the art community has been very spilt down the middle. The book’s publisher has halted the launch of Parker’s book until the matter can be investigated. Even DeviantArt cancelled their own Inktober event thing (I’ll admit I don’t keep up with these things DA keeps doing). Parker has since released a statement in the matter. Now it’s up to the courts to decide what’s happening next. The video itself is an hour long, but it’s crucial to see it yourself. 

People are, understandably, outraged after seeing it. This seems like a shitty thing to rip-off Dunn - not to mention stupid. Since Dunn is the more popular pen & ink artist with more social media followers and name recognition. Many have called to boycott inktober and condemn Parker. I’ll admit, I was right alongside them at first, at least for feeling outraged. The similarities are there. But if YMS’s Kimba video has taught me anything, it’s that, even if an accusation of plagiarism may be obvious at a cursory glance, sometimes it’s important to take a more critical eye and do more research to learn that things aren’t as cut and dry as they first seem. If there’s a lesson I can take away from the internet as a whole, it’s that no one thinks about the consequences of mob mentality.

The most common defence of Parker is that because they’re both books about pen and ink drawing, then they’re inevitably going to be similar. I’ll admit that, when you pick-up so many art books, a lot of them will cover the same basic grounds of materials, tutorials, strokes, techniques etc. The parts about rendering textures on spheres and cubes isnt new. Look up “texture study” and you’ll see so many examples of artists rendering these kinds of things digitally. I’ve also noticed a common theme of people more formally educated in art pointing out how none of these are original. Everything down to the steps and illustrations are things they’ve learned from years ago. Since I'm a pen & ink artist, inspired by my love of comics, I have quite a few books about inking: Dunn’s included. I own both his books and still highly recommend them. I didn't even preorder Parker’s book. Ironically because I didn't think it could offer anything new that my other books hadn’t already.

While Ethan Becker took the time to cross-examine Dunn and Parker’s books with several others, there weren’t many of the ones I actually owned. So I looked to my shelves to see what I could find. Books like:

“The Art of Comic Book Inking” by Gary Martin & Steve Rude

“How Comics Work” by Dave Gibbons & Tim Pilcher

“The DC Comics guide to Inking Comics” by Klaus Janson

“Making Comics” by Scott McCloud

“Stan Lee’s How to Draw Comics”

I’m sure there’s plenty more examples out there. I was planning to go through all of these and take pictures. But ultimately that’s not the core point of these post. Plus it would’ve taken WAY too long and this post itself, is long enough.

Of course, none of the them are 100% close to Dunn’s in the way they’re displayed. Not as close as Parker’s could be considered. That being said, I know Dunn is trying to claim that he invented these techniques. The nucleus of the issue is how similar they are in terms of order and how these pages are displayed. Some I can chock-up to standard practice, while others seem more coincidental.

If there’s one thing I’m adamant about, it’s that I think that Dunn should’ve messaged Parker first before making the accusation public. Some try to dispute that this would've made it easier for Dunn to be “silenced”, whatever that means; but that sounds a bit conspiratorial to me. Ideally, you confront him about it in private, if he makes any threats or blows you off, get your lawyer on the phone and then make the video. Not only is it the more civil thing to do - but it’s the smarter thing to do. This is a serious legal matter, not just internet drama. While I’m sure Dunn had no intention of tearing Parker down or getting a mob onto him, that’s unfortunately what’s happened. A backlash both from the general artisan community and several companies. Wherein it was left to Parker himself to make this an official legal matter. If Parker’s found not guilty, then this could easily leave the gate open for him to sue Dunn for damages, loss of revenue, defamation of character or whatever else, should he see fit. As could the publishers, given how this affected their sales. Companies responded to the accusation of the video alone, before an investigation could be launched. Sure, it wouldn't be “acting the bigger man” but he’d be well within his right to do it. Dunn showed that Jake has mentioned him before, shown admiration for his career and referenced him in other posts. If it comes to light in court, that Dunn is even cited as an inspiration or source in the book itself, then it’s case closed. 

Then there’s the other possibility that Parker might not have done this on his own, but that he has a team behind the book. If that’s the case, the most I can accuse Parker of is being a hack. I worry Dunn has kneecapped himself for just how badly he’s handled this situation. Made worse by him not having an actual physical copy to assess and just had footage of preview pages to go on. So far, the circumstances don’t seem on his favour. 

I don’t think ill of Dunn. I do think he believes he’s been wronged and no malice in his intentions. I just think he’s made some critical errors on how to handled this. As for Parker himself, I couldn't give a donkey’s doo-dah about him. I’m sure you could accuse me of playing devil’s advocate earlier, but to me, he was the guy who released the annual prompt list. If it really does turn out that he’s a plagiarist and had malicious intent, then fuck ‘im. I never regarded him as an inspiration of mine or paid much attention to him outside of that. It was the community that made Inktober what it is. I’ve never met Parker. Maybe he’s a cool guy? Maybe he’s a bellend? I don’t know.

Granted this isn't the first time Parker has proved himself to be a controversial figure: - Last year people were upset about him trademarking (not copywriting, as many have erroneously claimed) the word “Inktober” and some artists were stopped from selling their related work or zines. Parker would issue a statement: claiming the takedowns were a mistake of “overzealous lawyers” and it’s just a matter of the logo being trademarked. People can sell their Inktober works and even mention they are Inktober-related. Just not use the official logo. On the one hand, from a business standpoint, I get it. It’s the bare minimum you need to do to protect your IP, especially when you have a store. BUT, like most people, I don’t like how, what’s intended as a community challenge, has slowly become more of a brand associated with one man. Hardly a surprise it left a bad taste in so many people’s mouths. But, since it doesn't actually effect anyone’s ability to take part in the challenge, outside of personal principle, I went ahead with it the previous year. 

 - The year before, when asked if one can do Inktober digitally, Parker said the following:

I know some are still bitter about that, but speaking as someone who inks traditionally and digitally, this came across as needless whinging and blowing things out of proportion. Claiming that Jake had derided digital artists and said they were invalid etc etc. Take it from me, challenging yourself to try out different methods to ink traditionally can greatly improve the work you do digitally. It’s like how learning traditional fundamentals of art can still be applied to digital. Plus he never said “No.” he just gave valid reasons about how it makes it a different experience. That said, if you’re someone who can’t afford any kind of inking equipment or pens and only have a selected application to draw on - then none of this applies to you. Just the aforementioned few who took it upon themselves to get angry over nothing. Recently I’ve heard from subscribers of his newsletter that he’s now embraced the idea of people doing inktober digitally, to the point of selling digital brushes for inktober. I’m sure some will call this “backsliding” or “money grubbing” because people aren’t allowed to change their minds or update their statements.

For weeks I’ve been torn on what to do, not being able to solidify one stance over another. One minute I thought #JusticeForAlphonsoDunn then I wonder “Wait maybe I should look again?” to “But wait, those are way too similar!” Having splinters in my arse from sitting on the fence for so long. The longer this went on, however, I began to realise that I can’t take one stance over another. This case is far too muddy and complicated. I don’t have enough sufficient knowledge or evidence. Nor do any of you. We literally only have Dunn’s video to go on. While it’s a good start, it’s not enough to be taken 100% as gospel when it’s the only thing to hand. 

As previously mentioned, a lot of artists have decided to not take part in Inktober at all, or follow different prompt lists. That’s completely fine. A lot of them are based around a specific theme: halloween, kinky stuff, bears, transformers, OCs, Disney or whatever. That has massive appeal. I just can’d do it myself. I prefer the focus on random words, rather than all centred on a single subject; allowing me to be creative with my ideas and execution. I actually did try to make a list of my own random words. Problem is, I worried that because I was choosing my own, I might be subconsciously bias towards certain prompts and not truly challenging myself. Even narrowing down my options was taking too long. In the end…. I’ve decided to just do the official prompts again this year.

For me, that’s what it ultimately came down to. TIME. It’s the middle of September. I can’t afford to wait for the court case to be settled. No other prominent artists I respect have released their own prompt lists. I know there’s been some shitty people who are condemning this choice. Attacking others, accusing them of supporting plagiarism, looking to block anyone who does the official prompts. Even trying to make this a racial issue. Just…. no. 

If someone doesn’t want to take part in Inktober, that’s fine. If someone wants to do the official prompts, that’s fine. If someone wants to do their own prompts, that’s fine.

Don’t go around aggressively making snap judgements or accusing people of taking a side. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable. This has been a shit year, let people enjoy something.

If you look at this situation and it makes you feel angry, and you don’t feel comfortable in taking part in a challenge because of it’s creator. I get that, I literally get that. It’s why I haven't done Mermay. And please don’t mention Pinktober, I’m aware of it, but given his insta video on the subject and the things he said, I quickly came to the conclusion that I can’t take this person seriously. I’m sure this might make me seem hypocritical, but how this differs, if only for me, is the sheer amount Inktober means to me. It’s more than a simple challenge. Inktober's the one thing I’ve been most excited about all year. As it was ruined for me in 2019, when I lost my home and I didn't get to complete every prompt. (Long story, I’m okay now). As we all know, 2020, has been an AWFUL year. We’ve got to take whatever joy we can. As I’ve looked longer at the official prompts, I found ideas I’m really excited for. 

Once I started to really dedicate myself to it, it became a massive event. I hype myself up as I prepare for the busy month. Buy in supplies, clean the house and workspace, cook and freeze meals in bulk to save time, printing off a sheet that allows me to jot down ideas as I plan ahead.  Then once it’s done, after so much work, it makes the reward all the sweeter: Ordering a takeaway, celebrating a great halloween night and still rocking those vibes throughout November. Feeling proud of myself for doing it and seeing myself improve my technique, discipline and earning a few lie-ins to make up for the sleep I lost working. I’m like a kid waiting for Christmas. That said, don’t think that there’s something wrong with you when you understandably can’t dedicate that amount time for a simple art challenge. If anything that’s plenty of reason to why you’re smarter than me. You have a life and don’t push yourself too much.

Now, I need to crack on with the preparations. If you want to boycott Jake Parker, just not buying any of his products should be enough. Doing the inktober challenge doesn't bring attention to him, as I doubt most people even know him as the creator, nor does it even line his pockets. I just hate how cancel culture can do such serious damage like this and then try and put pressure on others to act accordingly without even doing any research themselves. 

As long as you’re not harassing anybody. Just do what YOU want to do. That’s fine. 

[h3rmitsunited]

The Heart Line

Dirk learns palm reading...sort of... and Todd can totally deal with it... sort of. (Disclaimer: the author (me) knows nothing about palm reading so forgive the errors...it’s totally intentional...)

Todd couldn’t really remember when the joke started. Some case months ago, an offhand comment Amanda had picked up on when visiting for a few days that just stuck, and turned into Dirk pretending to get hunches off the lines of his palm.

It turned into, “Todd!” He rubs his fingers over his hand. “My hand lines say it’s over here!” and “I don’t think my dinner line thinks that Chinese is good for dinner tonight. It says pizza is a better idea,” and Amanda’s favorite, “the lines are saying Todd is being a grumpy party pooper right now.” And Amanda loved it, and she knew how much Dirk loved using it to mess with Todd, so she played it up every time she came around, which Todd… just… loved.

Which led to Dirk’s birthday, Amanda grinning as Dirk ripped the wrapping paper off the rectangular present, and breaking into a fit of laughter as he revealed it to the rest of the party. In bold black letters, Palm Reading For Dummies. Dirk gave Todd a pointed and amused look, which Todd responded to with a dramatic eye roll. He didn’t open the book immediately, but after a while, after they had finished opening the rest of his gifts and ate too much pizza, Amanda tossed the book into Dirk’s lap and held her hands out.

“Alright, Mr. Dirk Gently Palm Detective, let’s see what you got.” Dirk sputtered a moment before the curious glint sparkled in his eyes and he cracked open the pages. Amanda’s took a while to read as he tried to figure out the book, but Amanda sat quietly smiling as Dirk flipped through the pages and ran his fingers all over her hands. She ended up quite satisfied with his (mostly embellished) report on her future. Todd, on the other hand (pun intended), was suspicious that any of Dirk’s predictions were actually things that he learned to read from that book, particularly because he was pretty sure palm reading wasn’t specific enough to tell you that you’re going to adopt a hedgehog, or find a box of jeans under a bridge in three weeks. As soon as he finished reading Amanda’s palms, the rest of the Rowdy Three, apart from Martin, leapt up, racing towards Dirk and thrusting their hands out in front of him, and excitedly yelling questions about the free clothes they would fine. Dirk flinched back, an instinct from their more… vampiry days, despite not having been their meal for a while now, but then relaxed again, his soft smile returning.

“Okay, okay, wait your turns,” Dirk said with a chiding laugh. Todd watched as he took Vogel’s hands in his. His ears seemed to tune out Dirk’s words, his attention preferring to focus on the careful ministrations of Dirk’s slender fingers, the way his fingertips brushed gently over their skin, the delicate way he leaned over the book and flipped through the pages, his forehead wrinkling as he lost himself in his swirling thoughts. It was one of Todd’s favorite Dirk looks. Todd tried to ignore the pit in his chest, the desperate hunger that was spiking in his stomach at the sight of Dirk giving his touches away so freely. Dirk glanced over, catching Todd’s yearning stare. He smiled and the edges of his eyes crinkled and Todd lost his train of thought, blushing and smiling back. Bea (the rainbow monster from Wendimoor, who was sort of domesticated now), laid across the back of the couch directly behind Dirk, her head resting on the top of the cushions as she watched Dirk continued to talk over Cross’ hands, attempting to explain what the head line means. Todd laughed under his breath as Dirk’s predictions became simpler and simpler as he went through the rest of the Rowdy Three. He got to Bea who was happy just to have her “bibbit” hold her hands, and her palm reading was a very simple, “you’re going to get a cookie,” and he handed her a cookie off the tray on the coffee table, which she snatched away and hopped off the couch to rejoin the rest of the Rowdies on the floor.

“Alright, anyone else?” Dirk said looking up, straight over at Todd’s now empty seat. He frowned, noticing Todd through the doorway to the kitchen, washing up a couple dishes. Tina hopped up from the floor, slightly giggly and curled up on the couch next to Dirk.

“Me, me, me!” She said holding out her hands. “Where should I put my feet?” Dirk’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head.

“Um, it doesn’t matter, Tina. I just need your hands.” Tina nodded seriously.

“Alright, I’ll put them on the floor.” Dirk smiled, raising an eyebrow up, and shook his head again, taking Tina’s hand in his just as Todd walked back out of the kitchen. Dirk noticed he seemed distracted, his eyes pointedly not looking over at him, and wondered if he may have done something wrong. Dirk shook his head, fighting the instinct to blame himself for everything, and resolving to ask Todd about it later instead. He returned his focus to Tina, and on reading the lines on Tina’s hands. When he finished, Tina shoved Farah over, then Sherlock; Amanda convinced Martin (and if Dirk’s hands shook a little more than usual reading the intimidating Rowdy leader’s hands, nobody mentioned it; and even Mona popped up near the end of the party for her palm reading, though she was shaped as an orangutan, so Dirk isn’t really sure if they use the same book. She seemed happy with her reading in any case, and shifted into a small black cat before wandering out of sight. He finished her reading, and sighed, dropping his head back into the couch cushions.

“That’s it, right? I think I might be all hand readed out.” He flopped the paperback book onto the coffee table and yawned. Half the Rowdies were asleep curled together on the floor, Farah yawned from the other end of the couch, batting away Tina’s wandering hands from where she was pestering her on the floor, and Sherlock was fighting heavy eyelids from where he sat in the armchair. But someone was missing. Dirk looked around the room, peering through the doorway to the dark kitchen.

“Where’d Todd get off to?” Dirk asked, trying to sound casual. He didn’t really like when Todd went off by himself, he knew he was mostly okay, usually, but Todd’s stories about Amanda’s attacks had gotten him a bit paranoid about him drowning in the bathroom without Dirk noticing.

“Probably went to the bathroom,” Amanda said with a yawn from the pile of cuddled Rowdy bodies on the floor. She pushed herself up, smacking their shoulders, and waking up the dozing leather clad men. “Well, you’ll have to let us know if he has any weird stuff too, especially anything I can tease him about-“she winked- “We gotta get going, early morning tomorrow.” Dirk smiled and nodded, pulling Amanda into a hug.

“I’m glad you were able to make it.” Amanda waved a hand and punched his shoulder, smiling.

“Of course, dude. It’s your birthday. It needed to be celebrated.” She gave him a pointed look. “And listen, we love you. You ever need a break from my brother, you let me know. That road trip invite doesn’t expire.” Dirk smiled sincerely, pulling Amanda into another quick hug which turned into a dogpile of slightly smelly, leather clad Rowdy bodies surrounding him.

“You’re British, but you’re Drummer’s friend so we like you!” Cross shouted way too loud right in Dirk’s ear.

“It’s your birthday!” Vogel added from somewhere underneath them.

“Alright, let’s go boys.” Martin slapped Dirk across the back, breaking up the hugging and started walking to the door, the rest following after him. Todd walked out of the hallway from the bathroom as they reached the door. Amanda gave him a look before she rolled her eyes and pulled him into a hug.

“See you, loser.” Todd laughed, and pulled her tighter.

“Love you too. Be careful… or whatever.” Amanda broke apart from him and gave him a finger gun before following the Rowdies out the door.

“We’re gonna head out too. Long drive back to Bergsberg tomorrow.” Sherlock said, helping Tina up from the floor. Tina grappled Dirk into a tight hug…or tackle… and they both hugged him and told him another happy birthday before heading to the door too, giving Todd a pat on the back as they walked past.

“I’m going to walk them out. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow?” Farah pointed at Todd, who nodded reluctantly. “Good. Okay. Happy birthday, Dirk.” She pursed her lips and then gave Dirk an awkward side hug, nod, and pat on the shoulder. Dirk smiled. Todd shut the door behind her as she left, and the apartment was suddenly very quiet. Todd walked back over to the couch dropping down onto the cushions with a big, tired sigh. Dirk followed suit, dropping down, leaving just a few inches between their legs. Dirk glanced around the room.

“Did you see where Mona disappeared to?” Todd sighed and shrugged.

“I’m pretty sure I saw a black cat sneaking into your room again. I’d guess she’s hiding under your blanket again,” Todd said and raised his eyebrows. Dirk smiled and laughed under his breath.

“Thanks for the warning. Don’t need anymore surprised Mona cat scratches.” Todd huffed a laugh in response, but didn’t say anything. Dirk studied his face for a moment before reaching out and grabbing his hands. Todd jerked back slightly, but didn’t pull his hands out of his loose grip.

“Wha-“

“I never got to do yours. You kept disappearing all night.” Todd shrugged, watching as Dirk grabbed the book off the coffee table, one hand still wrapped around Todd’s palm.

“I wasn’t disappearing. I just needed the bathroom,” Todd knew he sounded less casual than he hoped, and he knew Dirk noticed, but he hoped that maybe Dirk wouldn’t-

“Is something going on? You’re acting weird.” Todd laughed. Mostly at the fact that Dirk could sometimes be so completely oblivious and yet at other times way too perceptive. Dirk frowned. “It wasn’t… I didn’t do any-“ Todd quickly shook his head.

“No. You didn’t do anything. I’m fine.” Dirk raised his eyebrows. “I promise, I’m fine. Just a little tired. Read my hands and it’ll tell you how fine I am.” Todd shook his head quickly. “I don’t mean like how fine I am as in like… attractive, just… like I am… okay. Mostly.” Dirk smiled and his eyebrows quirked upwards, amused.

“Okay, you weirdo, I don’t think that’s how this works, but I’ll see if there’s a line for that.” He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners again, and sighed. His fingers started to brush softly over Todd’s hands, running over the creases in his palms. Todd had to keep from gasping, and he wondered with fear if Dirk could feel the way his pulse had jumped in his veins when his fingers had started moving. Dirk’s smile faded into something… something else. Focused and intense. His thumbs caressed across the crease across from Todd’s thumb.

“This one is the lifeline. The book says it’s not great for beginners to talk about this one too much. Don’t want you thinking you’re going to die soon or something.” Dirk leaned forward and Todd could feel the heat of his breath wafting over his palm. Dirk’s index finger traced the line again sending tingling pulses through Todd’s nerves. He twitched and Dirk looked up at him in surprise and apology.

“Sorry, it’s a little ticklish,” Todd said, slightly breathless. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. Dirk just smiled and turned back to his hand.

“It looks pretty long to me, so I think you’re probably alright.” He moved his fingers slightly over to the crease next to the life line, skittering so lightly, like the feet of a butterfly, that Todd suspected he was doing it just to torture him.

“What’s that one?” Dirk ran his finger down the line, and Todd’s breath hitched in his throat.

“The fate line,” Dirk responded huskily, and turned his head towards Todd, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “It looks like it’s pretty deep, means that your life is currently greatly influenced by external circumstances.” Todd smiled and rolled his eyes.

“Hmm. Imagine that.” Dirk smiled and passed over to the next line, a smaller crease at the edge of his palm.

“This one is called the sun line. It’s supposed to indicate your public image, your legacy and fame.” Todd pulled his hand closer to his face, nearly dragging Dirk with it. He gasped in surprise and looked up at Todd.

“Oh, does it say the Mexican Funeral is getting back together? I knew we were going to make it big someday,” Todd said jokingly, trying to cut some of tension in the air. Dirk rolled his eyes and pulled Todd’s hand back to where it was, laughing and sending another wave of warm air over Todd’s hand. His fingers rubbed across Todd’s palm absently.

“I don’t know about that, but I think it’s a good one. You’ll probably be successful… in something.” Todd barked out a laugh.

“Wow! Thanks for the confidence.” Dirk sat back up and shook his head grinning.

“You wanted me to read your palms, I’m just saying what I see.” Todd’s forehead wrinkled and he cocked his head.

“Did I? I seem to remember you grabbing my hands without me asking.” Dirk raised an eyebrow and shrugged. He dramatically dropped Todd’s hand letting it fall to the couch cushion. Todd winced at the loss of Dirk’s fingers on his hand.

“Okay, fine.” He said and turned toward the television. “I don’t have to read it.” Dirk sat quietly, his eyes flicking over at Todd periodically until Todd sighed and rolled his eyes, holding his hand out again.

“Okay. Dirk, would you please finish reading my palm.” Dirk glanced over at him, hesitating before he smiled and nodded.

“Well, if you insist.” Todd rolled his eyes, but smiled softly.

“What’s the next line?” Dirk pressed over a longer line that crossed diagonally near the top of Todd’s palm. He followed the waves of the line, and then looked up at Todd.

“This one is called the head line. It’s supposed to show your intellect, and the pursuits that you learn about. Yours seems pretty long, which means you learn about a lot of different things-“

“Sure, I mean last week I had to become an expert in rat care, and the week before we were investigating corruption at the YMCA. I’d say I learn about a lot of things…” Todd raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes.

“AND,” he cut back in, emphasizing Todd’s interruption, “the depth mean how deeply you learn about things, and it looks… not that deep…” Dirk said and smiled up at Todd, who frowned and shrugged.

“Sure, well, I mean I have Google, I don’t need to be an expert in things.” Dirk shook his head mockingly, and patted Todd’s hand.

“No, of course you don’t,” he said in a condescending tone. Todd pulled at his hand, still caught in Dirk’s grip.

“Great, are we finished? Was that the last one?” Dirk held tighter.

“Not quite, there’s one more.” Dirk looked up at Todd, the mocking expression now replaced with that same intense look from before. “The heart line.” Todd felt his chest tighten, now worried about what his traitorous hands might be able to tell Dirk. If he could somehow read what he had been feeling. That’s stupid though because this is all fake nonsense… but he also thought Dirk was fake nonsense, so… He fought against his rapidly beating heart and watched as Dirk studied carefully over the lines on his palm. His eyebrows furrowed together creating little rippled wrinkles on his forehead. After what seemed like forever, Dirk sat up and sighed, looking conflicted and nervous. He nodded. Todd raised his eyebrows.

“And? What did it say?”

“Nothing?”

“It says nothing?” Todd held up his hand, staring at the mess of lines and wondering what Dirk saw that made him say that. Dirk pulled his hand down away from his face and shrugged.

“I don’t know. It’s all nonsense, you know? Maybe you’ll live happily ever after, maybe you won’t. I don’t know what it means.” Todd frowned, studying the strange look on Dirk’s face.

“I don’t understand. You read everyone else tonight, all those other lines on my hand… why…” He didn’t want to read into anything. Dirk did weird things for Dirk reasons, not because… “Why not this line?” Dirk frowned and shrugged. Todd could see a soft pink flush rising on his cheeks, and the tightness in his chest seemed to return again, but for a new reason. A more hopeful reason. Todd fought back a smile.

“It doesn’t matter.” Dirk started to stand up to leave the room, but Todd grabbed his hand. Dirk looked at him confused, and almost scared, but he sat back down.

“I think it’s because you’re just not as good as me at reading palms,” Todd smiled, enjoying the feeling of running his hands over Dirk’s palms, the feeling of Dirk’s hand’s twitching slightly under his delicate touches.

“What are you talking about?” Todd shushed him and smiled.

“My turn.” He ran over the first line on Dirk’s hand. “The life line. Easy, you’re going to have a long and happy life. Boom. Done. Next,” he passed across to the next line. “The fate line, you’re going to have good things happen to you even though it gets crazy sometimes. Boom, next. Whatever this line was, I don’t remember, don’t tell me, but it means, you’re amazing and do good things, boom. Next, the… uh…” Dirk pointed down at the book on the couch, and Todd quickly read the line upside down. “Head line, yes, I remembered that myself, thanks. This one says you’re very smart and capable about a lot of things.” Dirk was smiling now, his face much pinker than before, watching Todd raptly, wondering what was coming next. Todd paused, his breath catching, as his fingers crossed over the last line.

“Todd? What about… what about the last one? What about the heart line?” Dirk’s voice was nervous, and hesitant. His hand started to pull away at Todd’s silence. Todd squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath for just a second.

Todd dropped Dirk’s hand, quickly moving his hand to Dirk’s cheek and stroking over the soft blush that colored his face. Dirk’s surprised expression softened and the crinkles returned to the edges of his eyes, which Todd took as permission. They both leaned forward, synchronized with each other’s movements and their lips met in the center, as gentle and delicate as their fingers had been passing over each other palms. The softness gave way, replaced with the reverent exploration of each other’s lips, a hesitant brush of tongue, hands joining to touch skin and hair and, then they pulled apart, breathless and smiling. Dirk swallowed thickly, and Todd smoothed the mussed hair sticking up on top of his head.

“So, uh,” Dirk started still catching his breath. “What did it say?” Todd grinned leaning in again, only to stop just an inch away from Dirk’s lips.

“I can repeat myself, if you’d like?” Todd said, his words wafting over Dirk’s mouth. Dirk smiled.

“Oh, yes, please,” he said moving in the last inch. As they kissed, Todd slipped his hand into Dirk’s smiling into Dirk’s lips as his fingers started to move softly over Todd’s palm, tickling over his skin. He decided he didn’t mind the palm reading so much after all.

[bluejayblueskies]

ten to one

Words: 2.8k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Tim Stoker/Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Sasha James

Characters: Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Sasha James

Additional Tags: Fluff, Kissing, Alcohol, New Year’s Eve, tim is a sore loser, sasha has cats, martin hates chestnuts, jon just wishes they could drink something other than champagne

Summary:

“You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their pre-countdown bottles.

Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

----

The archival staff counts down to the new year with cupcakes, champagne, and cats.

Read on Ao3

Or read below:

10

.

That’s how many little cupcakes Tim’s eaten, by Jon’s count. When Tim grins at him, his sharp-toothed smile is stained black from the frosting.

 “You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their pre-countdown bottles.

 Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

 “I’ll have you know,” Tim says, sliding closer to Jon on the couch and snagging his glass out of his hand, “that I have a stomach of steel. It’s sick-free!”

 He takes a long sip of champagne as if to prove his point. His lips stain the rim of the glass black.

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. “That’s disgusting.”

 Tim looks at the glass, noticing the discolouration. “Huh.” Then, a wide grin splits his mouth nearly in two, and before Jon can pull back, Tim presses a quick kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough that Jon can taste the sugar on Tim’s mouth.

 It’s nice, and for a moment, Jon’s irritation melts a bit, softened by the champagne in his stomach and the feeling of Tim’s lips on his.

 Then, Tim pulls back too-quick and squints at Jon’s mouth. “Huh,” he repeats. “Looks like black food dye really does stain everything.”

 Jon looks at the glass, still in Tim’s hand, and then at Tim’s lips, tinged ever so slightly with black. His own still taste of sugar.

 “Tim!”

.

9

.

That’s how old Martin was the last time he spent New Year’s Eve with someone. It had been the first time his parents had let him stay up until midnight, and they’d given him a champagne flute of sparkling apple juice so that when the clock hit midnight he could toast the new year just like they did. He’d barely made it, his eyes fighting a losing battle against exhaustion as the new year inched closer and closer, but he’d done it.

 That had been a long time ago, though. After a while, Martin had taken to treating New Year’s Eve like any other day. No point in forcing himself to stay up late for something that was bound to be disappointing in the end.

 Now, though, Martin’s sat on the couch at Sasha’s house with Tim’s legs across his lap and Sasha tucked into his side, a large container of cheesy popcorn balanced between the three of them. Jon’s somewhere in the kitchen, having squirmed out from underneath Tim long enough to take the chestnuts out of the oven. From the little frustrated noises Martin can hear coming from the kitchen, Jon’s struggling to extract them from their shells.

 Martin’s really not a fan of chestnuts. But he’d rather die than tell Jon that right now.

 So when Jon finally returns to the living room, a steaming bowl of shucked chestnuts in his hand, Martin accepts one with a smile. And maybe it’s something about that night or the way that Jon’s smiling at him, but when he bites into the chestnut, he doesn’t hate it.

 He doesn’t hate it at all.

.

8

.

That’s what time Jon appears at Sasha’s front door, on time to the minute. He’s a good fifteen minutes ahead of Martin, who had sent Sasha a running late! text with a string of apologetic emojis attached to it, and at least an hour ahead of Tim, who has being fashionably late down to a science. Jon seems nervous, shifting back and forth on Sasha’s threshold with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a large bag of raw chestnuts in the other.

 Sasha lets him in with a warm greeting and a smile (and, once she’s taken the bottle out of his hands so he won’t drop it, a quick kiss on his cheek). He sets the chestnuts on the counter, his eyes going to her living room couch, then the kitchen, before finding her again.

 “Am I too early?” he says, eyes wide and unsure, and Sasha wonders briefly how he’d ever managed to convince them that he was stuffy and closed-off. Particularly when he’s standing in her living room, clutching a bag of chestnuts in his arms like a lifeline.

 “Nope,” Sasha says, extracting the chestnuts from his arms with a smile. “You’re right on time.”

.

7

.

That’s how many times Sasha’s caught Tim trying to open the bottle of special midnight champagne, tucked away on the far corner of the counter and labelled with a bright blue sticky note to avoid being accidentally opened. She supposes if she’d wanted to Tim-proof it, she probably should have put it in a locked safe. Though he knows her so well, he’d probably be able to guess the passcode.

 It should be irritating. Somehow, it’s hopelessly endearing instead.

 “Tim,” Sasha says, snatching the champagne out of his hands as his thumbnail begins to pick at the gold foil covering the cork. There’s a rip in it when she extracts it from him, revealing a small strip of cork underneath. “That’s for later!” Her eyes slide to the left, where there’s a half-full, open bottle of champagne sitting on the counter next to them. “What’s wrong with that champagne?”

 Tim gives her the saddest set of puppy dog eyes he has in his arsenal. “Sasha, I have been waiting months to drink that champagne. Months! I don’t want to wait until later!”

 A weaker woman would have folded under the impressive weight of Timothy Stoker’s big brown eyes and pouting lips. Sasha just grabs the open bottle of champagne and presses it into Tim’s hands with a smile and a quick kiss on those same lips. “Later,” she repeats, before taking the bottle to hide it somewhere Tim won’t be able to find it.

 She hopes.

.

6

.

That’s how many letters are in Martin’s name, Tim thinks idly as he runs his hands through Martin’s hair, scratching his nails lightly against Martin’s scalp. Somehow, in the rearranging of the four of them on Sasha’s obscenely long couch, Tim had ended up with Martin’s head on his lap, and he certainly isn’t going to complain.

 Sasha and Jon are bickering about some small detail in the movie they’ve put on, Tim thinks, like they always do—is it pronounced this way or that way, would a wide shot or a close-up be better here, would that specific piece of clothing have been period-typical at the time (yes, if it were dyed with indigo flowers, Jon had said primly, which had then been followed by a hey as Sasha’s elbow connected with his side)—and so he’s got Martin all to himself. Which is such a lovely place to be, he thinks as he continues to massage Martin’s scalp with his fingers.

 “Tim,” Martin says, his voice pinched slightly in that way it always gets when he’s receiving affection—like he’s always surprised by it, half-expecting it to be taken away without warning. “I have to tell you something.”

 Tim hums, a soothing noise, and says, “Okay, but I should warn you—I’m currently seeing someone. Several someones, actually. In fact, I believe it would technically be three—”

 “Okay, okay,” Martin says, one hand coming up to swat at Tim’s. His mouth is curled into a small, amused smile. “No need to be so…” He waves a hand in the air vaguely.

 “Handsome?” Tim suggests with a sharp grin.

 “Cheeky.”

 Tim puts on a comically large expression of shock. “No. Me? Couldn’t be.”

 Martin laughs, a small and breathy thing, and Tim loves him for it. His expression slips into something warmer and real, and he resumes running his hands through Martin’s hair. “Fine, fine, I’m listening. Go ahead, Martin.”

 “Thank you.” Martin closes his eyes, hums gently, and says, without opening his eyes, “You have frosting on your nose.”

.

5

.

That’s how many fingers are on Jon’s left hand as it finds Martin’s on the couch, those same fingers threading through Martin’s with an ease that could be practised had it not been just a few months since working together had turned into getting lunch together had turned into pining had turned into… everything else. Martin had spent a lot of time looking at Jon’s hands, before; the way that his knuckles are wider than the rest of the finger, or the way that he drums his fingers on his desk when he’s bored, or the way that his hands look wrapped around a mug of tea, black and over-steeped just like Jon likes it.

 They’d looked soft, Martin had thought.

 He’d been right.

 The kiss Martin places over the top of Jon’s knuckles is quick and impulsive, his lips still wearing the smile from something Tim had said and his other hand clasped with Sasha’s (her grip is impressively tight, like she’s afraid she’s going to drop him). The soft, surprised smile that Jon gives him is worth the entire world.

.

4

.

That’s how many cards Tim has to draw when Martin plays the Draw 4 Uno card, giving him an apologetic smile that does nothing to alleviate the fact that Tim had one card left and was about to win, goddammit!

 “Martin,” Tim says as he draws painstaking card after painstaking card. “Dearest Martin.” He draws another card. “Lovely, kind Martin.” He draws the final card and gives Martin his best solemn expression. “This is how you ruin relationships, Martin. This, right here.”

 Martin’s face is flushed pink, but his voice is casual when he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tim. I’m just playing the game.”

 Tim points at Martin, looking back and forth between Jon and Sasha for support. “Do you hear that? Nothing but disrespect. Treachery. A fatal blow!”

 Sasha looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Jon just looks bemused. “I mean, he is just playing the game,” Jon says with a small shrug. “And I believe he’s winning.”

 Tim looks over at the single card Martin’s holding, and before his brain can process the situation fast enough to call Martin out for not declaring it, Martin says quickly, “Uno!”

 “Jon!” Tim says, kind of wishing it hadn’t come out so whiny but feeling altogether too slighted to do anything about it.

 “My turn,” Jon says, and plays a reverse card.

 “Oh, I hate you all.”

.

3

.

That’s how many glasses of champagne Martin has had, which is a lot for him since he doesn’t really make a habit of drinking, especially wine, which tends to give him a headache even if he drinks white. But Jon had assured him that champagne is essentially tannin-free, having minimal skin and oak contact, so the only thing Martin had to worry about was his own terrible alcohol tolerance.

 Well, Jon hadn’t said that last part. That was just Martin.

 Three glasses, it seems, is enough to activate Martin’s least-favourite part about drinking—the complete inability of his brain to keep every single thing that comes across his mind from spilling out into the open. He’s already told Sasha that he accidentally stole the cardigan she keeps in her desk at work and, by the time he realized a week later, was too embarrassed to give it back. (“So that’s where that went!” Sasha had said with an accusatory tone.) He interrupted Tim mid-sentence to tell him, quite abruptly, that whenever Tim wore that black-and-white patterned shirt to work—which was just a bit smaller on him than the others and which he usually wore with the top two buttons unbuttoned—he could never stop staring at it. (“Really?” Tim had said with a smirk. “I suppose I’ll have to wear it more often then.”)

 And now, when Jon shoots Tim a very impressive glare and says, in his best professional voice, “I don’t think that’s quite work-appropriate, Tim,” Martin isn’t able to keep himself from blurting out that he finds Jon’s “archivist” voice really, really hot.

 The silence that blankets the room at that is deafening. Tim looks delighted; Sasha looks amused. And the flush that spreads over Jon’s face is really quite impressive, visible even in the low light of Sasha’s living room.

 Martin really shouldn’t have had that third glass of champagne.

.

2

.

That’s how many cats Sasha has, until now shut away in her bedroom to avoid being overwhelmed by the loud noise or being stepped on. At Tim’s insistence (and Jon’s not-so-subtle glances toward her closed door), Sasha finally relents, but not before pointing a stern finger at Tim and telling him to behave.

 (“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Tim says innocently, like he doesn’t always end up getting himself bitten or scratched.)

 Now, one cat—an orange-and-white shorthair named Darwin—is curled up in front of the television, currently being assaulted by Tim and Martin as they spoil him with pets and treats and the little feather on a string that he likes. The other—a midnight-black longhair named Emily with wide yellow eyes—is sprawled across Jon’s lap, her purring loud enough that Sasha can hear it from the kitchen where she’s subtly retrieving the bottle of midnight champagne from its hiding place. Sasha’s pretty sure she’s never seen Jon look at anything like that—with eyes full of love and wonder and the corners of his mouth pulled up into what looks like an involuntary smile.

 Sasha’s suddenly so very in love with him—with all of them—that she can barely breathe. It’s not an emotion she’s very comfortable with—she’s never gotten crushes easily, and the ones she’s had tended to ruin year-long friendships when they sprung up almost overnight, when her brain finally decided that it wanted more. Jon, she’s known for ages, their desks in research being directly across from one another and her persistence knowing no bounds. Martin longer still, having met him when he worked in the library and she worked in artifact storage. Tim is the most recent, technically, but god, it feels like she’s known him her whole life.

 There’s a small shriek from the living room, and when Sasha looks back, she sees Tim with his hand buried in the fur of Darwin’s stomach, Darwin’s teeth nipping at the flesh of Tim’s thumb. “Ow ow ow, sharp,” Tim says, but he’s laughing, and he continues to rub at Darwin’s belly with a smile on his face.

 Really, Sasha thinks as she turns back to the kitchen with a smile of her own, there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

.

1

.

That’s how many minutes there are until midnight. The glass of champagne in Jon’s hand looks exactly the same as all the others, but Sasha had insisted that it was better, Jon, it’ll taste heavenly, I promise, so he holds it and watches the numbers on the television screen begin to count down.

 It strikes Jon, as the seconds pass and midnight draws closer, that he’s never really felt any need to celebrate the new year. The two days—New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day—were technically indistinguishable from one other, delineated only by the human decision to make them so, and therefore what was the point really of staying up so late just to drink bad wine and stare at a clock? He’d gone to a New Year’s Eve party once with Georgie in uni, and it had been fine, but once they broke up he really didn’t see any reason to attend another. He disliked everything about New Year’s celebrations—the bad champagne, the resolutions nobody kept, the way he always wrote the date wrong for a few weeks afterwards.

 He doesn’t dislike this, though, he realizes, sitting with Tim pressed up against one side and Martin against the other and Sasha on the end of the couch next to Tim, all of them watching the countdown with rapt attention. Maybe the champagne is terrible and the resolutions are silly and having to constantly erase the last number of the year will be frustrating, but this—being together, celebrating together—really isn’t so bad at all.

 The countdown reaches ten, and Tim begins to vocalize the numbers along with it as they flash across the screen, altogether too loudly for this time of night. Sasha and Martin join in at eight, and Jon finally makes up his mind as the counter hits one, his lips shaping the word along with the rest of them.

 Glasses clink and champagne is drunk (not heavenly, Jon thinks, but more palatable than the rest) and kisses are shared as Happy New Year! flashes across the television screen. And, Jon thinks, it’s really quite lovely after all. To bring in the new year with the people you love.

.

0.

That’s how many of them wake up the next morning without mouths full of cotton and pounding headaches, the several empty bottles of champagne making themselves known.

 “Ughhhhh,” Tim groans eloquently, and falls back asleep.

[whumpiary]

Darktimeline!AU continues. As ever, written in collaboration with the incredible @untilthepainstarts.

content warnings: referenced murder, referenced noncon touch, alcohol, mild violence, briefly referenced victim blaming

-

It took a lot for Cassius Bergen to feel unsettled. Usually he was fazed by so very little, an I’m-rubber-you’re-glue kind of guy, attitude loose and languid in a way that made it adaptable to any incoming occurrence, good or bad. There wasn’t any use in the feeling of being perturbed to a man who had already laughed outright in the face of the perverse, from twisted colleagues to the character that had raised him. 

But when Viklund-Reid turned up on the doorstep of the estate this evening, bloodied and half-wild, Cassius may have felt the slightest twinge of it. No small amount of satisfaction as well of course, at seeing the gaping cracks in the man’s usually impenetrable self control—he had been wondering just how much pressure that nice guy facade could withstand before it popped, and mild-mannered house mouse Lev fell away to reveal Lev Alexander Viklund-Reid, criminal mastermind.

As it turns out, all it took was a single loose end.

"I think I killed Jacob St. Clair."

Standing in the doorway to the sitting room in his nightrobe and slippers, Cassius’ mouth drops open. He shuts it just as fast, but it doesn’t seem like Lev had noticed at all. If anything, the man seemed wrapped up in himself, eyes staring into middle distance, hands rubbing up along the outsides of his arms.

"Wait, you think you did, or you did did? Because—”

"I did," Lev restates. "He's definitely dead. And if he wasn't then… he is now."

It’s then that Cassius’ eye picks up the things he didn’t before. It's a warm November night outside and Lev isn't wearing his usual jacket, but rather a comparatively thin dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. It's torn a few inches in at the collar, the top buttons popped off  to reveal the delicate golden necklace he always wears underneath. A trail—a spray—of blood sits across his face, from his cheek to the inside corner of his eye. And on his knuckles. And in his hair, in tiny little spots.

Cassius realises that he’s grinning. It feels sharp in his mouth. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.” Lev’s hand reaches up to play with the gold chain. His eyes remain unfocused, staring somewhere between Cassius’ chaise and his china cabinet.

“Jesus Christ. So I guess we’re not going with ‘take him down quietly’?”

“Apparently not.”

Blowing air out through his cheeks, Cassius shakes his head. Leans in the doorway, He’s not that mad, not really. 

Though Lev could have asked if he wanted a piece first, selfish bastard. A bit rich considering it all. If Cassius had known he was going to up and off the guy—

“Just say it,” Lev says, eyes flicking up to meet his in a tired sort of challenge. “We both know you’re going to.”

Cassius smirks and crosses his arms, “Let’s not rush it, Bergen. There’s no satisfaction in a quick kill, Bergen. Let’s savour the take down, rot him from the inside out…”

Lev’s eyes flick away from him, dark and blazing, as though he hadn’t just asked to be served what he was given. As if he didn’t deserve a little mocking for his hypocrisy. 

“I know.”

Cassius shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, and really what is there to be all that bothered about? If St Clair was dead, he was dead. Not much they could do to wind back time now. 

“So what happened, then?”

Lev eyes flick up and then away again, find the same middle distance he’s been staring into all night. His hand comes up, knuckles rubbing against the bare of his neck, just above the necklace. He could just be rubbing at the dried blood there. Cassius would bet half his house that he isn’t.

“What happened, Viklund-Reid?” he says again, a tiny tug back to earth. “Come on. You stole my kill, I deserve the story at least.”

“He called my guy yesterday, begging me for help with James and whatever takeover that little fuck is itching to pull the trigger on now, asking for a meeting. At first I thought about just telling him I had no wish to be caught up in that, shut it down, but… I figured it could be a chance at information. And frankly it was weird that he reached out to me directly, and at the moment James is being a right prick with my deals up north. So I went.”

Cassius nods along like the story is new to him, all while a sense of déjà-vu creeps slowly in. “But he didn’t want to talk about that at all?”

Smiling self-deprecatingly, Lev shakes his head. “He wanted to talk about me. Said I had done really well so far, better than he’d expected, but it was time to face the facts: that I’d never be what Martin was, that I’m not designed for this kind of life… whatever, you get the idea. But then when I made to leave, he stopped me. Physically. And I just—you don’t just do that, but he did—warned him too, said if he kept going like that, he’d have known if he’d just listened to me, I wouldn’t have had to, to, to—he just kept pushing, and pushing and then—” 

The disjointed stream of a sentence ends in a laugh, tightly wound. Lev’s shoulders have drawn in, his jaw clenched, and he’s speaking at the wall as if it had been the one who’d wronged him, his initial audience all but forgotten in the room.

Cassius raises an eyebrow. He hasn’t seen him angry like this. Anxious like this. “Viklund-Reid?”

“—Wonder why no one likes you, fucker, sticking your nose into other people’s business, putting your hands where they don’t belong—”

“Viklund-Reid.”

“—Put down that fucking ego for twelve seconds—”

“Lev.”

“What.”

When he’s sure he finally has Lev’s attention, Cassius moves his eyes down to the knife that had appeared in his business partner’s hand and back up again, pointedly. It’s enough to make the man pause and take stock of what had seemingly been an unconscious fiddling, smoothly flicking it open and shut in rapid repetition. 

It’s not the knife that bothers Cassius particularly. Lord knows he’s seen it enough. It’s the way he was holding it, fiddling with it. The specific grip to the handle. Unconscious maybe, all of it. But careful. Practiced. With intent. The same way a cat settled back and locked its gaze before striking prey. The same way a sharpshooter fiddled with a gun.

Lev clears his throat, before slipping the knife into his pocket. “I, uh. I’m gonna use your bathroom.” He pushes up off the arm of the sofa and starts walking away, but not before Cassius can cut him off at the pass.

“No you’re not. Kitchen’s closer. Has booze,” Cassius adds, before heading off in that direction, not waiting to check if Lev is following, and definitely not moving anywhere within striking distance. As much as he didn’t need Lev falling apart in his sitting room, he also didn’t particularly need a stab wound either. 

Cassius steps into the kitchen and goes directly to the sink, turning on the water and letting it run before heading to the pantry and straight to the liquor.

“Is this a champagne or vodka sort of occasion?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Vodka,” comes the mumbled call from the sink. “Definitely fucking vodka.”

By the time he comes back, near-full bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, Lev is sitting on the kitchen bench, frowning at his knuckles, rubbing at them absently with a piece of blood-pink paper towel.

“You look rattled,” Cassius says mildly. 

“I am rattled.”

Cassius snorts a laugh and Lev looks up at him with something a little too tired to be a glare. “What?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just didn’t think I’d be spending my night talking through baby’s first murder.”

“Not my first,” Lev mutters with a scoff. “Jesus, of course not my first. Just first like this. First where I… lost control.”

Cassius frowns barely and looks Lev over, eyes narrowing in curiosity while the other man’s gaze is diverted. He’d always kind of thought… well he’d assumed how it must’ve gone down with Martin. But apparently he was going to have to ask for that story one day too.

He offers out the vodka, leaves the glasses on the bench behind him. “Drink.”

Lev takes a generous swig and returns the bottle to the bench, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Did he try that with you?”

Taking his time ripping a bit of paper towel from the roll, folding it into a square, using it to dab away the little streak of blood on Lev’s face, Cassius ponders his answer. Decides to let the other do the work. “Try what?”

Lev’s lips press together in a thin line. “If I’d known, I’d have taken care of it from the start. Or at least… wouldn’t have told you to wait.”

The image of St. Clair flashes up in front of Cassius' eyes—furious, yes, but from the other side of the table over lunch. Looking like he’d wanted to leap over it and strangle him, but hadn’t in the end. Just called him the usual—little Bergen whore—and left.

“No, he didn’t. Just ran his mouth.”

Lev’s face falls slightly, as if that wasn’t the answer he’d wanted. He leans backward, eyes narrowed, calculating.

“Sorry, did I just relieve you of some preconceptions?” Cassius says drily, feeling annoyance stir somewhere underneath the surface. He had no right. “Or did he need to have groped me a little for me to be able to be mad about it?”

“That’s not—”

“Because if I recall, I wanted the fucker gone months ago and you kept telling me it wasn’t smart. So now I’m just trying to figure out where the double standard fits into all of this, or whether I now get to present my own TED talk on self-control.”

“If he had kept his hands off of me—”

“You think I haven’t had people put their hands on me?” Cassius spits. Lev looks away. Cassius burns. “How is it that when I do this shit it’s stupid and impulsive and—”

“It is stupid and impulsive.”

“And when you do it, it’s what? Righteous?”

Bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Lev heaves a sigh. “Shut it, Bergen. Shut up.”

“Or what? Your cleaner’s going to be hitting up my place later too?”

Lev moves his hand away, looks like he’s about to bite back a response, before he pauses. Blinks, hand hovering in the air. Mouth open, then shut, and the tension fizzles slightly in the room as he flounders.

For the second time that night, Cassius feels a shark-like smile creep across his face as he puts two and two together. “Oh, you’re kidding. You’re kidding,” he says through bared teeth, tone dangerously low.

Dark eyes lock with his as Lev looks at him. “I fucked up. I know I fucked up.”

Cassius’ annoyance shifts gears right into anger, revving hot at the half-admission. “Say the fucking words, Lev,” he challenges, incredulous.

When the only response he gets from the man in front of him is a sheepish look and a phone pulled out of his pocket, Cassius scoffs, grabs the vodka on the bench. He’s furious, can only hold it in for long enough to take a swig straight from the bottle, and for Lev to start dialing.

“So. Just so I’ve got all of this perfectly fucking clear. You murder a guy, right, guy you told me specifically not to. Then you get in your car. Drive forty minutes here. Come into my house—”

“I know, alright?”

“—And you haven’t called your fucking cleaner yet?”

“Don’t yell at me Bergen,” Lev warns, frowning.

Laughing, Cassius gestures at him with the bottle—how dare he? Keeps his voice at the same level, because fuck this. “I’ll talk to you how I damn well please. You are in my house. You are putting my arse on the line here.”

“I’m getting it sorted,” he says with a pointed glare, phone to ear. 

Cassius laughs again, eyes wide and furious. “Cutting it kind of close, don’t you think?”

Lev swears under breath as the phone clearly hits voicemail, starts to redial. 

“Perfect,” Cassius scoffs, taking another swig. “Fucking perfect.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You have the fucking murder weapon sitting on my bench, Lev,” he says, swinging his arms wide. “Are you trying to get this pinned on me?”

“I said, I’ll handle it.”

Cassius doesn’t let up. “Is this what you get off on is it? Getting friends in high places dragged down to low ones?”

“Of course not.” Lev spits, real fire in his eyes.

“Well fuck knows you don’t seem to be getting off on anything else.”

Lev’s feet hit the floor as he surges forward, and the next thing Cassius knows are two hands curled in his shirt and his back hitting the wall, vodka splashing up out of the glass neck on impact. He opens his mouth to command Lev away, but hesitates on the thought of meeting the business end of that knife—he’s already right on him, and could likely pull and engage it in a split-second, before he could even name him and finish the words. 

Cassius searches the eyes of the man pinning him to the wall and for the first time since their meeting, Cassius is certain Lev Viklund-Reid could kill him.

So when Lev rushes forward all at once, Cassius can’t help the gasp that leaves him. He’d almost be embarrassed by the shocked sound of it if the noise wasn’t stolen from his lips in half a second by Lev’s own.

Lev kisses him hard. Hungry and desperate. Like he’s trying to tell him something words aren’t enough for. Cassius feels like he’s stuck a beat behind just trying to decipher it. And then just as he starts to melt forward into it, just as he brings his hands up to touch, Lev’s gone again, the weight of his body disappearing as completely as if he’d turned to smoke while Cassius’ eyes were closed.

“What-” Cassius blinks his eyes open, hand almost reaching for a man who isn’t there anymore.

Lev’s standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and halfway horrified. “Shit, I’m so sorry. You- I’m- I’m an idiot. ”

“No, it’s-” Cassius brings his hand up and back to his lips, silences himself, stops the words that want to come out. The kiss still feels trapped there, just beneath his fingertips. “It’s fine.”

“Shit,” Lev repeats. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Lev, just-” come back here. Do that again. “Calm down, a sec.”

“Jesus, I- I’m losing it,” Lev says, and alright well that stings just a little. Cassius keeps his place on the wall, tucks his hands behind his back and presses them flat against the plaster.

“I’m fucked.” And there’s that mad laugh again. A torn out, twisted thing that hardly suits him but still seems to fit. “I’ve fucked this.”

“Lev…”

“No, I’m-“ he makes a pained expression, like shame and apology all wrapped up in one scrunch of the nose. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have come here, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking-“

“Probably that you need an alibi,” Cassius says evenly, shrugging a shoulder as he pushes forward, risks a step or two closer. “I’m a good one. And the staff all love you. They’d vouch for you even if I don’t threaten them.”

He doesn’t get too close—who’d approach a wild animal with its hackles still raised? But still makes himself available. Approachable. He could be the lantern in the distance if the man needed it, but he knew it wasn’t wise to press, even after Lev had initiated. Maybe especially so.

This time when Lev crashes forward, head landing heavy against Cassius’ chest, Cassius manages to catch his gasp before it betrays him.  The aftershock runs through him like a thrill and settles alongside his heart, pounding like a bass drum right beneath where Lev’s head is pressed. He wonders if Lev can hear it. If he does, he doesn’t mention. Cassius, in turn, doesn’t mention the way Lev is shaking.

"St. Clair was right. I'm too… too…"

Unbidden, Cassius brings his hand up, resting it gingerly on the back of Lev’s head, bottle of vodka still hanging from the fingers of his other hand. “Shut your mouth.”

It falls quiet around them. Between them. The echo of the sink dripping, the sound of the clock from the hall, Lev’s breathing as he steadies himself. That’s all. Cassius keeps expecting Viklund-Reid to shove him off. For the feeling of a blade pressed to his gut. It never comes.

It feels strange, dangerous even, holding a man who barely an hour before had killed another for daring to do less. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t feel good as well. And that’s wrong, maybe, after the night that Lev’s had. To enjoy holding him like this. To feel soothed by it.

Cassius closes his eyes ever so briefly. Maybe he’s the one who’s fucked. Oh well.

"Look,” Lev says, after a minute or two. “I know we're probably even now, but just in case... if you tell anyone about this, I'll gut you. And all that."

Cassius blinks and laughs, feeling the sound reverberate along his own ribcage and out through Lev’s back. “Sure. As long as you call your cleaner up after.”

And he has no idea where the fuck the impulse comes from, even less so why he listens to it, but he turns his head, presses a kiss to Lev’s hair. 

Both men tense. Breath caught. Moment frozen.

Lev pulls back to look at him, expression indecipherable, and Cassius opens his mouth to say something – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, please don’t stab me – he’s not sure what, and then Lev’s phone rings. Like a spell’s been broken, they both flinch away. 

“That’s my-”

“Yeah.”

The air feels electrically charged and all at once Cassius can’t figure out how to hold himself in the room, ends up pressed back against the wall where Lev had left him a few minutes earlier as Lev walks from the room, phone pressed to his ear.

“Winters. Sorry to bother you this late—yeah, it’s alright. Would you mind crunching some numbers for me?”

Cassius tips his head back against the wall and exhales through his teeth, blowing his cheeks out, fingers tapping against the plaster.

It took a lot to get him unsettled. And this wasn’t that, he wasn’t unsettled exactly but he was… something.

He closes his eyes, takes another swig and wipes his mouth clean with a rough hand. Shakes his head at nobody but himself. This is stupid. Three hundred and sixty degrees of stupid. Dangerous. That’s what it is.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

When exactly had he developed a crush on a mobster? On the untouchable, inimitable Lev Viklund-Reid?

He lets out a laugh, wild and bubbling, hopes that Lev can’t hear it from the other room.

Oh, Jesus. Alrighty then. So. He’s fucked.

[imalwaysintune]

Barbershop Au

This is purely for my own indulgence, as I thought of this idea and couldn’t get it out of my head. I woke up at 5:30 am this morning in a cold sweat and intensely wanted to write about these four funky little men in a barbershop group. No I don’t know why.

Also, I got my new laptop today (yay!) and this is the first thing I’m writing on it, so it’s basically officially cursed now. I also blame @ggracee for fueling this fire.

Enjoy! Stuff under cut!

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In the Archives:

Martin had been quietly working on his notes when he suddenly felt the air behind him grow colder. His stomach dropped and he turned his chair around, just as he saw the air shift and Peter fade into view. It was terrifying the first time he’d seen it, had seen the way the space shifted and how it looked like the universe was going to collapse into a black hole.

But it hadn’t, and Martin had gotten used to Peter’s comings and goings. Peter himself, on the other hand, was another story. He was cold and heartless, and he had ripped Martin from all his friends and would chastise him every time he even so much as look at another member of the archival staff.

Martin sighed as he leaned his head on his hand, and waited expectantly for Peter to start talking. It was just better this way.

“Hey, Martin. I see you’re busy here doing... things. Um, you know, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” Peter seemed almost nervous, to Martin’s surprise. He didn’t normally look Martin in the eye out of habit, but this seemed intentional. 

“As if I have a choice?” Martin sounds bitter, probably more bitter than he meant. He had just been having a rough day, rougher than usual. He wanted nothing more than to talk to Jon, but Peter made that virtually impossible.

“Oh come on Martin, I deserve more credit than that,” Peter looked at Martin directly then, and he looked nervous. It would’ve taken Martin aback if he cared enough. He just rolled his eyes and made a lazy gesture with his hand that roughly meant “go on”.

It wasn’t until that moment that he realized Peter’s hands were held behind his back, and he appeared to be holding something. When he brought his hands forward, they were holding something that looked like a piece of clothing. It was covered with red and white pinstripes, and Martin just stared at with mild surprise.

“So, I know we aren’t really friends. At least, you don’t consider me a friend. But there was no one else we could ask. We lost out last tenor to the Hunt and Elias doesn’t want to switch just to spite me now that I forced him to sing lead, so... you’re basically our only hope,” Peter was almost stumbling over his words, and in that moment he seemed more human to Martin than he had ever seen the man.

“Okay,” Martin said, remembering how much fun the show choir had been when he was in high school. That felt like so long ago now.

“Okay? Just.. okay? Like that? No fighting? You don’t even want me to beg?” The nerves that had fueled Peter just a second ago were replaced with bewilderment. 

“I mean, you can if you want. But, I have nothing better to do, and frankly, the prospect of seeing Elias in that ridiculous suit you’re holding is just too good to pass up,” Martin said as he sat upright in his chair. He grabbed the suit from Peter’s hands and left the room, going to one of the many bathrooms that were littered around the institute. 

He didn’t know what he expected of the suit, but he was pleasantly surprised when he felt the fabric grow and shrink to fit Martin’s form. He absentmindedly wondered what kinda freaky fear magic was used to make the suit fit so well as he examined himself in the mirror.

For how ridiculous he thought the fabric design had looked before, he quite liked how it flattered him. It made his ginger hair pop, and his body looked good. He’d never worn a suit that was properly tailored to him, so it was a nice change.

He walked out of the bathroom and back into the room where he knew Peter would be waiting. His eyes lit up as they landed on Martin, standing up from where he had sat down and walking over to the shorter man. 

He beamed like a proud dad as he pulled out two more items from seemingly nowhere. He held out an iconic boater hat in one hand, and a bright red and white cane that matched the pattern of the suit. 

Martin had the urge to laugh, something he hadn’t felt in awhile, so he let the laughter flow as he grabbed the items from Peter. It almost felt surreal, but it would seem that the being who took away all of Martin’s happiness would also be the one to provide it

Skip forward a few weeks to Elias’s office:

Martin stood outside of Elias’ office, debating whether or not he should follow through with his plan. However, as he figured Elias would already know he was there, he opened the door anyways.

Elias’ was staring up at him from the huge desk in the middle of the room, and Martin swallowed hard.

“Can I help you, Martin?” Elias drawled, looking up at Martin expectantly. 

Martin crossed the room towards Elias, holding a stack of papers that looked like they were dangerously close to spilling everywhere. When he got to the desk, he dropped all the papers on the desk and started rifling through them, looking for a specific paper.

When he finally found it, he picked it up and walked around the desk, coming to settle next to Elias. He placed the paper down and pointed to a specific area on the page.

“I was trying to practice my part of ‘Coney Island Baby’, but I can’t get this one phrase here on page 7. I was wondering if you would work with me on it so that I have something to compare my part against and maybe it can help me-” Martin was abruptly cut off by the dreaded feeling he got when Peter was about to show up.

Sure enough, the space in front of them started to shift and soon Peter was just... there. Martin mentally chastised himself for being so careless. Of course Peter wouldn’t want him talking to anyone outside the time he allowed, even if it was to get help.

“Now, Martin, you surely know why I’m here. I have to say I’m majorly disappointed in you,” Peter didn’t sound disappointed. He sounded like he always did. His inflection rarely changed but it didn’t stop the words from stinging. 

“Look, I’m sorry Peter, but I was just asking for Elias’ help on a part. If you don’t let me ask him for help when you’re not around, how am I supposed to get better?” Martin regretted challenging Peter as soon as the last word left his house.

Peter didn’t look angry. Far from it in fact. He looked like he’d been struck by genius. Martin’s stomach dropped when Peter finally revealed his brilliant idea.

“Here’s an idea. You can sit in the Lonely until all your sheet music is memorized! You need to learn to be part independent, Martin. You’re in the big leagues now.

Before he knew it, Martin felt the air around him grow thick as him and his papers were thrust into the dimension. Right before he lost complete contact though, he managed to thrust out “Can I at least have a pitch-pipe-” before disappearing into the Lonely.

It was Elias who broke the silence, sighing heavily. “You know, Peter, just because I offered you Martin to use for your secret little experiment doesn’t you can take him away from his work. He was doing important filing-” And suddenly with another ‘whoosh’ of Peter’s hand, Elias was destined to join Martin in the Lonely.

He could almost imagine the fit Elias was having, but he told himself that it was all for the best. This was the most productive they were going to be until Simon showed up.

Ah Simon Fairchild, the wild-child of the group. He was unpredictable, rarely showed up rehearsals and yet always seemed to know the sheet music intimately. It was as frustrating as it was liberating, to know that at least someone was serious about the group. 

Oh well. At least this fun little experiment will test if his boys are up to the test.

A non-disclosed theater:

A few weeks after the “Lonely” incident, Peter, Elias, and Martin all gathered at the theater Peter had rented out for their rehearsals. Martin thought it was a bit much, but Peter thought the huge auditorium was perfect. Martin couldn’t even fathom how much something like this cost.

Suddenly, Martin had the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. He looked over towards Peter, who was smiling giddily. 

To Elias’ left, a being popped into view. He was wearing a dark green suede suit, brown and tan saddle shoes, and a wide brimmed hat that outlined his face like a halo.

Martin had never seen this person before, but Peter was looking at the figure in elation, walking over to him and enveloping the figure in a hug. 

When Martin looked towards Elias for any sort of assistance, he sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Martin, this is Simon Fairchild. He’s our Baritone. Even though he rarely shows up to rehearsal, I have to admit, he’s a borderline musical prodigy,” Elias explained to Martin. 

Peter and Simon seemed to be in deep conversation, and Martin strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

“-but it seems entirely unfair that you would send them into the Lonely without me. I could’ve helped them! They could’ve been out in half the time. Plus, I’ve never actually been inside The Lonely so it truly would’ve been quite an enlightening experience-” At this, Martin couldn’t stand to listen to Simon again. Talkative, that one.

He turned towards Elias and opened the sheet music for the latest song Peter had assigned to them and got to work. If Simon and Peter wanted to goof off, that was on them. At least he and Elias would be productive.

“One, two, a one two three four-” Martin began, and him and Elias erupted into wonky two part harmony. It wasn’t the most beautiful thing, but it was the most alive Martin had felt in months. 

- THE END!

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This one is so cursed I’m sorry-

I just really wanted to write about these stupid cursed men if they joined force and made a barbershop group. I don’t have everything I wanted to write about in here, so maybe there will be a part 2 if it seems like y’all want it. Don’t be afraid to hit up my ask box and my ao3!

Words: 1708