#decided to detail jons eyes way more than usual cause with how close they are they ended up feeling really blank

[slightly-depressed-sloth]

This was meant to just be a quick piece as a break from my Robin redesigns but then I spent 4 hours just on Jon’s hair and decided to do a background so here we are

Version without the text under ID

COMMISSIONS OPEN

[ID: Drawing of Damian Wayne’s Robin and Jon Kent’s Superboy like a Snapchat photo, Jon is in the right foreground, smiling while holding a kebab and doing a piece sign. Damian is slightly behind him to his left, looking away with his arms crossed. There are stalls and city buildings behind them. The text reads ‘BRB about to give a Justice Leaguer a (mini) stroke’ and tags Batboy.]

[edie-baby]

Can we please have a smut with Lando where he’s never been that dominant before and decides to try it one evening

whiskey soaked cherries | lando norris smut

summary: Lando Norris decides one day that he'd like to try dominating his partner, and well, he's actually pretty good at it.

word count: 4541

warnings: swearing, smut; face sitting, choking, bound wrists, daddy + sir kink, hint of a breeding kink, aftercare

notes: i'm sorry this took so long, i kind of got carried away

There were always a few indicators when Lando Norris was thinking. It was a common occurrence, the man was an over-thinker till the end, yet it meant he never did anything without being sure. There were levels to his thinking moods however, and they usually gave away the true depth of his immersion in his brain.

Level one: glazed eyes, and slow reaction times. Often when you spoke to him during this time, it would take multiple seconds for him to even acknowledge that you had said something, the journey from his head to in front of you could take a while, but he was usually pretty easy to distract.

Level two: sitting completely still and not blinking. The first few times you saw him lost in thought like this, you were unnerved. He could stare at a spot on the floor for five minutes, unblinking, the only indicator of life being the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic breaths falling from his lips were reassuring in this state. You had noticed once that he was so lost in thought he didn’t breathe for multiple moments. Your head was against his chest, the subtle movements you had felt for many hours before that ceased, and after a few too many seconds, he gulped down a gasping breath. This level was usually reserved for racing thoughts, strategies and tracks all consuming within his chaotic brain.

Level three: mindlessly walking, parted lips, slow, laboured breaths. You had seen Lando like this only once, walking around his house for nearly an hour, never reacting to your voice, never stopping for longer than it took for him to pivot and turn back around at a dead-end hallway. The day after you saw him like this, he had asked you to move in with him.

Level four: laid still on the floor, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed, lights on. You had only heard of this Thinking Lando, Jon and Charlotte having caught him laid in offices or empty rooms on the floor, looking like a perfectly posed corpse. You questioned him about it, and he had never had a true answer for you, something about the rigidity of the floor was grounding whilst his closed eyes let him wander as far as he wished.

But level five, you weren’t entirely sure existed. So, when you arrived home after work one day to a completely dark house, curtains and blinds drawn with every source of light turned off or obscured, you were rightfully shit scared.

“Lando? Honey, I’m home!” You called, your voice wavering slightly as it bounced off the walls of the entryway, travelling through the house in eerie echoes.

“In the living room.” Lando replied, his voice oddly composed, and you began traversing though the house, avoiding walls and furniture from memory. You were tempted to use the flashlight on your phone to get an idea of what was going on, but figured you trusted your boyfriend enough.

“Hey baby, what’s with the lights?” Your voice was laced with confusion, eyes trying to find the silhouette of the man speaking from somewhere within the room, but you were completely lost.

“I’ve been thinking.” He simply replied, goosebumps erupting on your skin as his hot breath fanned on the back of your neck. You thought his voice had travelled from the other side of the living room, but there was right behind you. You tried leaning back, desperate for some contact in the makeshift sensory deprivation room you had found yourself in, but he was gone. You jumped when you felt his hand brush against your calf, his other hand tracing up the outside of your leg to your thigh. You sighed in relief, the barest of touches from him always made you feel alight with pleasure.

“You don’t usually think like this. What’s on your mind?” You asked, voice breathy as you felt the constantly moving palms on your legs, the skirt you had worn that day a barrier between where you really wanted him, and the rough calloused hands that left goosebumps in their wake. He didn’t dare move the hem of your skirt, choosing to roam over it with lazy strokes.

“I want to try something with you. But, I need your full consent, and we need ground rules.” Lando replied, the languid strokes turning to loving touches, the brief brush of his fingertips against a scar on your knee, the same fingers caressing a path down your calf to remove your shoes.

“You know I’d trust you to do anything. Anything you want to do, I consent to 100%.” Your voice was sure, strong and assured. You felt Lando’s fingers still for a bare moment, a long intake of air telling you Lando was revelling in the romantics of your words. He often did that when you spoke about your admiration for him, honey-sweet words warming his heart like nothing else.

“No, I need you to listen to this. I want your explicit consent.” Lando continued, his words firmer, causing anxiety to swirl in your stomach for a brief moment before you realised exactly who he was. It was Lando, your chaotic boyfriend who screamed instead of laughing. A man you had been hopelessly in love with for nearly three years, who treated you like a goddess, who worshipped you for your flaws as much as your perfections.

“Okay. So tell me.” You stated. There was no question, no anxiety, no confusion in your words. Because you knew this man like the back of your hand, and you knew he knew you just as well, if not better. His fingers, which had still been brushing against your skin like a whisper suddenly gripped into the skin of your thighs, a comforting presence as he prepared to let the words tumble from his lips.

“I want to be in charge. I want to have complete control over you. For you to submit to me. Be one hundred percent mine to do whatever I want to do. I want to tie you up, have you completely at my mercy. I want to pull orgasm after orgasm from you until you’re begging me to stop, that you can’t take it anymore. And then I’m going to give you one more, because I can, and because I get to decide what happens to you. I want to drive my cock into your pussy until tears of pleasure stain those gorgeous cheeks of yours. I want to spank you until you can no longer sit down. I want to wrap my hand around that little throat of yours until you see the stars I see in your eyes every day. I want to cover your body in marks, fingerprints, hickeys, bites, whatever I can to make sure everyone knows who the fuck you belong to. And after all that, I want to cum inside this pussy, because it’s mine and no one else’s.” Lando growled, his grip on your thighs wavering as he detailed his fantasy, one that you were all too happy to bring to life.

“Yes. I consent. To all of it. I’m yours Lando, and I trust you with every fibre of my being.” You spoke clearly, wanting him to hear just how willing you were to help him fulfill the dreams he had obviously been thinking of all day.

At your reassuring words, Lando surged forward, his eyes obviously more adjusted to the dark room than yours as he found your lips with ease, finally indulging you in your own desires of finally having his lips against yours after a day spent apart. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, an involuntary gasp leaving your mouth and allowing Lando’s tongue to move slowly against yours. His hands, still with a grip on your thighs, slid them apart, which allowed him to shuffle further forward on his knees.

His lips travelled to your neck, nipping, licking and sucking on the flesh that he knew would make you whimper. Your hands, previously resting on his muscled forearms, reached for the lamp next to you, your eyes desperate to see the hungry look you knew was plastered on his face. The warm light flickered on, bathing his tanned skin in rays of honey-gold that only served to make him look more like a God among men than he already seemed to you.

“Get up. Go to the bedroom. When I get there, I want you naked and spread on the bed for me. You’re at my mercy tonight, darling, so you best not disobey or there’ll be hell to pay.” Lando growled, the intrusion of the light having snapped the remaining thread that held the usually sweet, albeit passionate and hungry, man that you had been sleeping with for so long.

Your breath caught in your throat, the dominance Lando was showing shot heat and pleasure to your core in a way you had never experienced. You stood quickly, beginning a fast walk toward your shared bedroom. Charged nerves surged through your body when you heard Lando’s steps trailing behind you, your hands moving in a frenzy to rid the clothes covering the body Lando was about to devour. When you finally got into your room, you only had a black lace thong remaining, so you threw it across the room and dove onto the bed just in time for the shirtless Brit to appear in the doorway with an impressed look on his features.

“I’m surprised, and almost disappointed. I was sure I’d get to punish you tonight, but I guess I’ll have to leave that for another day. Look at you though, all laid out and ready for me like the needy little whore you are. I bet you can’t fucking wait to be wrapped around my cock, to be filled up with my cum and feel it drip down your thighs.” Lando’s words had you keening, your body almost curling in on itself as he spoke all the words, pressed all the buttons that you didn’t know you had. You already felt like you were dripping onto the sheets beneath your body, and from the way Lando’s eyes were transfixed on your pussy, you were sure he could confirm your hypothesis.

He started towards you, kicking himself off the door frame with a smirk that would make you jump his bones at any given moment. His gaze was predatory, planning all the different ways he could tear you apart and put you back together before you would be sobbing with pleasure, overstimulated to the point of pleasing pain. Lando stopped as his shins met the side of the bed, staring down at you like prey. You whimpered, this new dominant side of your boyfriend was ruining you, and you wished for it to never end.

“Please, Lando, touch me.” You whimpered, skin alight with anticipation and wanton lust, your hairs standing on end, waiting for the prickling feeling to dissipate with the touch of his skin against yours.

“Please Daddy. And I’ll decide when you get touched.” Lando growled, the title more of a command than a suggestion, and that alone had your body curling.

“I’m sorry Daddy.” The name tasted like whiskey soaked cherries on your tongue; all sweet and spicy, innocent and sensual, an invitation and an offering. A spark behind Lando’s eyes let you know exactly how much he liked the keening way you spoke, and in barely a moment, his body was covering yours.

Your legs already opened wide for him, allowing his hips to slot in right between your thighs, your wet core lining up with his denim covered cock, already straining against the material purely from words spoken and the way the light from the lamp in the corner made your pussy glisten with its juices. His hands beside your head caged you in, holding the weight of his torso and unbridled dominance from crushing you.

Your breath came out shaky, bottom lip quivering in anticipation of feeling his lips on yours, every muscle in your body working to keep you from launching upwards and taking exactly what you wanted. Lando granted those wishes, diving down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, the frustration he usually held back while fucking you finally manifesting itself as hot, fiery passion. He needed this release, and you were the perfect vessel to release into. Every nip of his teeth, stroke of his tongue and bare touch of his fingers against your naked skin, it was too much and not enough.

“I need you to tell me if you need me to stop, we need a safeword. Use it if I go too far, or if I hurt you, or if you just need a second. Because I don’t want to lose myself in you and not realise I’m doing something wrong.” Lando spoke, breathless from the head spinning kiss, and you almost cooed, there was really nothing Lando could do to you that would hurt you, and it was sweet that he still didn’t understand that fact, but you followed along for his peace of mind.

“Orange.” You replied, almost instantly. The colour was so deeply ingrained in your relationship that you felt it both fitting and comforting, and Lando agreed as he nodded along, repeating the word in his mind and tying alarm bells and stop signs to it.

“Good. Now sit on my face.”

“I’m sorry what?” You squeaked, the request having given you whiplash, and as you stared into Lando’s eyes, no hin of remorse or asking, you realised the man was dead fucking serious.

“Did I stutter?” Lando asked again, his eyes glaring at your face as you continued to try and process the last seventeen seconds, but when your body was flipped from lying comfortably against your mattress to straddling a muscled chest, you realised you’d have to be a lot quicker to keep up with Lando tonight.

“If I have to ask you one more time, you won’t like what happens.” Lando growled, the deep tones of his domineering voice filling the room and hanging heavily in the air. You looked down to his face, his chin barely five centimetres from your pussy, and decided it was now or fucking never. So you shuffled awkwardly up the bed, apparently too slow for Lando, because he hooked his arms around your thighs and dragged your body to exactly where he wanted it. Your dripping core suspended above him, his nose brushing your clit each time your thighs spasmed in your pleasure.

“Is this okay Daddy?” You whispered, your hands gripping the headboard in front of you like a lifeline. Lando’s entire body spasmed, his arms tensing around your thighs and pulling your wet cunt to his face just as a guttural moan tore from the depths of his chest, his arms shaking with the force of containing whatever beast had just been awoken inside of him.

Lando ate you out with a ferocity you had never expected a man to possess, his tongue lapped, tasted, prodded and fucked through your folds like a man starved. His nose brushed your clit every so often, jolting your hips and causing you to ride his face until a swift slap warmed your ass cheeks.

“Sorry Daddy.” You mumbled, embarrassment warming your cheeks as the pleasure built up much faster and harder than ever before. Lando slid one of his calloused digits into your cunt, his mouth moving to focus on your clit, sucking and licking at the bundle of nerves while you clenched around his fingers with a passion.

“You better not cum until I say you can.” Lando’s voice was muffled, but you understood exactly what he meant. Your whimper that followed made Lando chuckle, and you moaned as the vibrations and exhaled breath hit your core and made your entire body convulse, the pleasure was blinding, but your brain was fixated on not cumming until Lando allowed you to.

Your body was so hot with pleasure, your vision coated white to the point you didn’t know if your eyes were open or closed, and your perception of time had vanished long ago. Lando could have been eating you out for five minutes or five hours, you had no clue anymore, all you knew was that it felt so good, and it was Lando making you feel this way.

“You’re doing so good baby, fuck. If you keep making those sounds I might cum before you even touch me.” Lando’s voice brought you back to reality, as you had been so lost you didn’t realise you had been moaning, the sounds of pleasure verging on screams as you passed ‘about to cum’ and entered ‘about to pass out’.

“You make me feel so good Daddy. So fucking good, shit.” Your reply was garbled, moans and whimpers cutting off words. Lando hummed, his lips latching onto your clit and sucking exceptionally hard as his fingers curled just the right way, and you knew you were a goner.

“Cum now baby girl.” Lando mumbled, syllables lost to the flesh of your pussy, but you got the message. The relief that coated your body was like cold water on a hot summer day, drenching your screaming senses in a blanket of calm, your vision returning in flashes of colour, your ears ringing with high pitched screams, ones which you realised after a moment were your own sounds of pleasure. Lando continued his ministrations as you came down, prolonging your pleasure while you regained consciousness and became fully aware of what was happening around you.

Lando stopped, his eyes opening to see you already staring down at him in awe, and he helped you move from your position over his head to laying beside him on the bed, your skin already shining with a thin coat of sweat.

You looked over at your boyfriend, disbelief in your eyes as you stared at the wetness covering the bottom half of his face, and some of his neck. He looked smug as ever, a sliver of your young boyfriend shining through the dominant facade he had on tonight, but as soon as you started picking out the familiar pieces, his eyes turned cold again, the smirk being replaced with a tensed jaw. Your heart stopped for a moment, the one-eighty made your pussy flutter around nothing, and suddenly you were painfully aware of just how empty you felt.

“Can I touch you?” You asked, eyes wide and innocent, your bottom lip pouting as you looked up at Lando, hoping to run your hands across his chest, feeling the muscles ripple beneath the taut skin, to drag your nails across his thighs, dig your fingers into his skin as he fucks you.

“Do you want to try asking that again?” Lando replied, his tone almost patronising as he looked at you, practically vibrating with desperation to touch him. It filled him with unbelievable pride, to have you so wanting just to feel him, it stroked his ego more than winning any Grand Prix ever could.

“I’m sorry sir. Can I please touch you? I want to make you feel good too.” You whimpered, the new title falling from your lips naturally, and though he hadn’t answered you, or granted you permission to touch him, he pounced.

His lips collided with yours, sharing the taste of you in the kiss and you moaned at the sensation, your nails reaching up to claw at Lando’s back. His hands where everywhere, grabbing your tits with rough hands, flicking your nipples with calloused skin, gripping your hips with intent to bruise, desperate to leave the evidence of his claim on you. His lips traced the familiar path to your jaw, up to your ear where he sunk his teeth into the lobe, letting his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispered sweet nothings to you.

Except the sweet nothings tonight were anything but.

“Can’t wait to fill you up with my cum. Watch it drip out of you and then fuck it back into you with my fingers. Gonna make you a mummy, huh? Have you walking around the paddock with my baby in you. That way everyone knows you’re mine and that I was the one that fucked you so good.” The filthy words being fed right into your ear, along with the strong grip on your hips and the rolling of Lando’s hips pressing his bulge into your core was going to make you go feral.

“Fuck me, sir. Put your baby in me please. Wanna be a mummy for you.” You purred, the words rolling off your tongue in waves that sent shivers down Lando’s spine. He leant back, sat back on his haunches as he took in the sight of your body, still trembling slightly from the powerful orgasm. He slowly undid his belt, your eyes trained on the movements his hands made, biting your lip as you got one step closer to seeing his cock, a sight you could and would never tire of. With his belt gripped tightly in his hands, Lando made a decision he would never regret.

He scooped your hands up in one of his, the other holding the belt, and positioned your hands above your head, fingers brushing against the headboard. He looped the belt through the wrought iron, fastening the leather around your hands tight enough to keep them there, but not tight enough to do any damage to you. You tugged on the restraints lightly, pouting when you found there wasn’t enough give to touch Lando while he fucked you into the mattress.

Lando gave the restraints a few investigative tugs, and when there was little movement and he was satisfied with the results, he leaned back, staring down at you yet again. You were starting to think he was getting more enjoyment out of just staring at you than anything else.

With heavy breathing and the occasional squeak of the headboard as you attempted to break free of the belt holding your wrists hostage, Lando finally began removing his sinfully tight black jeans. He pushed them down his legs with a carefree attitude, as though he had all the time in the world, whilst you were squirming around on the bed, desperate to get a look at, a hold of, a taste of what was hidden now by the thin black cotton that stretched over his painfully hard cock.

“If you keep squirming like that, I’ll tie your ankles next to your wrists and fuck you like that. Is that what you want?” Lando growled, pausing in his tantalising show of getting undressed to glare at you. You halted almost immediately, the image of Lando plowing into you while your wrists and ankles were bound together. You gulped, the vision was certainly tempting, however your pussy wouldn’t be able to take such a beating.

“No sir. I’m sorry sir.” You whimpered back, your words sent shocks of electricity through Lando’s body, and having abandoned his teasing display, he tore his underwear off and climbed onto your bed in a hurry.

He wrapped his hand around his cock, pumping a few times and letting out a shuddering sigh. His eyes cut to yours, a blazing fury warming them from the usual cool blue green to a warm green that made your pussy flutter. He slid the tip of his cock through your wet folds, biting his lower lip to contain the moans that were ready to fall past his lips. Your fists clenched around the belt, desperate for something to hold onto.

Lando thrust his hips into yours, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You both moaned, the sweet relief of finally wrapping your velvety walls around his cock was overwhelming. Quite quickly, Lando set a punishing pace, his hips rolling out of you before snapping back to meet yours, his pubic bone putting delectable pressure on your clit, forcing moans out of your lips at an alarming rate.

His hands held a death grip on your hips, keeping your squirming body in its place while he used your body for his own pleasure. Your moans became louder, his hips forcing his cock deeper into your cunt, but Lando didn’t like that.

“You shut the fuck up and take my cock like a good little slut, yeah?” He spoke, his right hand reaching up to wrap around your throat, his fingers squeezing around the sides. The pressure only added to your mounting pleasure, Lando squeezing intermittently when you let out a particularly loud moan, reducing you to a pile of whimpers and pleas.

His hips began stuttering, the pleasure he was feeling overwhelming the perfect pace he had set. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him further into your hungry cunt, clenching around him like you were trying to pull his entire being into you. And maybe you were, if he kept this up, you were never going to let him out of you again.

“Fuck, I’m so close.” He whimpered, the first show of your usual Lando shining through, his hips moving with a renewed vigor. You couldn’t form words, his cock brushing against your g-spot with each thrust, forcing your body higher up the bed, your arms still bound above your head. The hand around your throat squeezed harder, and for a moment all you saw were stars, the pleasure of your second orgasm ripping through your body like a tidal wave. Each atom in your body was torn apart and stitched back together with the threads of Lando’s hot seed and rough hands.

Lando pulled out of you, watching his cum drip down your thighs for a moment before he jumped from the bed, hurrying into the ensuite as quickly as he could on shaky legs. You could hear the tap running, and after a few moments, he returned with a wet rag and your favourite lotion, leaving the bottle on the side table while he cleaned the mess between your thighs, becoming entranced with the sight for another moment before he finished up, tossing the dirty cloth into the ensuite. Lando crawled up the bed to you, undoing the belt that had begun to rub your wrists raw, and with your finally free hands, you cupped your boyfriend’s cheeks, pulling him into a sweet kiss to stop the steam train of thoughts inevitably running through his head.

With soft hands and caring eyes, Lando began rubbing the lotion onto your red wrists, kissing the skin briefly, then leaving another sweet kiss on your lips.

“Was that okay?” He whispered, insecurity rearing its head yet again, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the nervous look he was giving you.

“More than okay, baby. That was amazing. 10/10 would try again.” You giggled, caressing his shoulders with slow hands, grateful to finally be feeling his skin again.

“Well, I wouldn’t be mad at that. I have some ideas.” Lando replied, a cheeky lilt to his voice as he laid down beside you, pulling the covers up to cover you both.

“Oh, do you now? I’m all ears.”

[dandy-writes]

Eyewishes - Ch. 2

AN: Did I just sit down and write all of this in like two hours on a whim after over a month of inactivity? Yes. Is it good? God, I hope so. Anyways. Obligatory spoiler warning! This fic takes place in season 2, but contains spoilers for certain things up through the end of season 4. Also, in this chapter I describe scars and thus, the implied wounds that caused them. So warning for that. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

Someone had blinded them in their left eye.

Well, perhaps something might have been a better term given the situation, but Y/N truly didn’t know. It was incredibly disconcerting. They had no idea who or what had blinded them, nor any knowledge of anything about themselves from before they reached the doorstep of the Magnus Institute. It was obvious they were suffering from amnesia, and without much effort they Knew that if they were to go to a hospital their affliction would be diagnosed as retrograde amnesia specifically, as opposed to anterograde amnesia, the difference being… well, they could go on and on with textbook definitions and possible causes. But no matter how hard they tried, they could not See into their own past.

The handiwork was at the very least neat, so perhaps there was a clue there. On several occasions Y/N had found themself losing track of time and spending hours staring at themselves in the water-stained mirror of the Archives’ seldom-used bathroom, analyzing every detail of their wounded eye. Two lines of scar tissue ran over their brow and eyelid down to their cheek, perpendicular to each other in a way that formed an “X” over their eye. Was it intentional? By the way their gut churned when they asked themself that, Y/N suspected it might have been.

And though the damage done to their eye was horrific enough, Y/N wasn’t convinced that it alone was what was causing their stagnation. They could probably write it all off to that, but something that pulled at the back of their mind told them that there was more. That something else had happened to them, but they just couldn’t remember. Couldn’t See. There was, of course, the situation of their stomach, but… Well. That was a bit more difficult to address. Besides, they’d only learned of that when they’d first had the opportunity to change clothes over a day after they’d arrived at the Institute. Martin had been kind enough to locate and bring to them some clothing in roughly their size, but they’d decided quickly to keep the flannel. It was cold down in the Archives, and maybe it was just their imagination, but it seemed like when they wore it the barbed wire surrounding their memories retreated just a little bit.

The others weren’t as friendly. Tim and Jon were suspicious -- rightly so, if a bit misguided -- and only allowed them to stay in the Archives after quite a bit of persuasion from Martin. And luckily for Y/N, the thing seemed just as content to avoid them as they were it. Then, there was Elias.

Elias didn’t visit the Archives too often, but that didn’t matter, because he was always Watching, even if the others didn’t realize. He couldn’t See through Y/N’s eyes, though, something that had become apparent quite early on in their stay at the Institute. All the more reason to isolate themself from the others. They might have both been on the same “side”, but his demeanor towards them made it quite clear that this meant nothing to him.

That being said, it wasn’t that much of a surprise when Y/N felt the staticky presence moving down the hallway towards the bathroom door. They had been staring again (for approximately 42 minutes and 37 seconds), and again, no answers were coming. They gripped the edges of the sink and did their best not to look away from their reflection as the door opened.

Elias was immaculately dressed, as usual, in a dark green three-piece suit that was utterly out of place in the drab surroundings. His gray-streaked hair was pristine, and he had a pair of thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, through which he was watching Y/N intently.

“Ah, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it, one of many that the two had passed between themselves since Y/N’s arrival. “Hiding from the archival staff? I suppose I can understand that. They can certainly be a little…” He turned on his heel so that he was fully facing the mirror, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Unsettling at times.”

<What do you want.>

He chuckled (it wasn’t a genuine laugh, of course. Y/N doubted if they’d had any sort of genuine interaction since he’d threatened them) and began to approach them. His steps were slow, drawn out, giving them apt time to meet his gaze in the mirror, but they didn’t. He’d only enjoy it if they were to watch him as he was watching them. Like a curious predator.

He stopped mere inches from them, and Y/N was almost relieved until he leant forwards. The moment his chest hit their back they stiffened fully, only just able to stop their neutral expression from faltering as Elias dipped his head down to the right of theirs, not quite touching, but still far too close for comfort. Carefully, he brought his hands to rest on the edge of the sink next to their own. He had not stopped trying to make eye contact with them.

“I just want to talk, Y/N. I’m sure you must have questions you’d like to ask me.”

<None you’d actually answer.>

His gaze narrowed slightly. “No, probably not. But why don’t you try me?”

They had to close their eyes to stop themselves from looking up at him at that. Did he want them to try and Compel him? Even if they were at their strongest, they didn’t think he’d let them do so successfully. No, he was probably just gloating. They reopened their eyes, but did not look away from their own reflection. <Why don’t they know?>

“You’re going to have to be a little bit more specific than that, I’m afraid.”

Their brow furrowed. <The Archivist, and the others. Why don’t they know they’re under the Eye? Or that there’s a Stranger posing as their friend? Why haven’t you told them, when-->

Elias cut them off with a tsk, tilting his head as he did so. “Really, Y/N, don’t you have more important things to worry about?” They watched their eyes widen as he placed his left hand on their cheek, fingers just grazing their scars. His touch was cold. “Poor thing… I can’t imagine what--”

<Stop it.> They felt frozen in place as they watched his fingertips trace over their skin.

“Ah, right. All you can do is try and imagine what happened to you. Or am I mistaken? Please, tell me exactly just what it is you can remember, Y/N. Or is it really nothing at all? So much lost knowledge, it must be taking a toll on--”

<Stop it.> In a burst of movement Y/N spun around to face him, their gaze finally meeting his. They nearly gasped at the force of it, and a wave of shivers wracked their body as the raw feeling of being Watched invaded their senses. Their reaction was obvious, and Elias’ small smile immediately broke out into a pleased, toothy grin.

The trouble was, it felt very, very nice to be Seen by another avatar of the Eye. Of course, there was no way Elias could Know that Y/N felt that way, but if he’d had much experience with other avatars of their god, which was likely, then it wouldn’t take too far of a leap to come to that conclusion.

It didn’t help that with his hands firmly planted on the sink edge, Y/N was practically caged-in between it and his body.

“Oh, Y/N, it really is a shame…” He’d lowered his voice to a purr as he brought his hand up to cup their cheek once more. “Because judging off of what’s left, you truly must have had beautiful eyes.”

That was it. With as much force as they could muster they pressed their palms against the lapels of his suit and shoved him away from them. He must’ve decided he’d had enough fun for one day, as he let Y/N push him off with far more ease than they’d expected, and did not move to stop them as they stormed out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind them. Every nerve in their body felt hypersensitive as they focused on getting as far away from Elias Bouchard as they could while staying within the boundaries of the Archives. They didn’t think he was going to follow them, but they couldn’t be sure after the way he’d been Looking at them just moments before. Y/N wasn’t used to him being so direct -- the statements he’d made in regards to their lack of memory had surprised them, but it just meant he was better at piecing things together without the aid of Seeing into one’s mind than they’d hoped -- nor to being confronted with so much power from another avatar. Though, worryingly, they didn’t think that he had exactly been using full force in there.

He was just toying with them, that was all. They had expected him to start doing so at some point, so that in and of itself wasn’t a surprise.

They just didn’t account for how good it would make them feel.

Taglist: @decora-peaches

[whumpcollector]

Lucas Pt.8: The gladiator and the Captain

Hey everyone. Here I am, back at it again with Lucas. There’s a bit of character introduction and set up coming so hopefully ya’ll don’t mind the slower pace. Hope you all enjoy.

CW: Mentions of vomiting

Lucas knelt over a bucket, dry heaving and choking as his stomach churned. Sweat poured down his forehead, his body shaking as another wave of nausea washed over him.

“I am so sorry Lucas,” Jawad said, kneeling beside the boy and patting his back. “I didn’t think you would take to the tincture this poorly...”

Lucas tried to respond, but any attempt at speaking was shut down as another dry heave hit him. Nothing came up, what little food Lucas had in his stomach had long since been expelled. All he could do now was wait for things to pass. 

Jawad signed, walking over to his desk and picking up his journal. He scribbled in the pages, shaking his head slightly. He turned back to Lucas. “Do you at least feel like your magic has returned?”

Lucas took his head out of the bucket, holding up a shaky hand and trying to bring forth a flame. Nothing manifested and Lucas had to abandon his attempt as another wave hit him.

“I suppose that's a no then.”

It had been a couple of days since Lucas had first awoken. He had not left Jawad’s tent, the doctor insisting that Lucas remain so he could monitor his recovery. There had been no issues, by all accounts he was healing like any normal person would. Lucas didn’t know how he felt about that. It was good that nothing bad was happening, but it was also...strange. He was used to any injuries he had healing in a few hours at most. The need for bandages, the bleeding, the soreness that came from healing muscle, it all felt unnatural. 

He didn’t care to think about whether or not he would need to get used to it.

At last the nausea faded and Lucas was able to pull himself to his feet. He was still shaky, having to brace himself against the table to avoid falling over. Jawad gently grabbed onto his arm, guiding him over to the bed and letting him sit down. He handed Lucas a bowl of water, letting him rinse out his mouth. 

“Thank you.” Lucas said, bowing his head slightly. Jawad had so far not been partial to the more overt displays of submission that Captain Edwin had drilled into Lucas. Anything more than an appreciative thanks was dismissed as being ‘unnecessary’. Lucas was grateful that so far these mistakes had gone unpunished.

“No thanks needed Lucas, least of all because I just poisoned you…” Jawad trailed, flipping through his journal some more. “Hmmm, perhaps another potion might work...if only I had something more reliable than my old mentor’s theories.” He turned to Lucas. “Are you certain there is nothing you might know that could lead us in the right direction?”

Lucas thought for a moment, racking his brain before a memory stuck out. “When I was with my old masters I was given a sort of potion once. It, um, it sort of helped my magic after I had used it a lot.”

Jawad’s eyes lit up and he walked over to Lucas, sitting down next to him and focusing on him intently. “What do you remember about it? Taste, texture, smell.” 

Lucas tried to recall what he could. Everything before his time with Captain Edwin felt fuzzy, like he was trying to look at it through thick fog. “Um, it was thick...I think? Yes it was a thick liquid and…” Lucas trailed off, trying to remember anything else. “I think...it burned when I drank it.”

Jawad nodded, writing in his journal before responding. “Do you know what it was called? Or where your...old master,” he frowned at the word, “purchased it?” 

Lucas shook his head. “No.”

“Any specific taste, any...side effects of the potion?”

“N-no.”

“Do you remember what color it was?”

“It...no.”

“Did it have a particular smell?”

“It...it smelled...sweet?”

Jawad hummed to himself, flipping through the pages of his journal rapidly. After a seemingly unsuccessful search he stood up and walked over to his table, sifting through several thick tomes and other journals. Lucas watched apprehensively, shrinking back as the doctor became more and more frustrated with his search. After what must have been at least half an hour Jawad slammed the book he was holding onto the table, causing Lucas to flinch.

“Well, there are at least a dozen theoretical,” he spat the word out like it tasted of ash, “concoctions and tinctures that help restore the use of magic and share some similarities with what you described, but without any more details I can’t determine which, if any, of the ones in my records match the one you were given.” He pinched his forehead. “Much less if any of them work.”

Lucas bowed his head. “I-I’m sorry for not being of any help, a-and for wasting your time.”

Jawad sighed, walking back over to Lucas, patting the boy on his shoulder. “It's not your fault.” He turned away, crossing his arms and placing a hand on his chin. “Perhaps it's time you introduce yourself to the others in camp. From what I can tell your recovery is coming along fine, and I imagine you’d want to get out of this tent by now.”

Lucas swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He had been dreading this, being forced to serve the others in the camp. Jawad had been easy to satisfy so far, and he was just getting used to how to address and act around him. Now he would have to learn all over again, with people likely far less forgiving than Jawad was. 

Still, it wasn’t up to him who he did and did not serve.

Jawad must have taken Lucas’s silence as agreement, which it was in a way, and beckoned Lucas to follow him out of the tent. Lucas complied, walking out from under the tent flaps and into the camp itself. He squinted at the sun, the bright light hurting his eyes after so long in relatively dim conditions. 

“Ah, Lucas. I see you are on your feet now. That is good news.”

Lucas turned to see Mehrzad approaching him, saber slung over his shoulder and helmet held at his side. He was the only person Lucas had really seen over the past few days, often bringing Jawad food or supplies he requested. He didn’t really talk to Lucas, usually only staying around long enough to drop off what he needed to and say a few parting words to his husband. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, looking Lucas up and down.”You seem a bit pale.”

“I am afraid that would be my fault.” Jawad said. “The solution I made had some...unfortunate side effects.”

Mehrzad let out a hearty laugh. “Ah, I see you’ve been on the receiving end of my dear husband’s ‘experiments’. I remember one time when he tried to brew something for stomach pain. I wa-”

“I’M certain Lucas doesn’t wish to hear the, well, gory details of that...” Jawad trailed off with a chuckle. “Why don’t you show Lucas around the camp? I need to convince Jon to let me acquire another batch of ingredients. I’m not sure what they are yet, but I don’t imagine they will be cheap.”

Jawad walked off, healing towards a large tent towards the center of camp. Lucas guessed that was where Captain Jonathon was. Lucas hoped he wouldn’t get too mad at Jawad’s request. Jawad shouldn’t have to get in trouble for his sake.

And Lucas didn’t want the doctor to have any reason to vent his frustrations. 

Mehrzad clapped Lucas on the back, causing the boy to flinch slightly.“Well, looks like you are stuck with me for a while. Come, give you the tour.”

Lucas followed dutifully behind Mehrzad as he was led through the camp, head bowed and trailing by a couple of feet. The camp was large, with close to two dozen tents standing and numerous people milling around.

“Most of the people here are temporary hires, we call them ‘temps’. They usually only stick around for a few contracts or long enough to make it to a major city before leaving. You don’t need to worry too much about getting to know them, they’ll be replaced before you can get to remembering their names.”

Lucas grimaced at that. So many different people to get used to serving properly and he’d just have to relearn everything again later. Avoiding mistakes would be impossible. He looked around at some of the passing people. All of them looked imposing. Well built, big (or at least bigger than him), and...violent. A beating from any one of them wouldn’t be fun.

He decided not to think about what it would be like if they chose to gang up.

Lucas was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t realize Mehrzad had stopped walking. The two bumped into each other and Lucas sprung back, shying away and waiting for the reprimand. Mehrzad simply stared at him, confusion on his face. After a few moments of awkward silence, Mehrzad finally spoke.

“Are you alright Lucas?”

Lucas looked up meekly, scanning Merhzad’s face for any sign of displeasure. “Um...yes I am sir. S-sorry sir.”

“Apology accepted?” He cocked his head, studying Lucas before humming to himself. “Perhaps we should rest for a moment, come sit with me.”

Mehrzad sat on a nearby fallen log, gesturing for Lucas to join him. Lucas obeyed and took a seat on the log, just close enough that he wasn’t being disrespectful but not too close for his own comfort. Mehrzad had seemed merciful thus far and Lucas felt like the man would be willing to give this one liberty. The lack of any reprimand confirmed his guess and Lucas let himself relax just a tad.

“So, Lucas, how are you feeling? You seem to be in much better shape, my husband’s experiments aside.”

“Oh. I’m feeling alright. Jawad says that my healing is going normally.” 

“That is good news.” Mehrzad reached into one of his greaves and pulled out a small dagger. Lucas tensed, eyeing the weapon warily, but the man simply began to use the tip to clean beneath his fingernails. “If you don’t mind my asking, what were you traveling with that caravan for? From what I can tell you weren’t exactly there of your own desire.” He turned to Lucas, a playful smile on his face. “Am I in the presence of some dangerous killer?”

Lucas looked down at his hands, memories of the attack flooding mind. Scenes of bloody fields and butchered corpses. He felt his throat tighten and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The bloodstained face of Harold flashed in his eyes and Lucas shook his head harshly, banishing the image before he had the chance to think about it. 

“You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.” Mehrzad said softly. 

Lucas’ head snapped up at Mehrzad’s words. The man had a concerned look on his face, eyebrows narrowed and lips formed into a small frown. Lucas swallowed thickly. “I was a performer for, for two of the men at the caravan.”

“A performer eh?” Mehrzad raised an eyebrow at the answer. “It's a difficult job, pleasing a crowd, isn’t it? You run yourself ragged putting on a show, put everything you have into it only for the slightest mistake to turn everyone against you.”

Lucas looked at the man taken somewhat aback. “Y-yes. It was difficult. My master Harold always made me do better after each performance.”

“Ah, yes. Always have to make it bigger, flashier, more impressive. First you’re fighting a single man, then you’re shoved into a pit filled with a dozen hyenas and given nothing more than a broken spear.” He shook his head, almost as if reminiscing. “I was a gladiator back in my homeland, a rather good one if I may say. Sometimes I can still hear the roar of the crowd in my ears.”

Lucas didn’t know if he should say anything. The two lapsed into an awkward silence as Lucas contemplated possible responses. Mehrzad coughed, fiddling with his dagger before placing it back into his greave. 

“What's it like, using magic?” 

Lucas started slightly, looking at Mehrzad and frowning. How would he describe it? 

“It...hurts.” Merhzad raised an eyebrow but didn’t commnet. “It hurts when I try to use it, like, like I'm lighting a fire inside of my body that burns me. The more I try to do, the hotter it is and if I do too much it...it hurts a lot more.” He paused, looking down at his hands and running his fingers along the leylines. “But, it also feels natural, like it's something I’m supposed to do. Without I...I feel wrong. Like, like I can’t blink or, or move my fingers.” 

Lucas sniffled. “I don’t like it.”

Lucas was crying. He hadn’t realized he was until a tear landed on the back of his hand. A shaky breath left him and he wiped at his eyes, trying to regain his composure as best he could. An arm wrapped around his shoulders and he turned to see Mehrzad looking at him sympathetically.

“I can’t imagine what that feels like, losing something so...integral to who you are.” He handed Lucas a small piece of cloth and let home clean off his face. “But don’t worry. You will get your magic back. Jawad, for all of his eccentricities, is brilliant. Whatever the solution is to your problem, he will find it. I assure you.”

Lucas nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The pair sat together as Lucas gathered himself. Close to an hour passed and Mehrzad stood up, stretching his back and gathering his gear.

“I must go, Lucas. I have a contract soon and I am to meet the others for a briefing. You take care of yourself alright?”

With that Mehrzad left, and Lucas was left alone. A sense of unease filled him. What should he do? He wasn’t given any orders or instructions. Was he just supposed to...wander around until someone told him to do something? 

Lucas stood in place for a few moments before deciding to do just that. He looked around and decided to walk towards the center of the camp. As he moved he took in his surroundings trying to notice any major landmarks he might be told to go to. As he searched he noticed a woman working at what looked like a giant cauldron. She was busy skinning what looked like a deer. A cook perhaps. 

Lucas decided to ask if she was in need of help. Kitchen work was easy and he was decent at it. He probably wouldn’t do anything that warranted punishment. 

Not that she would need a reason if she wanted to hurt him. 

He started walking towards the woman when he heard someone call out to him.

“HEY! Who the hell are you?”

Lucas turned to see a lean man walking towards him. He stood straight, bowing his head as the man approached. “Haven’t seen you around before. You a new hire?”

Lucas nodded. “Yes sir, my name is Lucas. I am here to serve at your command.”

The man released an eyebrow. “What, really?” He fiddled with the scabbard on his hip before producing a dirtied sword. “You uh, you gonna clean this then?”

Lucas deflated, so much for kitchen work. Still, an order was an order. “Of course sir, if that is what you desire.”

“Shit, well, have at it then.” He dropped the sword into Lucas’s arms. 

Lucas grasped the sword carefully, making sure to avoid the blade. He noticed the man walking away and called out after him. “Um, sir, do you know where I could find a rag?”

“Fuck if I know kid, you figure it out.”

Oh. Lucas looked down at the sword, and then at his surroundings. He didn’t see anywhere that might have something to clean with. Maybe he could ask someone. He noticed a woman walking by and tried to talk to her.

“Excuse me ma’am cou-”

“Piss off asshole, I'm not in the mood for chatter.”

She didn’t even look at him as she walked away. Lucas deflated further, looking down at the sword. He needed to get it cleaned soon. If he took too long the owner might get angry. Moving to a nearby fallen log to sit on Lucas began to rub at the sword with his shirt.

The work was slow, with most of the grime coating the blade taking considerable effort to work out. His shirt quickly became stained, with black and brown splotches dotting the area he used to wipe the blade. Just as he was about to finish a group of three other people walked up to him, dirty equipment in hand.

“Hey you, you the kid whose cleaning kit?”

Lucas looked up and nodded meekly. “Yes sir, I am here to serve at your command.”

“Damn, well here, clean this would ya?”

All three of them dumped their equipment at Lucas’ feet before walking off, leaving Lucas with a much larger workload. He sighed, his shoulder slumping at the sight of the pile. Dejectedly he placed the sword against the log he was sitting on and got to work cleaning off a breastplate.

News about his services spread throughout the camp, and before long Lucas had a barrack’s worth of arms and armor waiting for him to clean. After a few pieces Lucas just decided to strip his shirt off, using as much of the fabric as he could. It was long and exhausting work, with the last pieces being cleaned close to sundown. His arms ached from the rubbing and sweat poured down his face. As he hunched over the particularly filthy spear a shadow loomed over him. He sighed internally, something else to clean.

“Um, Lucas. What are you doing?”

Lucas looked up to see Captain Jonathon standing in front of him, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“I am cleaning this equipment, Captain Jonathan.”

“Uh-huh. Why exactly?”

“Because I was told to, Captain Jonathan.”

“Did you...want to clean all this equipment?”

“I am more than happy to serve, Captain Jonathan.”

“Uh-huuuhhh. And you are using your shirt to clean because…?

“I could not find a rag, Captain Jonathon.”

The captain looked down at him like he had sprouted a second head. Lucas squirmed under his gaze, unsure if he had done something to upset the man. 

“How...how long have you been cleaning this stuff kid?”

“Um...since midday I believe Captain Jonathon.”

The captain exhaled, placing a hand on his face and shaking his head. “Ok. For the record, don’t go around cleaning everyone's kit alright? Don’t need any of these bastards getting lazier.”

Lucas nodded, quickly dropping the weapon and starting to pull his shirt back on.

“Don’t put that thing on!” Lucas’ eyes shot up to see Jonathon staring at him like he had just stuck his hand into a fire. “It’s covered in dirt and grease, what th- Cathrai above, what's wrong with you?”

Lucas inhaled sharply, dropping the shirt and then falling to his knees, head bowed. “Im-I’m sorry Captain Jonathan. I-I did not mean to upset you.”

Lucas waited, trembling as he heard the man approach. He screwed his eyes shut, bracing himself for a blow to land. Instead he felt a hand lay gently on his shoulder, and looked up to see the captain kneeling down to look at him.

“Hey kid, it's alright. Didn’t mean to snap at you. It's been a long day for both of us. Why don’t you go get cleaned up?” He pointed towards a nearby river. “Go take a bath. I’ll get you some new clothes and make sure Annya saves you some stew.”

Lucas paused for a moment before nodding eagerly. “Yes, Captain Jonathon. Th-thank you for your kindness.”

 “No problem kid.” Jonathan stood up, taking the shirt with him and walking away. After a few steps he turned. “Oh and uh, don’t call me ‘Captain Jonathon’, all the time. I imagine it gets a bit tiring .”

“Yes Ca-, yes sir. Sorry sir.”

Jonathan nodded and walked away. Lucas watched him for a few moments before making his way towards the river. It was a fair way away from any of the tents, far enough to give some privacy. Lucas undressed himself and walked into the water. It was cold, but once he was able to wash away the muck and grime that had built up on his skin he felt much better. 

After he finished cleaning himself Lucas sank down into the water slightly, letting himself relax. When was the last time he had been allowed to bathe in private? Or without a time limit? He honestly couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, he was allowed to now. He sank lower, resting his chin just above the waterline. He shouldn’t stay too long. He didn’t want Jonathon to think he was lazy or taking advantage of the man’s generosity. He let himself languish for another minute before pulling himself from the water. The air was cold against his wet skin but he didn’t mind. He hadn't felt this clean in...years probably.

Jonathon was sitting on a tree stump a short distance from the river. His back was to the water, a gesture that Lucas appreciated greatly. The man was carving at a piece of wood with a small knife, whistling a tune that Lucas didn’t recognize. He stopped when he heard Lucas’ footsteps, turning around and picking up a shirt he had laid across his lap. 

“You look better kid, here, new shirt for you.”

Lucas took the shirt and pulled it on. It was big, the fabric hung loosely off of his body, but it was clean and warm. “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem kid. I’ll see about getting you some nicer pants too, those things look a little thin.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

Jonathan nodded and gestured for Lucas to follow him. The two walked back to the camp, heading towards the center. Several small groups of mercenaries were sitting around a large bonfire, talking and laughing over bowls of food. Lucas saw the lady from earlier, Annya he figured, doling out stew from the cauldron, a small line forming in front of her. 

“Take a seat Lucas, I’ll go get us dinner.”

Lucas nodded and sat down on a box placed towards the fringes of the bonfire. Jonathan walked towards the lady, nodding to a few of the mercenaries he passed. Some nodded back, others offered salutes, one asked for the captain to join him and his friends at a game of dice. Jonathon declined and walked up to the cauldron, taking his place in line behind the others. 

Lucas watched him, trying to get a read on the man. He seemed well liked by most of the people in the camp. That was a good sign, well liked people don’t tend to dish out beatings for no reason. He fiddled with the collar of his shirt. It was well made, probably the nicest piece of clothing Lucas had ever worn. He was surprised it was wasted on him.  

The captain returned with two large bowls of stew, sitting next to Lucas and handing him one of them. “I had Annya give us the big bowls. Perks of being captain.” He pulled a spoon from one of his pockets and handed it to Lucas. “Eat up, you did a lot of work today. More than your share.”

Lucas took the spoon and dug into the meal. It was as good as always. He had been fortunate enough to be allowed meals every day so far, probably to help along his recovery. He hoped that things wouldn’t change too soon, though he had a sinking feeling that they would once he finished healing. 

“Annyas a blessing. Before we picked her up we didn’t have anyone who could cook. We ate what preserved crap we could carry and whatever we managed to hunt or forage.” Jonathan shook his head. “Once when we were low on supplies all we had to eat was raw grain and mushrooms for days. I don’t think I've come closer to being killed by my own men.”

The captain tilted his head back, draining the last of the broth from his bowl and placing it on the ground. He turned to Lucas, a serious expression on his face. Lucas paused, placing the bowl in his lap and waiting for the captain to speak.

Jonathan pulled out a small metal medallion shaped like a crown. “You see this? This is the emblem of the Crownsmen - that's the name of our company if you didn’t guess. Everyone who works for me has one, and it serves as a symbol of our unity and camaraderie, of our code. One very important tenant of that code is fairness, everyone pulls their fair share, no more no less.” He pocketed the medallion. “Now you aren’t a crownsman, but you are a guest in our camp, which means that applies to you too.”

Lucas gulped and bowed his head. “O-of course sir. I am more than willing to do whatever you order.”

Jonathan shook his head. “No, no. Probably could have phrased that better...” He muttered to himself quietly before turning his attention back to Lucas. “Anyways that's not what I meant. It's been less than a week since we pulled you half dead from the site of a massacre and today you spent the better part of 10 hours cleaning a barrack’s worth of kit. That is far and away beyond what I consider a fair share of work. You’re on your feet now so I’ll probably have you help around the camp a bit but any work you do comes from me. Anyone else tries to order you around you tell them to fuck off alright?”

Lucas nodded, it made sense that the captain of the camp would be the only one allowed to give him orders. At least that meant he would only need to learn how to please one person now.

“Good, now get some sleep. It’s late and you must be exhausted.” Jonathan stood up and began to walk away before turning around. “Oh, and if anyone tries to give you too much shit you let me know. I don’t tolerate infighting.”

“Yes sir, of course.”

Jonathan nodded and left. Lucas watched him for a moment before picking his bowl back up. Fatigue was starting to hit him hard and he could barely muster the energy to finish his food and walk back to Jawad's tent. It was empty, the doctor was likely taking care of something. Lucas was too tired to wonder what. He crawled into the cot he had been using and let himself drift away. 

So far, this place didn’t seem too bad.

Tags: @haro-whumps @ladygwennn @dramaticcollapse @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @brutal-nemesis @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @inpainandsuffering

[liusaidh-writing]

Call it True - Chapter One

 Claire and Jamie are neighbors - though they’ve never met.  Claire, infatuated with her Scot upstairs, is more than a little certain that it’ll never happen. Is she wrong?  

Prefer to read at AO3? 

Hope you all enjoy this...I really wish I could say I’d update on a regular day weekly, but as of right now I don’t get much time to write. So please be patient!  

**I’d like to thank (profusely) @faithperry46  for being my life-saver/beta reader.  I wouldn’t/couldn’t have done this without your help!**

Here we go...

-----          

Claire chuckled to herself, hearing the vacuum come on downstairs again. Every morning, without fail, the older lady who lived downstairs turned it on...to hoover her back patio. Living on the first floor, she was granted a small back garden - one Claire was envious of. Though she didn't think she'd do much but sweep her patio with a broom.  

Claire pushed open her kitchen window and held her breath, wondering if he'd be here at his window today. Claire figured this was her favorite way to start her days: a small chat with her mysterious, yet lovely -and stupidly handsome,- neighbor, Jamie. 

Claire hid a grin when she spotted his curly auburn hair. 

"Poor woman. Shall we buy her a broom for Christmas?" He joked, greeting Claire with his unassuming smile. He gave her a wink - if it 

could be called that, seeing as he couldn't wink correctly but instead closed both eyes in a humorous attempt.  

Claire smiled properly this time, calling to him as she rested her elbows on the window sill. 

"She's going to break that thing soon enough. I'll get the dustpan if you'll get the broom?" she offered with a laugh. It was only May, but who was Claire to say it was too early to start Christmas shopping? Especially if she could do it with Jamie.

"It's a deal. We can present it to her together." Jamie smiled at her, and Claire as per usual, panicked, swatted her face with her hands while mumbling something about a bug before excusing herself. 

"I've got to run just now, but we can work out the details later. See you soon!" 

She shut her window as she heard him respond with a friendly 'Have a good day, Claire!' 

She didn't truly need to be anywhere for another half hour - her shift at the hospital started an hour from now, but she just couldn't talk to him for long. She'd get all flustered, and was terrified she'd say something completely stupid and ruin what they had. Claire had never met the man in the flesh, but she was completely enamored with him...or his face rather, since that was all she could see from her window.  

She loved his stupid wink, his big smile that nearly met his slanted eyes as he greeted her when they saw one another. She had no idea if he lived alone, but she was certain that someone that handsome had to have a girlfriend at the very least. Or a boyfriend, perhaps. He certainly had no need of anything more from her than a quick morning chat... or else it would've happened already - that's what she told herself six months into their weird connection. Her erratic schedule at the hospital kept her from seeing him every morning and explained why they'd never met in person. 

Their relationship never ventured much further than chatting about their mutual source of amusement: their elderly neighbor with the hoovering obsession. They chatted here and there about happenings in their respective days: 'You got a haircut!' She'd say, noticing his hair was slightly shorter. He'd nod, pretend to preen, and run his hands through his hair with a laugh. 

He had no idea what that did to Claire. She was sure her cheeks went pink whenever he was even slightly flirty. She'd lose the ability to concentrate, to speak, so she'd excuse herself in some clumsy way and go about her day with him swimming around in her imagination. She'd fantasize about knocking on his door, asking him for coffee, laughing over a shared joke that didn't have to do with their neighbor, Jamie kissing her dumb as his hands roamed her back for her bra strap... 

Sometimes she got carried away.

---

Claire got to work, noticing that her favorite co-worker, Lesley, was already there. Claire saw Lesley's toddler's car seat in the back, knowing it hadn't been a fun morning at her house. Lesley had a two-year-old son named Harry who Claire enjoyed, but Lesley's ex-husband Frank wasn't always in a helpful mood. So, this morning -like a lot of mornings,- the two-year-old was brought to the hospital child care center instead of staying home with his father.  

Claire sighed, shaking her head on Lesley’s behalf. Claire remembered when she’d gotten married to Frank and when she’d had her son - Lesley had thought she had it all. "But look," Claire thought, "it all fell apart at her feet shortly after it began." 

"I’m better off by myself. Only me to worry about.” It was her mantra of sorts, and Claire had convinced herself it was true. 

She got to her floor, put her stuff in her locker, and slowly shuffled to her station as she wondered what her day would bring. Lesley was there, as expected, riffling through some files as she smiled at Claire in greeting. Lesley was slightly shorter than Claire, with medium-length blonde hair Claire was sure wasn’t entirely natural. Lesley’s down-to-earth demeanor and penchant for keeping Claire grounded in reality was, unbeknownst to Claire, her saving grace during the work day, and though Lesley had had a rough go of it with Frank, she remained, for the most part upbeat - something Claire struggled with at times. Always there to lend an ear, Lesley was invaluable to Claire, and she was happy to return the favor whenever possible.

“Here you go, Lady.” Lesley said as she handed Claire a bright red folder with a name Claire couldn’t read on the side. “New admittance - a 72-year-old woman had a stroke and is in for observation.” 

Claire worked on the cardiac floor and enjoyed it... for the most part. The majority of her patients were older men and women, and she found them easy to talk to. She knew she could offer them some comfort and help during their stay.  

Grabbing the folder, she headed to her first room and started her day. 

---

Claire’s lunch left much to be desired - leftover Chinese food that had Lesley crinkling her nose. 

“How old is that, Claire?”

“I'm not sure. A few days…” 

“It doesn’t smell right.” 

Claire watched as Lesley’s mouth formed a frown. Lesley had her own lunch - a fresh salad with grilled chicken and cashews. 

“We can’t all be chefs, Lesley,” Claire said as she took a bite of her Kung Pao chicken. She made a face, struggling to swallow. Perhaps she should’ve thrown it out - but it was all she’d had to bring today.

“You live alone, Claire - you can cook all you want! I have to make my lunches once Harry has gone down for the night. After folding all of the laundry and scarfing down what’s left of dinner.” Lesley took a bite of her salad and chewed slowly as Claire shook her head. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said quietly, pushing her fried rice around with her fork. “I could cook, I suppose,” she continued, thinking about the ingredients in her refrigerator. Those consisted of a block of parmesan cheese, a bottle of orange juice, and a small pint of milk. “I could make...well, not much at the moment, but…” Claire, wanting to change the subject from her nonexistent domesticity, decided to bring up Jamie.

“I think he must have a girlfriend,” Claire said, deciding to throw her lunch out and buy some peanut butter crackers from the vending machine. As she fished for some coins in her purse, she continued. “I mean, he’s gorgeous...surely he’s taken. You know I have no luck, Lesley.”  

“Well, Claire,” Lesley began, sounding unsure about her next statement. “Do you...try?” 

Grabbing her crackers from the slot at the bottom of the vending machine, Claire whirled around, brows knitted and mouth in a scowl. 

“I do try,” she said, opening the crackers and stuffing one in her mouth. “I just figure he’s not worth my time,” she mumbled, spraying crumbs over her shirt. She brushed them off, shrugging. 

Lesley rolled her eyes, then set them on Claire, giving her a pitying, yet frustrated look. “You don’t know anything, Jon Snow.”

“It’s ‘You know nothing…’” Claire corrected, ignoring her comment. “Look how it worked out with Frank. You’re not exactly a great example of romance gone right.” Claire felt somewhat guilty when she saw Lesley’s face fall for a second, but the conversation was cut short by the clock. Time to get back to work.

“Just give it a go, Claire - the worst that could happen is that he is involved with someone else. You don’t know unless you ask.” Lesley gave her parting advice before they headed out of the lunchroom. 

Claire believed that the idea of knocking on his door and asking him about his relationship status was a little too much to ask of her. She’d talked to him - flirted even, and still...nothing. Nothing good could come of her asking him out, she decided. Only mortal embarrassment, and the unfortunate circumstance of having to live under someone who’d turned her down. No, thank you. 

Claire managed to push down all her thoughts about Jamie and get through her shift, and was relieved to plop down on the bus seat that would take her home.

Getting home, she eyed Jamie’s door, craning her neck in the stairwell to get a glimpse of the bright red door identical to her own, except he lived at 3C, she at 2C. 

"No sign of life," she sighed, hitching her purse and bag higher up her shoulder as she made her way to her flat. Her phone buzzed as she went in, tossing her bags on the entry table and reaching to dig into the depths of her purse for the offending object. She didn’t want to answer it, but she saw it was Lesley, so she swiped up, putting it to her ear with some trepidation.

"Please don’t ask me to babysit. Please, please," she begged silently as she heard Lesley begin to talk. She didn’t not like Harry. He was an adorable child and didn’t cause much trouble when he was here, but she had been looking forward to a much-needed day off work, and babysitting a toddler hadn’t been at the top of her agenda.

"…so anyway, I know it’s your day off,” Lesley said, and Claire groaned inwardly, covering the phone with her left hand. “But I’m just stuck, and I thought...maybe you’d help me out?” 

Claire gave a pained smile, even though Lesley couldn’t see her, rubbing her hand through her hair as she sighed. 

“Sure, Lesley, you know I will. It’s no trouble. Just drop him by in the morning.” 

Claire hung up, trying not to feel irritated by the prospect of watching a two-year-old all day. She had no plans, really, except to vegetate in front of the television, devouring Netflix true crime shows. But it sounded so good. Pizza delivery, maybe pull out her untouched bottle of whisky from some Christmas past...

"Oh well, she thought, I’ll just get through it. I’ll have another day off eventually." She thought. It then registered that she was due to work some night shifts coming up. "Oh... fun," she groaned to her empty apartment.  

Claire glanced at her ceiling when she heard footsteps upstairs. Jamie was home. What was he doing tonight, she wondered. Was his girlfriend over? Did he have a date, or was he, too, looking at an evening of solitary drinking?

Claire nearly jumped out of her skin when her doorbell rang. She shuffled to the door, warily looking through the peephole. She wasn’t in the mood for visitors. 

Puzzled, she saw a young teenager standing there holding a plastic bag, marked with a local restaurant’s logo. He wore a bright red hat, had more zits than craters on the moon, and he bore a scowl. Slowly, Claire opened the door, knowing she hadn’t ordered anything.

“Did you order this, lady?” the kid spat, holding the bag out to her, desperate to unload his delivery and get out of there. 

“Er...no...What’s the address?” 

“I don’t know, It’s smudged. I’m just...working my way around.” The kid shrugged, still holding out the bag.

“Well...I didn’t order it. Sorry. Try upstairs. Above me, perhaps? I know my neighbor just got home.” 

The kid sighed, drawing the bag away from Claire. He didn’t say anything, but slowly turned around and, swinging the bag around in a wide arc, growled as he started to make his way up the stairway. Claire waited at her door, hearing the delivery attempt upstairs. 

Hearing Jamie’s voice, she put her face in her palm, frustrated with herself. She could’ve made that delivery. She could’ve been standing in front of him now, complete with food. They could’ve eaten dinner together, watched a movie, somehow become entangled on his bed… 

Shut up, Beauchamp! 

She grabbed her phone, dialed to order a pizza, and slumped on the couch, resigned to her fate as a spinster, alone in front of Murder by Numbers for yet another evening. She folded her arms, brows knit, imagining Jamie upstairs with the girl he definitely had over. Why couldn’t she be hopelessly in love with someone at work, someone she saw every day? Someone she’d seen the bottom half of? That would make it easier. She always imagined Jamie as being about her height, but she could tell just from what she’d seen of his arms that he worked out. When he wore the sleeveless t-shirts, she always marveled at his biceps and had recurring dreams about them draped around her waist. 

She also knew he was a Scot, a transplant from somewhere north. She wondered if he ever wore a kilt because she figured she’d pay good money to see it. Oh, she was pathetic, she knew, but she didn’t care when she was alone in her thoughts. She wondered if it would do her good to get a cat. Perhaps then she wouldn’t do so much daydreaming. Surely it wasn’t healthy.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 35: Sasha

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Jon asks anxiously.

“I’m fine, Jon,” Sasha says for what feels like the tenth time in the last three minutes. “Phone’s fully charged, so is my laptop. The trapdoor is unlocked and I can get there from my desk in fifteen seconds flat, I’ve timed it. And if all else fails”—she waves her tape recorder at him—“I’ve got this, so there will at least be a record of whatever happens to me.”

Jon frowns. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Sasha sighs.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate that her boss has her best interests at heart. She does. And they’re all friends, and that helps too. But Jon’s paranoia has been back in full force since his encounter with Nikola Orsinov. Tim and Martin are fairly good at tempering it, from what she’s noticed, but he still jumps at small noises and insists they stay together in pairs whenever possible. She doesn’t blame him, especially after they tell the Primes what happened and Jon Prime nearly has a panic attack before he manages to pull himself together. The situation feels like it’s balanced on the edge of a razor blade separating a lake of fire on one side and a bottomless pit on the other—like their choices are to maintain the balance and risk bleeding out before they can get to the other side, or fall to one side or the other and trust in a rescue.

Sasha can admit, if only to herself, that she’s curious about what a lake of fire might feel like to swim in, or if a bottomless hole is truly bottomless, but she’s not going to doom the whole world just to see what happens if she does.

“Jon. It’s okay,” she repeats. “It’s ten in the morning. The building is full of people. I’ll be as safe as I can be. Besides, someone’s got to be here in case someone wants to see what we do in the basement or Elias decides to stop lurking in the shadows and come down to cause havoc. You three have had this planned for weeks.” Raising her voice a little, she adds, “And someone’s got to stop Tim from attempting to fistfight the waxworks because he thinks they’re going to attack.”

“Shut up, Sasha,” Tim calls from the other side of the Archives, where he’s reshelving his files.

Jon smiles, if a bit reluctantly. “And we do both need to be there, if he’s serious about…all right. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“Cross my heart.” Sasha returns the smile. “You three be careful, too. If I hear about any of you on the twelve o’clock news, I’ll—”

“Disavow any knowledge of us and refuse our phone calls from jail?” Martin supplies as he returns from wherever he’s been and picks up his jacket.

Sasha snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to milk my association with you for all it’s worth. Can you imagine how much the media would pay for an exclusive interview with a close friend of the Waxwork Assassins?”

Jon’s laugh sounds a little unwilling, but from the slight easing in the tension in his shoulders, Sasha guesses she hit the right note. She can’t make him smile as easily as Martin or Tim can, but every once in a while she manages it.

“Don’t work too hard,” Tim says, clapping her on the shoulder as he passes.

“I intend to break out the champagne as soon as you leave,” Sasha shoots back. “Go. Have fun. Try not to punch anything.”

“See you tomorrow, Sasha,” Martin says.

Sasha walks them to the door of the Archives and waves as they set off, Tim on one side and Martin on the other. It’s one of those arbitrary Saturdays Elias has once a quarter where he declares the Institute open to anyone, not just academics, which means they’re all supposed to be in until noon. He always declares them less than a week in advance, though, and Sasha’s fellow team members have already made plans to spend a few hours at Madame Tussauds; partly it’s that they want to see if they can figure out what the Not-Sasha was doing there in the Primes’ time, partly it’s that none of them ever really go off and do anything fun outside their house and they frankly deserve it. Sasha also knows that Tim is going to practice what he’s been learning, about targeting his vision. She’s not sure if that’s knowledge granted to her by the Eye or if she just knows Tim well enough to have figured it out; either way, she wonders if Jon and Martin are aware of it and if she should have warned them. Then she recalls Jon’s half-finished sentence and mentally kicks herself. Of course Jon and Martin are aware of what Tim’s planning. He’s trying to be better about communicating—they all are—so of course he would have told them, probably when he booked their tickets for today. He probably just forgot she hadn’t been part of the conversation.

She heads back to her desk and tells herself not to worry. They’ll be fine.

Settling in at her computer, she goes back to the research she’s doing on this current statement. Martin’s new cross-indexing system pulled up several potential matches, and she’s digging to see if any of it pans out. (Although, considering the nature of the statement, maybe she shouldn’t use phrases like that.) It’s definitely a Flesh statement; unlike the others, which can be more subtle, the Flesh is blatantly obvious when it turns up.

After a few minutes, though, she gives up. She does not have the stomach for this, not today. Instead, she clicks through a few layers of security until she’s in her private, hidden part of her laptop and her private research project. She’s got a few notes to dictate, and she doesn’t like taking work home with her, so she scoops up her laptop and the new tape recorder that matches her nails and retreats to the depths of Document Storage. They prefer doing their unofficial tapes…not on the main floor. It makes them feel a little better, she supposes.

It’s Martin who carved out the space in the boxes, carefully shuffling them around until there’s a little niche just wide enough for a comfortable chair, with an extra box missing from the layer so there’s somewhere to set drinks or notes as the case may be. It’s Tim who found the worn but sturdy armchair at a charity shop, and, surprisingly, it’s Jon who bought what is possibly the world’s tackiest slipcover, what Sasha can only class as “electric paisley”. Tim claims it looks exactly like what he sees when he looks at the shelves in the Archives, but only to Sasha and Martin; he doesn’t even joke about it in front of Jon. Sasha can’t decide if it’s sweet or something she should be concerned about.

She settles into the armchair, legs folded into the lotus position beneath her, and sets her laptop on the note box, then clicks on her tape recorder.

“Research of Sasha James, Archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the heads of the Institute, past and present,” she says. “Recorded eleventh February, 2017. Notes on Director Thomas Fitzwalter, fourth Head of the Institute, tenure 1940 to 1941.”

At least she doesn’t have a lot of people to look into. In some ways, her self-appointed task is easier than Tim’s or Martin’s, just because the scope is so much tighter. In other ways, of course, it’s harder. Tim only needs to work with himself, and Martin’s index is entirely self-contained within the Archives and their ongoing research. Sasha may only have a total of seven people to actually look into, but they’re hard to pin down. Partly it’s their age; records that predate digital record-keeping are trickier to search, as she has to hope they’ve been indexed online or find a library that might have the resources she needs. Partly it’s the fact that, well, they’re men who were only nominally themselves and were actually Jonah Magnus. Naturally he wouldn’t want people looking too closely at them.

But she’s struck, as she describes the details she’s been able to pull up about the man who had the shortest tenure as Institute Head due to what was either a poorly-timed or well-timed German bomb, by just how unremarkable all of the people she’s looked into were. None of them were standouts in their field, students from prestigious universities, or the scions of powerful families—which has to be a first in academia. She’s working her way backwards, so maybe she’ll find something different with the two men between Jonah Magnus and Thomas Fitzwalter, but so far, not a single one of them has been remotely distinguished, and in any other institute it would be a shock for them to ascend to head it up. Especially so quickly.

“I’m kind of curious as to why the Eye didn’t warn Fitzwalter about the attack in time to get under cover,” she muses. “I’m still doing research into him, so it’s possible he just wasn’t very likable or intelligent, but—”

“Hello?”

“Shit,” Sasha hisses. It’s not one of her boys—or Elias, which is a plus—but that means it’s someone she needs to deal with. “End recording.”

She snaps off the tape, pockets the recorder, closes her laptop, and hastens out to the main Archives with a smile plastered on her face. It falters when she sees who’s standing there—none other than P.C. Basira Hussain, arms folded tightly across her chest. Sasha is ready to get defensive, but then she takes a closer look at her face. She looks…grim is one word for it. Haunted is another. Gutted might come closest.

“Officer Hussain?” she says cautiously.

Basira makes a good effort at glaring at her, but it’s not particularly intimidating. “Was looking for J—Sims.”

“He’s out today,” Sasha answers. “It’s just me, I’m afraid. Can I help you?”

Basira makes a noncommittal noise. “That happen often? Them leaving you to hold down the fort on your own?”

“No, usually there are at least two of us around at all times, especially these days. But we’re also not usually here on Saturdays,” Sasha says. “Open house. Director Bouchard”—she says his name in the clipped, precise, tight-lipped manner of a woman in a male-dominated industry speaking of a superior who would like to keep it that way—“scheduled it somewhat last-minute, and the others already had plans for the afternoon.”

“And they made you stay, did they? Typical men.”

“Actually, I offered. I’ve taken more days off in the last year than all three of them put together, not counting when Martin was out on medical leave after his stint as a colander.”

Basira almost smiles. Sasha sets her laptop on her desk and comes closer. “Okay, I’ve got to ask—is this a professional visit or a personal one? Not like that,” she adds quickly when Basira stiffens. “I know you’re not—Jon doesn’t seem like your type. I just meant—are you here as a cop or…?”

“No, it’s…” Basira sighs heavily. “Just needed to talk to him, I guess. I called yesterday and—”

Sasha remembers now. Jon came out of his office and had Martin pull up all the cases they’ve come across involving the name Maxwell Rayner. “Yeah, I—he mentioned that.”

“He did,” Basira says flatly.

Shit, they’re not supposed to know Basira is feeding him those tapes…but then Sasha thinks, to hell with it. “Yeah. It’s hard to keep secrets around here, you know? Turns out we’re all developing spooky supernatural powers, and mine is that sometimes I know things without knowing how I know them. I mean, sometimes I can Know things on purpose, but mostly it’s just passing by someone and accidentally plucking a secret out of their brain without meaning to. Let me tell you, I did not need to know that the man behind the counter at my favorite coffee shop has a foot fetish.”

“I dunno, that might be useful in the summer if you’re the type to wear sandals.” Basira relaxes, just a fraction, which surprises Sasha more than a little. “What did he say?”

“Just that you’d called and asked about Maxwell Rayner. Look, have a seat, you look like you’re about to fall over. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? There’s some peppermint hot cocoa, too, if that strikes your fancy.” Sasha means it—Basira does look like she needs some fortification, and maybe to talk and get something off her chest—but if she’s being honest, she’s also burning with curiosity about what happened. She’s got to be careful about bringing that up, though. “Sorry we don’t have anything stronger, but, you know, we’re pretending to be professional.”

“Actually, that cocoa doesn’t sound too bad,” Basira mutters. She drops into Tim’s chair and leans her folded arms on his desk, staring at the surface like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Sasha hurries over to their tea station and pulls out one of the spare mugs they rarely use, along with the mug that long ago became hers. Cocoa sounds good, actually. It was grey and overcast when she came in, and she Knows without meaning to that it’s just barely warm enough that it’s raining instead of snowing, so it’s a good day for cocoa. She gives a fleeting thought to wondering if the Primes are warm enough in the stone tunnels, then goes back to making the cocoa.

“Here,” she says, handing the guest mug to Basira. “Made with water, not milk, but I mix a little bit of creamer into it. Works a treat.”

“Thanks,” Basira mutters.

As Sasha takes her seat, she notices her tape recorder sitting on her desk. It was definitely in her pocket a minute ago, and she definitely didn’t take it out, but there it is, innocuously resting next to her laptop. And, she notices, it’s running.

It’s not really a surprise, in some ways. Obviously Basira has a statement, and obviously it’s the real McCoy. It just startles Sasha that the tape recorder turned itself on…and for her. She sort of figured that only happens for Jon. It’s honestly a bit of a thrill, knowing that whatever is behind these tapes recognizes her.

She collects herself. “I take it that…whatever you were asking about Rayner for didn’t go well?”

Basira takes a long drink of her cocoa. “We lost Altman. Just…wasn’t paying attention. Don’t know what they’re going to tell his family. Guess it could have been worse, though, if I hadn’t talked to your boss first, so…tell him I said thanks.”

Sasha reaches over and squeezes Basira’s free hand as comfortingly as she can. Surprisingly, Basira grips it back. “Do you want to talk about it? I mean…I know you’re probably bound by all kinds of confidential agreements and all that, but you can ask any of the others, I’m really good at keeping secrets. We’re trying not to keep secrets from each other, but if you tell me not to say anything to them, I won’t. Just between you and me and whatever’s at the other end of the tape recorder that I absolutely did not turn on myself, by the way. Did you?”

Basira stares at it. “Fuck. Didn’t even notice it was on.” She takes a deep breath. “You know, I—I think I do want to talk about it. Don’t even care if you tell the others, or play them the tape or whatever, just…I need to talk to someone, I think. And with all those Section Thirty-One forms, this is probably the only place I can talk about it. Sure the only place I can talk about it and not feel crazy.”

Sasha nods. “Be glad you didn’t come in a year, year and a half ago. Jon’s skeptic act was legendary.”

“I’ll bet. He looks like a skeptic who got thrown in the deep end.” Basira makes an attempt at a smile. “Where do you want me to start?”

“As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, ‘Begin at the beginning, and go on until you reach the end: then stop.’”

“Alice in Wonderland. Fitting. That’s about what it felt like.” Basira sets down the mug on the table. “Well then. I guess the beginning is with the disappearance of Callum Brodie.”

Sasha keeps her eyes on Basira’s face as she describes the events at the Outer Bay Shipping industrial complex in Harringay. There’s just a little bit of static in her ears as she listens, but mostly it’s just Basira’s voice and the story she’s telling. It is…objectively terrifying, to be honest. Sasha’s always been just a little bit afraid of the dark, or at least of what might be hiding in the dark, and although she never says anything to the others, the Dark statements get to her. She’s never heard one live, though. Never sat with someone and felt their terror coursing through the loop of the shared space between them as they describe coming face to face with one of the two entities Sasha is willing to admit she genuinely fears (the other, obviously, being the Stranger, and she’s still not sure if that’s because of what it did to her Prime counterpart or because of what it did to Tim or just because it’s the natural enemy of the entity she’s bound to). It’s compelling, and the air seems charged with something, but she can’t say what.

“I think they were connected to that cult group from way back, the Church of the Divine whatever,” Basira says at last. She sounds drained.

“The People’s Church of the Divine Host,” Sasha supplies. “Rayner was their leader back in the nineties. We’ve had—God, how many statements about them? I can probably pull them for you if you want.”

“I don’t,” Basira says firmly. “Not even a little. I’ve been thinking a lot over the last few days, and…I’m done. With the police, with Section Thirty-One, all of it. Was going to tell Jon in person, but if he’s not here, this is the best I can do. Anyway, you all have my statement. I felt like I owed it to you.”

Sasha tilts her head to one side. “You’re really quitting?”

“Yeah. And you should, too. All of you. This place…it’s not right.”

Sasha can’t help the soft snort of laughter. “No kidding. I can’t, though.”

Basira raises an eyebrow. “Have to see it through? Or is it loyalty to your coworkers?”

She sounds bitter—like she’s talking from personal experience. Sasha wants to probe at that, but throttles it back. First of all, Basira is a lot pricklier than the rest of Team Archives, she won’t respond to her the same way. And second of all, she is actively trying to be less of an arse about that sort of thing. Instead, she decides for complete honesty. “No, it’s the sort of thing you’re done with. I’m being literal when I say I can’t quit. We’re bound to the Institute—to the Archives. If any of us try to leave, we’ll die.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get offered a job here,” Basira says dryly. She squeezes Sasha’s hand—it’s only then Sasha realizes they’ve maintained that physical contact throughout the entirety of her statement—then stands up. “Tell Jon I said to stay safe.”

Sasha stands, too, and watches her head to the door. Before she gets there, though, she calls out, “Basira.”

Basira stops and looks back over her shoulder. “What?”

Sasha should ask about the tapes—Jon’s going to want to know, they all want to know, and if Basira quits the force they might have to ask Daisy to bring them and nobody wants that—but what comes out of her mouth is, “Keep a light on for a while. It—I don’t want it to come after you, too.”

Basira studies her for a moment, then gives a small half-smile. “I will. Thanks, Sasha.” With that, she leaves the Archives.

Click! The tape recorder shuts itself off. Sasha stares at it for a moment, then swears. Unlike the others, she didn’t grow up functionally bilingual, so her profanity is limited to English and the smattering of dirty words she and her classmates looked up in French class, but she makes good use of them. She hits the button to rewind the tape with one hand and fishes out her phone with the other. Calling up the obnoxiously-named group chat, she hastily thumbs a message: [Let me know when you’re done.]

That done, she opens her laptop again and sets into some serious research.

Nobody ever visits the Archives on Open House days; the only people who ever come down here anyway are students doing dissertations who need firsthand accounts, especially older ones, and no self-respecting student works on a Saturday morning. So there’s no one to interrupt her as she clicks through Martin’s index, then switches her focus to the onerous task of following the twists and threads of corporate ownership. They haven’t done much research into Maxwell Rayner, either, or at least not as much as they should, so Sasha broadens her search for the name. What she comes up with nearly steals the breath from her lungs. It’s a coincidence, it has to be…

“Sasha?”

Sasha jumps, nearly flipping her laptop across the desk, and whips her head around to see Jon, Martin, and Tim coming towards her, looking worried. “Jesus, you three scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering. We got worried,” Martin says, pointing at her phone.

Sasha looks and sees that she’s missed fifteen texts in the group chat, starting with [We’re done. What’s up?] and devolving from there into mild panic. She flushes. “Sorry. I guess I got a bit wrapped up in my research…didn’t expect you to be done so quickly. Um, how did it go?”

“Fine. Stranger-free,” Tim answers. “One of the staff members has something, though. Jon smelled the statement on her—”

“That makes it sound worse, somehow,” Jon mutters.

“—and I’m pretty sure it’s a Desolation,” Tim continues. “Hopefully she stops by at some point so we can confirm that. What are you still doing here?”

Martin looks over her shoulder at the page called up on her screen. “Max—? Basira. She called back?”

“She was here,” Sasha tells him. She points at her recorder. “The operation she was on went sideways. It’s all on there, but if you’re going to listen, I need to be somewhere else.”

“No, it’s—some other time, maybe.” Jon rubs his forehead. “Summarize for us?”

“Rayner and his…cult, or what’s left of it, kidnapped a boy named Callum Brodie about three weeks ago,” Sasha answers. “The police apparently got a tip-off as to where they’d taken him—a place up in Harringay registered to Outer Bay Shipping. They had a raid yesterday and it was pretty much entirely sectioned officers. Basira called you as soon as she realized that, and by the way, she says thank you for the tip about the lights, because it’s probably the only reason they didn’t all end up dead.” She pauses, wondering how to wrap it all into a neat package, then finally says, “Details are on the tape, but the long and the short of it is that some…really dark stuff came pouring out of Rayner’s mouth and tried to go into Callum Brodie. The officer who shot him probably stopped that from happening, and from the sound of it, the kid’s going to be okay. Rayner is dead. So are three other cult members and one officer. And Basira’s quitting the force. I get the feeling this was kind of the straw that broke the camel’s back for her.”

Jon exhales, hard. “Christ.”

Martin is still studying the screen over her shoulder. “Sasha, this is—does that say what I think it does?”

“Yep. It doesn’t look like Mr. Rayner was particularly subtle.” Sasha looks up at Martin and can see in his eyes that he’s reached the same conclusion she has. Turning to Jon and Tim, who both look confused, she elaborates, “Maxwell Rayner, and the People’s Church of the Divine Host, are associated with the Dark, right? And darkness was flowing out of him into Callum Brodie.”

Jon’s face goes ashen. “Are you saying they were trying to initiate him into their cult? To—to mark him? Christ, how old is he?”

“Twelve, but…no, not exactly. Worse.” Sasha taps one fingernail on the edge of her laptop. “I widened my search for Rayner to before the nineties, especially in conjunction with…weird stuff, and I found this buried in a site about Edmund Halley. The description tallies pretty damn closely with the description of the man in the nineties, so either it’s a family line that doesn’t use suffixes—”

“Or,” Tim says, his eyes going wide with horror, “Maxwell Rayner has been extending his life by taking over new bodies as he ages out of the old one.”

“Or,” Martin adds softly, “stealing the life force of other people. Christ, I’d think that’d be more a Terminus power, but…I guess it’s possible?”

“Darkness. Like—” Jon breaks off the rest of the sentence, but he doesn’t need to say it. They all know what he’s thinking of. Sasha just hopes Elias isn’t paying attention to them right now. “I suppose that’s something we’ll have to…run down.”

“Good idea.” Sasha closes her laptop and stands up, palming the recorder. “Let’s go do that right now.”

[creativitycache]

Is Martin going to be mentioned again in ToT? Or is that little snippet in the buried going to be all Jon remembers?

Below is Spoilers, including details breakdown of the story’s meta. Bewarned! This is long & convoluted as all get out. It basically can be summed up like this:

Martin and other future people (not just events) have actually been mentioned more than that, and to answer your question right off of the bat, yes Jon will continue to remember.

As I was originally answering this, it kind of spiraled out of control as I dove into a detailed breakdown of some things so I decided to just go for the whole hog and put everything down here in one place. I’ve got a similar breakdown in another document, but that’s really just for keeping tabs on how many days have passed and not the meta analysis.

TL;DR on meta: Jon is leveling up at a ridiculous speed, but he already was high level to start out with so he’s really just lagging behind his adult self. The more he feeds the more he grows. In the Eyepocalypse, we’ve heard Jon lament that trying to access his powers within his body is like trying to “drink the ocean through a straw”, and it’s only gotten more difficult as his body has shrunk.

Another note on timing: in the original story, Jon had gained multiple marks in back to back horrible days. In my own small way, the pacing of these later chapters is repayment for Jon’s hell week.

Entity Touched events will be in bold. Jon’s powers being activated will be italicized. Remembering a specific person/statement/future event will be noted with (parenthesis). Please note that while I will put a specific name in the parenthesis Jon often does not consciously remember the name nor the full scope of the event/person/statement. I will keep a running total of how many days since the last notable entity touched event at the top.

Ch 1

Jon goes through the Spiral’s Doors. His body merges, and he fluctuates between seeing and Seeing. Eventually, his eyes settle upon Watching constantly. He struggles to remember Section 31 (Daisy and Basira “they were both strangers and enemies and friends“). He Knows Detective Davies exact schedule, and the train schedule. He attempts to Feed via Compelling, unsuccessfully. He Sees Detective Davies schedule change. He Senses stories nearby.

Ch 2

Day 3 post-emerging:

After reading a Story: he Knows the difference between true and fake statements, as well as Mr. Magnus’s true name and that he stole the name Elias. He can See farther than what his eyes should be able to, and is able to Watch Elias. He Compels Elias but does not stay long enough to feed off his answers. He remembers (Barnabas Bennett). He remembers (the feeling of his own rib.) He remembers (going into the Lonely to save someone). When pressed, he remembers (the Unknowing exploding into fire) and losing “them” (his Assistants). This causes him to vomit and creates a void within him that must be filled.

Ch 3

Day 3 post-emerging, less than one hour after reading a Story:

Jon summons tape recorders to listen to stories. He listens to dozens of Stories at the same time. Jon remembers (the layout of the Institute). Jon gives a Statement.

Ch 4

Day 3 post-emerging, hours after consuming dozens of Stories:

Jon remembers (the Dark Sun, and Looking directly at the Entities). Jon remembers (Michael stabbing him for Compelling).

Ch 5

One day after consuming dozens of Stories:

Jon reads a bedtime Story. This reveals to Elias that Jon is able to comprehend all languages.

Ch 6

Jon consumes multiple Stories per day, far exceeding the normal Archivist rate of consumption. He remembers (Elias unable to See him in Orsinov’s Circus) He is unable to lie. He walks through the Archivist nightmares and the nightmares of the Eyepocalpyse, but these future events are unable to be perceived by Elias. During these nightmares, he remembers (being hurt by several “monsters”.)

Post this chapter, assume Jon has read at least one bedtime Story and multiple Stories throughout the day for months.

Ch 7

Jon now Knows all answers to fact-based questions his teachers ask. He begins drawing Eyes that have some will of their own- refusing to be paired. Jon now speaks directly to the Eye. It is confirmed his eyes have now physically changed to be reminiscent of other Avatars of the Eye- ie Elias. Jon Sees all marks left on people by the Entities. He remembers (how the Entities make Avatars), (Simon Fairchild) and (that he did something very bad unwillingly). He can sense when Elias is trying to See into his head.

Ch 8

Jon Feeds off of Emma, and forces her to Know her victim’s pain. Everyone is unable to move or interrupt him. He forces the web of the Mother of Puppets to be Shown. He remembers (where the tunnels are and what they do).

Ch 9

One day after Feeding off of Emma

Jon grows bigger. Jon Knows the (true nature of the Entities, and their effects on the world) and tries to articulate them. His explanation is different than Gertrude’s. He remembers (Tim’s jokes, Martin’s love of fuzzy tarantulas, the fight with Peter, and Michael-as-the-Distortion’s Statement, being friends with his Assistants and that things went wrong when his Assistants were no longer his friends). He thinks, but is not sure, he remembers who the man in the tunnels is (Lietner) and that he can track him down. He can See everyone’s marks and make them visible to others. When attempting to consciously access Knowledge of Michael’s future, he faints and blood comes out of his nose.

Jon consumes a Story. Jon remembers (how to Quit). Jon fights with the Eye’s geas against speaking of escape and wins.

Jon remembers (the Eyepocalypse) and Knows why he can survive on only old stories and statements from Avatars. Reaching for this knowledge is even more difficult than just Michael’s future, and causes him to black out for a significant amount of time with a severe memory wipe. Despite this memory wipe, he remembers (Gertrude does not treat her Assistants well, and the location of Fiona & Joshua Gillespie’s statement).

Ch 10

Jon Knows how to get to the Coffin purely thanks to the Eye, and realizes the Knowledge is external because his sense of direction was previously so poor. He is now able to consciously communicate directly in a back and forth conversation with the Eye, although the Eye is currently only Answering Jon’s Questions and Jon is giving his opinion. Being near the Coffin causes Jon to remember (he was in the Coffin for 3 days).

Being in the Coffin causes Jon to remember (that he got stuck with someone else last time, that he had an anchor, and that it might be M-m-mar- ), then he gets out in a day and a half. This is half the time of the first round, despite Fiona being deeper in than Daisy had been.

Jon Feeds off of John the Buried Avatar.

Ch 11

Day 1 post-Coffin & Feeding off of John

Jon feeds off of Dr. Girard the pediatrician.

Jon still comprehends all languages, but now he can articulate something is strange despite still not realizing he’s not hearing English. Jon grows after feeding. Jon Knows when Fiona is in trouble. His eyesight is noticeably excellent. Jon remembers (Gertrude’s war against the rituals is “stupid”, and that Jonah stole Elias’s body and why. He remembers statements about Agnes, and how Agnes and Gertrude are bound, and what various members of the Cult of the Lightless Flame look like. He also remembers going out for Martin’s birthday and eating ice cream, which is how he knows where the nearest ice cream parlor is.)

This is the last time Jon takes out the crayon drawing of the Eye.

Ch 12

Day 2 post-Coffin & Feeding off of John, Day 1 post Feeding off of Dr. Girard

Jon remembers (you should never hold an Avatar of the Desolation barehanded, and that the tunnels go for miles and miles, and that Smirke realized his architectural theories were wrong.)

Jon Knows he loves tea but hasn’t found one that tastes right. (He’s thinking of Martin’s tea, but he doesn’t realize it.) It’s also revealed that Jon is crying alone sometimes in his room when he thinks no one will notice, but he doesn’t Remember why. When asked, he remembers (he was Made and not Born), and Knows that the Eyepocalypse/”his destiny” is preventable, but he had to lay down before remembering/realizing any further.

He remembered the (statement about Agnes’s childhood, and the Distortion’s Avatars, despite the fact the Distortion would not merge like that until post-ritual, and that Gertrude liked to blow things up/use fire to disrupt rituals.)

The Eye now is giving Jon specific suggestions, ie origami frogs, when he Asked for ideas.

Ch 13

Day 3 post-Coffin & Feeding off of John, Day 2 post Feeding off of Dr. Girard

When asked, he knows there’s no such thing as time where the Eye is, but vomits from trying to Know something directly about where the Fears currently are. Jon remains nauseous but does not faint, have blood loss, or memory loss. Then, when a Story is read to him from Van Closen, he remembers (the contents of a different statement entirely- Fanshaw’s letter.) He struggles to grasp something else the Eye is telling him.

Ch 14

Day 4 post-Coffin & Feeding off of John, Day 3 post Feeding off of Dr. Girard.

Jon remembers (being a manager.) Elias and Fiona do not realize Jon is using terms no one has used around him before- nor do they recognize like Michael did earlier that Jon’s specific grasp of corporate language is far outside the normal range of what children usually have picked up.

Fiona, newly awakened, uses her powers on Jon. He then, when in close proximity to her, is reminded of what information he hadn’t been able to grasp earlier (ie, Eric and Gerry).

Jon enters a battlefield surrounded by Entity-touched deathtraps being sprung. He remembers (wandering untouched in the Eyepocalypse, Mary binding herself to the book.)

Ch 15

Day 4 post-Coffin & Feeding off of John, Day 3 post Feeding off of Dr. Girard.

Jon (remembers “interrupting drinks” and that they always taste better when in a mug- ie, Martin’s tea. He remembers the Dark was “for babies”.)

When awoken, he is able to articulate that he did remember Gerry and Eric.

Jon summons Eric. The Archive speaks. Jon Knows how to edit the Book as Mary Keay did in the original timeline, and does so.

[black-streak]

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting (but Sundays are meant for rest) - The Bet

Part 2

Continuation of my timinette thing... I really need to give it an actual name.

Soooo. I wasn't planning on continuing this nor expecting the sheer amount of attention this recieved (dear goodness, I dont even know how to react, like actually thank you all so much?) But im going to try and actually continue this further if people are interested. Anyways!

~---~

It took less than 6 hours for Damian to realize something was off.

"What happened."

"I haven't the slightest what you're on about."

"Tt."

Despite knowing he would know eventually, Marinette enjoyed watching him get frustrated over not knowing. No matter, once he got the subject matter or at least a piece of the puzzle, she'd provide him the full picture. Best he finds out from her and not draw his own conclusions.

~---~ 

Less than two hours.

Less than two hours and Damian had already caught on to the subject of her change. Would've been easier to throw him off had Tim not decided to return to the Manor right then… dressed in business attire, obviously having come from a board meeting. He looked unfairly attractive in a wine red button down, sleek black tie and vest, detailed in intricate gray designs, almost too fine to see to an untrained eye. Truly wasted on the stiffs he probably met. Add in the surprisingly well rested look about him and tousled black hair falling about his face… well… let's just say Mari was distracted.

"What'd Tim do?"

"Hmm?" Marinette hummed to Damian, not really paying attention to what he said.

"You're staring. What'd he do?"

"Oh… Oh!" Mari snapped out of it, turning to him, flustered, "not here."

Narrowing his eyes, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her from the room, not missing how Tim's eyes zeroed in on their clasped hands, a contemplative look about his face. Getting back to his own room, he closed the door shut tight and turned to his friend.

"Alright, explain."

"I want to date your brother."

"I'm being serious," he ground out.

"So am I."

"Why?" 

"Are you okay with it?" She asked, watching closely for any tells that might give him away. His left eye twitched, but that could just be from her avoiding the question.

"Why do you want to date him?" 

"What? You want me to gush about your older brother to you?"

"If it'll allow me to understand the situation, yes."

"Fine. He's sweet, highly intelligent, knows how to offer quiet companionship without pushing but can also get the whole story from very little, enjoys the same weird niche humor as me, but brings his own twist to it. Tim doesn't mind that I'm clingy and cuddly and likes how warm I am even when I'm cold and snuggling for warmth. It certainly doesn't hurt that he's insanely attractive and I feel bold and daring when I flirt with him. So there. I want to date him. Do you have a problem with it? Cause I'll back off if you do."

"... What happened last night?"

"We might have had to cut each other off from coffee and watched vine for 22 minutes straight." She admitted with a sheepish grin then paused a moment as though unsure if she should continue, "I also might have fallen asleep on his chest… With permission of course."

" Figures. Jon and Chloe are going to get a kick out of this. Whatever, date him. He's likely already smitten so I'm sure he'll be wrapped around your finger soon enough. Even if he wasn't, we could definitely dispose of the body between the four of us if things went south." 

"Dami! That's your brother! And he won't be wrapped around my finger. He'll be my equal."

"And you're my Angel."

20 seconds

She stared him down for 20 seconds before his lip twitched into a smirk.

"I'm playing. I wouldn't kill him. Just maim him a little. So, how do you plan on telling the rest of the family when you inevitably end up charming him?" 

"That reminds me! It may be harder than you'd think. Apparently they all think we're dating. Tim wouldn't even let me into too much contact with him until I cleared up that we weren't."

"Good."

"What?"

"I'd be more concerned if he was fine holding you while under the presumption you were taken."

Realization hit her, "Oh, that makes sense. Yeah, good point. But back to the point, if he thought we were dating, the rest certainly do." 

Damian nodded decisively, laying back on his bed to stare at the ceiling.

"That's not too surprising. They've hinted at it lightly and neither of us confirmed nor denied anything. Hmm… this could be entertaining."

Pursing her lips, Mari narrowed her eyes at him, "What type of bet are you thinking?"

Smirking up at her he replied, "How long it will take them to realize you and Tim are together."

"Hmm… rules?"

"Bet goes into effect the second he calls you his. In any form that hints at a romantic connection."

Nodding, she added, "Neither of us can give any overt indication that we are not dating nor that Tim and I are. We cannot tell them in any form unless directly asked, but if they ask, you must honestly answer. None of our usual needling and tricks either. If you bend the rules, it's an automatic disqualification."

Contemplating the words a moment, Damian nodded, "Loser covers the other's terrible excuses."

"We inform Tim of the bet within a week of it going into effect." 

"Fair enough. What's your bet?"

She thinks it over for a moment, not wanting to forget any variables before making her decision.

"It'll take everything except the actual words, 'we are dating' for them to get it. We won't have to outright state that I'm with Tim, but you will have to outright say you aren't with me at some point. It'll take over 2 months."

Considering her, he looked back to the ceiling, noticing a slightly discolored spot, "In agreement then. Except. You'll have to tell them you're dating. Not me or Tim. You. They won't believe it from anyone else. It'll take 3 months at least."

"Bet settled then."

Sitting up, Damian grabbed her hand and very firmly shook it, a serious air about them both. She broke first, falling back and giggling, giddy with excitement and relief. 

"So how long till he asks you out then? Can't be long the way he watched us leave."

"Oh I already sort of asked him."

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 4

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating: General, family feels, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, running away

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what they had lost appeared, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter 4

 6 years ago

 “Damian?” Jon asked quietly. “Are you there?”

 No answer.

 He didn’t expect it either, but the vague concern and suspicion that had led him fly away on a Tuesday evening to go to Gotham and see his partner increased in the back of his mind, along with his patience beginning to wear thin.

 He held on the window frame and peered silently into the room. The place seemed tidy and same as ever, Damian’s things were in their right place as he liked, and drawings materials with his current notebook were placed on the table, but as if they had not been used recently. That was weird, along with the fact that everything was where it had to be except the owner of the room, who was the person he had come looking for and could not see anywhere.

 This made Jon snort in exasperation. He knew Damian was here, he heard him, he felt him. He couldn’t see him, but that wasn’t necessary to find him. Robin couldn’t hide from him, not for long, and that was precisely what he had come to tell him. Because Damian had been avoiding him and thinks it’s for good reason.

 Yes. These past two days he had been ignoring him, and it might not be anything, but his instincts told him otherwise, so he fly away and now is upset in front of his window, debating whether to enter or not. But he knew that if he didn’t decide quickly Batman would probably catch him and scold him again for sneaking around Gotham without permission, or worse, Alfred would.

 Jon didn’t want to confront Alfred and had flown there for a reason, so taking a decision was very easy.

 “I’m going in.” He warned as he entered the room and closed the window and the curtains behind him, just in case.

 It was when he was inside and looking around that Jon was increasingly aware that he was here because of a very small and insignificant hunch. It had only been two days since Damian didn’t reply any texts, or calls, or give any signs of life in general. It wasn’t that long, it wasn’t even that much, he might be busy or on some mission, who knows?

But Jon was still irritated and worried. To be fair, that’s how he felt most of the time lately, because he was 13, Ktyptonian puberty was weird and he knew that wanting to talk to Damian and hear from him with such intensity wasn’t common. But he was already there, suspected something was wrong, warned before got in, had certain privileges for being his best friend and he only wanted answers. There was no turning back now.

 “Damian?” He asked again as he walked into the room, searching for him and being careful not to touch anything.

 As he flew there, he had been wondering how to ask him why hadn’t texted him these days, what his reasons might be, and why he cared so much. But now that Jon was there, those questions along with that part of him that had been worried and screaming in the background intensified as he confirmed part of his suspicions, realizing the unusual silence surrounding the manor, the sad atmosphere dominating the room and where Damian might actually be hiding.

 Something’s happened.

 He doesn’t know what, or if it’s very serious, but it’s enough for Bruce and his father to be on the phone for hours, for Clark being thoughtful and shocked after that, for break the fragile balance of the manor and for Damian to go to his usual hiding place when something went wrong.

And confirming it, makes the need to see him intensify.

 Sighing and approaching the bed, he felt how the unease began to dominate him, as well as the curiosity of wanting to know what happened, how could he help and why it had affected his partner so much. It had to be bad, because it meant Damian hadn’t contacted him because of whatever had happened in Gotham.

At least it hadn’t been because of he’d been dreading internally in silence, that thing about Damian meeting a pretty, wealthy girl of his same age and status in Gotham High, more interesting and adequate than Jon and the one who Damian could end up falling in love, going to prom, marrying and running into the sunset with their countless children to live together forever as he completely forget about him and the special and unique bond they share and… Enough.

 C’mon Jon, you’re not doing yourself any favor. And now it’s not the right moment, Jonathan, you have to help Damian.

 So, crouching down on the side of the mattress, he grabbed the sheet and lifted it up as he peeked under it.

There were two pairs of green eyes in the darkness under the bed, and only one of them looked at him while the other remained fixed on nothing.

 “Dami.” He called him softly.

 Whatever has happened has to be big or emotionally conflictive, because Damian only chooses to take refuge under his bed when he has big breakdowns. And right now, seeing how the current Robin is lying on his back on the ground, in silence, without any expression, looking at nothing in the dark and holding his cat on his chest without strength, it was clear that he was fighting with himself more than usual.

 “I’m going down there with you, okay?” He said kindly as before.

 If he didn’t want it that way, didn’t show any of it. He just stayed just quiet and still as Jon slid under the mattress and lay down, enough close to him so their shoulders brushed.

He wondered if his lack of reaction was because he was too deep in his own head to deny him the entry or because his best friend privileges allowed him to be there. Whatever, he knew Damian was well aware of his presence no matter how much he didn’t show it.

 The floor was clean, not cozy but this particular hideaway was always kept pretty decent. Damian never told him in detail, but he knew the reason he tended to hide here or in other tight places when was sad is because made him feel safe in a certain way. During his time in the league, he might have been treated like a prince, but should always be on guard, watching for his surroundings and ready to fight. But if he locked himself in a small place where no one could reach him, he had a moment of solitude and peace, because nobody could attack behind his back nor take him by surprise, he had the control and the security of being vulnerable for a single moment.

It’s also because once, after arguing with Tim over any nonsense that would affect him too much, he hid there. When the third Robin went looking for him he pretended not to find him, and Damian ended up sleeping. When he woke up a while later, he was in bed, tucked up and Tim sleeping next to him. They didn’t speak about it or apologize later, but they didn’t need to.

 However, unlike them, Jon need to speak with him now. To know what happened and why of his reaction. As much as the silent support he was used to give him was there, he feared that this time it wouldn’t be enough.

 He always feared not to be enough for Damian.

 After a few minutes of silence between them, Jon slowly raised his hand to caress Alfred the cat, who had not moved from his place or taken his eyes off him since he joined them, as if wondering what he was doing there, despite being used to his presence.

 However, while he was debating how to start the conversation -or whether to start it-, like a good cat he was, Alfred sniffed his hand, allowed him to pet him twice and then got tired, meowed in protest and quickly get off from Damian’s chest to ran away.

 Jon didn’t know if apologize to the cat for bothering him or to apologize to Damian for taking away the comfort his pet gave him. But instead he said nothing and lowered his hand again in disappointment, still unsure what to do.

 Damian still didn’t react, didn’t even seem sad for the cat’s disappearance, and his concern increased. But when he lowered his hand Jon could feel the touch of his, warm and close, so close, and easy to grab for comfort and to show him that he was still by his side. Would it be okay? How far he could press his luck today?

He was doubting again, almost panicking, when Damian’s voice finally broke the silence, revealing the cause of the entire disaster.

 “Todd and Drake are dating.”

 He said it in a monotonous and indifferent tone, which was clearly feigned. And at the revelation of that information, Jon tilted his head to stare at him, frowning but not saying anything now that Damian had begun to speak.

 “We found out two nights ago, nobody liked it.” He continued, still in that cold and analytical tone. “Grayson and Father argued with them in the cave. Drake ended up crying.”

 Jon frowned further and felt Damian’s hand shake lightly, as if he was holding back to clench his fist. He couldn’t blame him, Tim tends a lot to hold back his emotional responses and hide them carefully, everyone knows he has to be very affected and shaken to break like that. He doesn’t want to know what kinds of things could have been said in that fight to make Tim reach that limit, but the expectation causes him an agonizing and alarming discomfort.

 “They want them to break up.” Damian said. “Because it’s dangerous, risky and irresponsible.”

 This time was Jon who clenched his fist, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

 It was common knowledge that bats were very competent as detectives, they could catch rapist, drug dealers or killers with four clues or less. But when it comes to feelings, emotions, or relationships… Well, they had too many secrets, too many risks, and they are too compromised to the crusade to risk anything. They could even saw close friendships as dangerous in punctual moments.

 However, Tim and Jason were an even bigger complication, and now he was starting to understand Damian’s conflicts and why he was like this. Because not only was Tim’s civil identity as CEO of WE added to the above, if not also the fact that both had strayed too far from the family -or at least from Bruce- in recent years. The relationship was tense and although he didn’t know the details, resentment was palpable in their interactions, you could tell Batman didn’t like the “Red team” and even Jon was aware that the only reason they put a feet on the manor were Damian, Alfred and Batcow.

 Damian, who knew everything now, who had heard the fight and the same cruel words as them, who loved Tim and Jason as brothers more than ever since he started growing up by their side.

 Damian, who couldn’t be agreed with those statements because, with him, he knew how happy Tim and Jason could be together.

 “They can’t do that.” Jon answered, sighing uneasily. “They’ve been dating for three years already.”

 Finally, that was what made Damian look away from the mattress to him, their faces too close, but his eyes sparkling with curiosity and reproach. Silently asking how he knew such detail.

Jon hesitated, not knowing how to answer properly. It had been obvious to him, with the flirting, the looks, the stolen sweatshirts, the shared safe houses, and the close and angry surveillance Kon kept on Hood sometimes. But he chose to say the more obvious and important reason to him.

 “I know how a heart in love sounds like.” He replied, looking at the other intently.

 Yes, he knew it. Learning to control his super-hearing had helped him to identify those kinds of things over time. And he learned to say what was behind the hearts that skipped a beat when seeing that person, behind those that beat fast when being too close or those who rumbled with strength and vigor just by being together.

 He knew it because it was how his and Damian’s had always sounded.

 And for a moment they said nothing, they were quiet again, looking at each other in the dim darkness, in their hiding place. Too much to say, too much to feel, too much to talk about. Jon swallowed hard and Damian shuddered in his position.

 “They said it’s dangerous… Because Todd tried to kill Drake.” Damian ended up saying, lowering his voice and showing more uncertainty in his tone this time. “Because he was a killer, he was a criminal. And they can’t trust him.”

 And there, there, there was the real problem.

 The real reason Damian was in that state, hiding under his bed and not wanting to see anyone, not wanting to see him.

 Because Jason was a killer, he was a criminal and he tried to kill Tim, just like Damian. And Tim was the youngest prodigy son, estranged, but good at what he does and seen as vulnerable by the other, just like him.

And if Bruce, Dick, and even his own father comforting Bruce on the phone, all those who Damian admired and believed couldn’t trust Jason, couldn’t give him a chance despite knowing he had reformed, he had changed, he had grown up and he loved Tim…

 What will they say about them?

 Jon immediately moved his hand to grab Damian’s tightly, forgetting his previous doubts and fears, even those of weeks ago, and feeling the discomfort sink his chest.

None of that indicated that they were going to react in the same way to them, it’s different but at the same time there were similarities, the words that were spoken in the cave had to be harsh and the thought of Clark talking to Bruce on the phone as if someone had dead instead Tim and Jason dating made him want to throw up.

 “They think he’s going to hurt him.” Damian didn’t grab his hand back, he just said that looking at him still unsure and worried. “That he’s not appropriate, that they are better apart.”

 Jon wanted to scream. Because he knew Damian wasn’t just talking about Jason, and people thinking that about him, just like Damian believing that about himself, made him angry, it hurts.

 “Do you think that too?” He asked with a lump in his throat.

 Damian’s hand trembled in his, indecisively. They still hadn’t taken their eyes off each other.

 “No.” He answered then, completely sure. As if he didn’t have to ask anyone to find out the answer, and he didn’t. “I know he would rather die again than hurt him, and I know he will fight whatever it takes to be by his side, whether he’s worthy or not.”

 The grip on his hand was returned, much stronger and secure than ever. His green eyes shining with determination and courage, saying things that couldn’t yet in words, their hearts beating strongly together again.

 “That’s love.” Jon said, almost without breath.

 “It is.” Damian replied, lacing their fingers.

 Needless to say, they weren’t just talking about Tim and Jason.

[mobius-prime]

212. Sonic the Hedgehog #144

Mobius 25 Years Later: The Die is Cast

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Steven Butler Colors: Jason Jensen

We've finally made it to the final installment of this damned arc! Man, that doesn't seem to leave us a lot of time to solve the main conflict of the world ending, does it…? Well, I suppose we have to read the issue first. Knuckles arrives back home after his visitation to Locke's grave, and tells a delighted Lara-Su that he's rethought his stance on training her as a Guardian and plans to start straightaway - after, of course, his current mission with Sonic. When he makes a vague allusion to asking her mother for help on her instruction if he doesn't come back, Lara-Su tries to insist she come along to help, and Julie-Su, who was listening in, becomes indignant.

Aww, that's actually sweet. I think that's the first time we've seen actual, real affection between any of this arc's married couples. Julie-Su sees Knuckles off to his shuttle, driven by - who else - an elderly Harry, and Sally makes him promise he'll bring her husband back to her. He tries to find Lara-Su for a final goodbye before his mission, but is somewhat baffled to not find her anywhere, assuming she was too angry at not being taken along to stick around. The shuttle flies them out through the worsening storms to the "badlands," a horrifically-polluted section of the planet that's so toxic the group has to wear sealed suits as they traverse the terrain and make their way to Robotnik's old hidden base.

Sonic immediately volunteers himself to go back in time despite the dangers Rotor warns him of, and we cut away to the shuttle for a little surprise - Lara-Su has stowed away in a cargo box, determined to come along and help despite what her father thinks. However, before she can even take a step outside the shuttle, she begins to vanish from reality like that scene from Back to the Future. What could be causing this? Well, back in the base, we might find our answer:

And… that's it! No, seriously, that's literally the end of the arc. No context is given for what we just saw happen. It's not explained if this time travel venture indeed caused the world to end, or if Sonic going back in time erased this timeline in favor of another, or what. This is such an abrupt and unsatisfactory ending that I have to wonder if Kenders was forced to end the story early on short notice, because absolutely nothing is explained here. We spent over a dozen issues building up to something, enduring trite teen drama and old stuffy adults arguing at each other while locked into loveless marriages, and got the most vague and useless ending possible, after all of that. I mean, what was even the point of all this then? Some chapters in this arc had literally no plot or character progression whatsoever! The aversion of the end of time and space was literally the most interesting potential plot hook in this entire arc, and it's basically swept aside in the last few pages with no explanation. This almost makes the actually good writing of last issue seem useless, if this is what came directly afterwards. *sigh* Ah well, we're finally free of this nightmare. And as it turns out, we're very close to the end of Penders as a whole! Those of you who have read the comics before might have noticed that we're rapidly approaching the 160th issue, which is when a certain fan-favorite writer took the reins and started to fix a lot of the messes that the previous writers left him with. So if you're one of the ones who despises everything Penders ever wrote, you don't have much longer to suffer - just a few more issues and we're in the clear!

Love and Loss

Writer: Romy Chacon Pencils: Jon Gray Colors: Josh Ray

This story is a bit of a bizarre one, being very unlike any others we've read so far. There's very little action and a whole lot of solid blocks of text to read, but in a way, I do feel it's interesting and contributes to several characters' arcs in a positive manner. A poor bear is doing his best to sell some newspapers to the denizens of Knothole one Wednesday evening when he suddenly finds himself mobbed by a horde of rabid women all grabbing for a copy.

Now that is quite interesting. No, I don't mean the love advice column - I mean the little signpost in the second panel, the one listing the prices for products at the stand! Now, Jon has a habit of making up things to put on posters and the like in the background of his art, many of which are clearly just meant to be humorous and not to be taken seriously, but this is literally (as far as I can tell) the very first instance we've ever seen of an actual unique currency in this world! "Mobiums", huh? They seem to be kind of equivalent to Japanese yen, in that a single one is barely worth a penny - I mean, I'm pretty sure they're not meant to be like dollars anyway, as $75 for a single comic seems incredibly steep. For now, I suppose we'll have to add "Mobiums" to our list of potentially-canon bits of worldbuilding info about Mobius.

Anyway, as you might expect, several of our favorite girls in this comic have gotten themselves a copy today, and as it turns out, they've all written in their own letters and are eager to see the advice this "Aly" will give them. First up is Bunnie, who writes in under the pseudonym "Feeling Terribly Alone." Obviously, her main problem is with Antoine. She details how they've grown apart and how she feels like she doesn't even know him anymore - and yet, despite all their recent difficulties, she's still in love with him and wishes things could go back to the way they used to be.

Poor Bunnie. One of the things that seems to crop up for her now and again is her well-hidden insecurities about her cyborg nature. From her recurring nightmares, to her concern over the idea of Antoine still being able to be attracted to her despite her robotic parts, it's clear that she struggles a lot more with her nature than she lets on, and her relationship with Antoine boosted her confidence immensely. They were clearly happy together, and just as they were getting past the honeymoon phase and settling into a more steady relationship, he became cold towards her without a clear explanation as to why. It's clearly broken her heart at a time when she desperately needs to be able to hold it together, and the idea of her sitting in her house at night, alone and sobbing to herself uncontrollably, is really sad.

Next up is Mina, AKA "Singing the Blues." Her letter discusses how lately she's feeling torn between old crushes and new relationships. Her new boyfriend, Ash, was briefly shown in StH#134, but apparently they've grown quite close in the year that Sonic was gone. However, with Sonic back, Mina has been feeling the old familiar butterflies around him, and questions whether she truly loves Ash in the same way she cares for Sonic. (Obviously, however, in the usual vein of these kinds of ask columns, everything she says is vague, not mentioning any names.) Aly's letter advises her to not give up on a current happy relationship to chase someone else who may not even be interested, and Mina appears to genuinely take this to heart, deciding to give her boyfriend a call despite the late hour.

Well, good for her! Mina's a sweetheart, and it does seem like she and Ash genuinely care for each other. The third letter comes from Amy, or "Wishing for Love," who lays out her crush on Sonic and how she's tried to get his attention here and there, including going so far as to "look and dress older" (bit of an understatement there, Ames) to catch his eye. However, she's frustrated that she can't seem to gain his affections, and wants Aly's opinion on whether she really is putting too much effort into a silly crush, or whether she actually has a chance. Aly begins by tactfully pointing out that it sounds like she's still young, and it's not a good idea to rush into love too quickly when there's so much more life ahead.

…yeah, that's about what I'd expect from Amy. After all, remember that despite her physical age, she still mentally skipped half her childhood up to this moment, and she's also the hopeless romantic type, so it's not surprising she'd be unimpressed by advice telling her to look away from her crush. The article appears to be winding down, but everyone reading is struck by what they see in the last entry, from someone called "Royally Scared." The writer dives into her story, about her deepest love and how they made a commitment to each other only for her love to be "lost," which broke her heart. When he came back, she tried to get him to walk away from his "job" for a better job in her family's "business," but he refused and they had an ugly break-up as a result. She still loves him, but she's too scared of losing him again, especially because he's so brash and throws himself into danger without a care.

Everyone immediately realizes that this is Sally's letter, and are riveted to the page for Aly's response. Aly admits that she doesn't have a solid answer for this one, but says that it seems like they both have valid points. She points out that Sally's "dramatic confrontation" might not have been very fair to her lover, and urges them to both talk it out like adults after they take some time apart to reevaluate their own priorities, before wishing her luck and concluding the article. I just want to point out that the entire section where she lays it out and Aly responds is masterfully put together, with the heart-filled background slowly transitioning to a deep, tangled mass of purple and black as the letter goes on, interspersed with silhouettes of Sally crying and looking very alone in a dark void. I've pointed it out before, but Sally was very clearly traumatized - badly - by everything she's been through, with Sonic's supposed death being a breaking point for her, and the backgrounds of this issue symbolize this struggle very effectively. But here comes the real twist. After all, "Aly" is clearly a pseudonym, and no one knows who's really running this column. So who do you suppose it is?

God damn. Even in the middle of dealing with severe PTSD, Sally's still got a damn good head on her shoulders. It seems that people were starting to suspect her as the writer, so she deliberately wrote in a letter that was obviously her, and then answered it herself to throw readers off the scent. And her answer to herself was well thought out and reasonable - it's clear that she wrote her entry letter first, then forced herself to take a step back and evaluate her situation as though she were a third party who didn't know any of the finer details. The result is a response that doesn't betray her true identity, and isn't obviously colored by her own biases, where she gets a chance to look at her situation with a clearer head (probably helped out substantially by Nicole as an outside perspective). She flat-out acknowledges that her own actions on the stage the night of Sonic's welcome home party were unreasonable and unfair to him, and calls herself out on it in a public newsletter (even if most people aren't aware of the circumstances behind this entry). I feel like this only supports what I said about The Slap several issues ago, that she wasn't acting rationally that night and needs to be cut some slack on account of her (now-canonically-acknowledged) trauma. And in the end, her Aly persona is right. While she and Sonic still love each other, their differences have made a stable relationship between the two currently impossible, meaning it's best for them to take that time apart to figure out what each of them want before they think about getting back together. I think this is a really good follow-up to what happened in that issue, and gives a lot more insight into just why Sally did what she did, and how she's handling it after the fact.

This issue ends with a single page reminiscent of the Sega Data Files of issues past, this time covering the entire Acorn Royal Family. There's not much info here that we don't already know, but we do find out that Elias and his wife Megan's child has been born by now, a daughter named Alexis. Hope we get to see them all again soon!

[statementends]

Oooh for bthb, jonmartin and stalking?

@peachblossom-odyssey asked for Jonmartin, Stalking

@badthingshappenbingo

Summary: Jon and Martin meet in a coffee shop. Does it really count as stalking if both parties have their eyes on each other?

Special thanks to: @backofthebookshelf, @sunlaire and @podcastenthusiast cause I used elements  of Coffee Shop AU? in this.

AO3: Link

It was stupid.

No it wasn’t stupid–

This was–alright… the thing was…

This is pathetic.

Martin sighed. He sat at the same table he had been sitting at for a week hoping he might come in again. He tried to tell himself that it was because he was like him, or something… adjacent to him. Tried to justify it to himself as fact finding and research. 

He didn’t want to see him again because he was that lonely. 

It wasn’t because of the way his eyes caught on Martin. How he scanned the room and stopped on him and made a beeline.

Rumpled clothes, dark circles under his eyes, strange scars on the few places he showed skin. 

Handsome definitely wasn’t the word… maybe underneath it all. If he hadn’t been so stunned he might have caught him. Tangled a bit of thread in his hair and made him to go home and sleep. He hadn’t even thought of it though after he told his entire tale to the complete stranger without fear or embarrassment. 

Well… not without fear. He felt the same terror. Spiders across his skin. Feeling changed. Knowing he had changed. 

For the last week there were times he’d dream of the man. It was strange though. Like an eye in the crack of the door. Like there should be more intensity to it, but something protected him. Maybe his powers. 

He sipped his tea trying not to let the disappointment soak in. He still hadn’t come. Maybe he really had just come for Martin. To hear his story. 

Seeing him.

Martin wanted to be seen again.

Maybe it was new instinct. 

It wasn’t. Martin, despite being a nice man was good at manipulation. Knew how to tug and where to tug. He knew how to get people where he wanted them, usually by offering tea and biscuits. 

Tea wasn’t the man’s favourite drink though. 

-

Jon stopped short.

In there. 

He stepped inside the cafe without a thought. Scanned around. Startled when he recognised one of the faces–but–

Oh.

Oh. 

That one.

He needed to hear… from them. 

He tried to play it casual. Tried not to be frightening. He’d like to think he wasn’t very good at being a monster, but he was. He was very good at terrifying people without trying. The woman finished and before he could thank her she stood up and left. He frowned. Usually they… stuck around. 

He felt better though. A lot better. He was about to stand when–

Oh. He had forgotten, the man he recognised. 

“Hello,” The man said. He had a round kind face. Big and tall, but not very intimidating and yet Jon was on edge. 

Well, he had heard his story. Even knowing everything he knew now spiders still creeped him out. 

“Ah… hi.” 

“We didn’t introduce ourselves properly last time,” The man continued pleasantly enough. It didn’t seem like he was about to be hit… which was a good sign. 

“Oh uh… well I… yes. Jon.”

“Jon. I’m Martin. You left quickly last time.”

“I ah… I’m not entirely comfortable with spiders…” Jon said slowly.

“Really? I’m not entirely comfortable with telling a complete stranger my trauma without him buying me a drink first, but here we are.”

Jon’s face went hot with embarrassment. “Oh, ah… yes I can understand that…” 

Martin had a weird look on his face that Jon read as disdain, but in reality was Martin realizing he was finding himself faced with trying to decide if this was low standards on his part or if Jon really was as adorable as he was thinking eyebags and all. 

“I uh… won’t do it again?” Jon tried to promise, tried to get up from his seat, but he felt stuck there. 

“Oh no, it’s fine!” Martin said quickly, his own blush appearing on his face. “Or… no, it isn’t fine, but I don’t… I mean… I do… but I…”

“I should go.” He felt panic when he still couldn’t move from his seat, but finally something snapped and he was able to stand. He fled the cafe.

-

Martin banged his head on the table.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

-

Jon’s fingers trembled as his tapped his oyster card.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

-

Next time Martin found himself a corner. Watched as Jon came in. No hesitation. Like the pull was too great. He watched, fascinated, Jon’s eyes–pretty eyes, definitely pretty eyes– devoured the man in front of him as he told him his story. What a strange… power? Martin still wasn’t quite sure what he was. The term monster had crossed his mind, but he had decided that was a bit too dramatic.

Human adjacent? Previously Human? Metahuman? It was a bit like a comic book. There had been no one to explain it to him. Not in detail. All of it was guesses and experimentation. If he had anyone to confide in he might have made a spiderman joke…

Hero wasn’t the word though. Definitely not. He was hurting people. Even if they were… nasty people… the gym teacher that had humiliated him and made him cry in front of his entire grade. His former supervisor who had been stealing money from the register and had blamed him. Got him fired. It had been almost impossible to get a job after that. They deserved this… they deserved his webs and they deserved Jon prying it out of them… 

He knuckles went a little white. He should probably be more afraid for himself… but it was nice to win for once.

He pulled his thread and Mr. O’Conner left leaving Jon and two cups of tea. Martin smiled fondly. Jon had bought Mr. O’Conner tea for his statement. 

He jerked up a little noticing Jon was staring at him. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He wanted to approach again, but wasn’t sure what to say. Something like: Hey, I’m like you, there’s no need to be worried about it. Or: I know you don’t like spiders, but they’re actually quite neat if you get to know them. Or something like: Please don’t stop looking at me. 

Yikes Martin, alright. 

Tentatively Jon stood, as if testing that he would be able to. With a bit of disappointment Martin let him. He knew he could… do as he liked with people… that if he wanted he could string Jon over and talk to him more, nothing really was stopping him. It wasn’t like he hasn’t … experimented a little, nothing too terrible, just cutting queues and stopping the bus from leaving before he got to the stop. 

And… maybe having the posh looking man at the bank withdraw a hundred pounds and give it to him… 

He had checked his statement first though! Made sure he could afford it… he just… he was a bit behind on money for mum.

Everything felt so… within reach now. 

He watched longingly as Jon left the cafe. Could still feel his eyes on him. 

Who was really watching who?

-

He found Martin was watching him. It was strange. Being able to actually spot the person watching him for once. The Eye was always there of course, and Elias he was sure kept close watch. He never saw them though. But Martin was watching him. 

He rubbed the back of his neck. Felt himself watching right back even though he’d rather not at the moment. Curiosity tingled, who was he? What was he? Why was he always here and why were there always statements? 

Web statements. 

He tentatively stood, but found he could move just fine. Memories of Mr. Spider clawed at the periphery. He left, still pondering the cafe and Martin, and what any of it might mean. 

-

He was … enjoying it. He couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed though. Watching Jon… eat? It was… a sight to behold. And it was like his powers in some ways. Jon asked questions and no one would deny him answers.

Martin tried to grab tables that would have the best angles of Jon’s face. He would always be absorbed in the stories told to him, his face mirrored the terrifying scenes. Like he was afraid. Feeling their fear, but it was fueling him. He always looked so much healthier after hearing the stories. Like how Martin felt better tugging at people’s lives and pulling them in different directions. He was getting better at that. He had even found a person with a story that wasn’t about him. Jon had seemed surprised. Had glanced at him afterwards. 

Martin forgot how wonderful his direct gaze was, being on the edges for the past fortnight. 

He watched as Jon slowly approached him. Tentative and shy. He felt his own wave of nerves. It was easy to forget that he could control any situation at the snap of his fingers. He wondered what would happen if Jon asked him questions. How would it affect him. 

“You’re… doing this, right? The… statements.”

“Statements?”

“I… yes. That’s… that’s what they are,” Jon explained. It seemed like he expected Martin to know already. 

“Are you a police officer?”

“You… don’t know who I am?” Jon looked more relieved than anything, although there was a new worry surfacing in his pretty brown eyes. 

“No clue. Should I?”

Jon shook his head. He nervously tapped the table with his long fingers. Working up the nerve to do something. 

“I just…–why are you doing this?” And suddenly his fidgeting was gone, his tone was deep. Martin could feel a pleasant sort of static run across his forearms. 

And he told him.

“I have a crush on you. I like the way you look at me.”

“W-what!?” Jon’s voice went higher, all the power in his tone gone. 

“Oh that was…” Martin’s face went fire hot in embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to say that. Really he should have saw it coming, but he had thought it only worked with fear. “Sorry! Don’t–don’t run off!” 

But Jon was looking to do just that.

Martin caught him with threads. 

“Stop it.”

“You did it to me first. Just… just stay put for just a moment. I’m–I’m not going to hurt you or anything.” 

“You’re from the web.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Jon frowned. “You aren’t lying…” 

“I just thought… we have a lot in common. I’d like to get to know you, Jon.”

“This could be a trap.”

“You have a magic power that can pull the truth from people. Are you really worried about being lied to?”

“You’d be surprised…” Jon said softly. “So you…you’ve been doing this… bringing people here? Those stories are about…”

“Uh… me… yeah. Well… mostly.”

“Because you have a…”

“Crush uh… yeah.” Martin laughed awkwardly. He realized he was holding his threads tightly. If he let go now he might not see Jon again. 

Jon looked embarrassed and unsure.

“What?” Martin asked quietly. 

“I… I’m not exactly… the type people get affectionate over… especially from afar,” Jon answered. “And you’re so…” He blushed, looked to the side. “Well, you could obviously do better so I–”

“Do better?” Martin squeaked.

“Ah–” Jon’s voice was panicked. “I mean… you are… you’re very…” He coughed. “You’re cute.” 

“You think I’m cute!?” Martin didn’t know whether this was encouraging or not. Considering he was becoming some sort of spider monster maybe it was a good sign. 

“Could you–could you maybe let go? I–I promise I won’t leave it just… it makes me–I’ve had bad experiences with… spiders…” 

“Oh…” Martin hesitated, but slowly let his webs fall slack. Jon took a calming breath. He didn’t run. That was encouraging. 

-

Martin asked if they could meet again and Jon agreed. 

His instincts told him to run and run and run. And maybe it was Martin pulling him back against his will without his even knowing it… but… no. He would know.

Honestly this was a terrible idea, but it was…

Nice.

A normal sort of nice, even if he wasn’t normal anymore, even if Martin wasn’t a normal person. Martin admitting with a blush on his face that he had a crush was… a nice feeling and he wanted to explore it. 

And Martin wasn’t human… but that meant he couldn’t hurt him. 

He had hurt a lot of people by now. Starving was too hard. Fighting against himself was too hard. He was alone–no, worse. He had Elias who whispered in his ear and was so pleased when he let go another little part of himself for knowledge and the Eye.

And he’d be lying if part of all this wasn’t curiosity. Wanting to know Martin, this … web avatar that doesn’t quite know what he is. Wanting to know the type of person that finds Jon… alluring? 

Jon held his head in his hands at the thought. No. Alluring was not the word for any of this. This was silly. He had so many terrible things to worry about. Why was he doing this to himself?

“Jon?”

“Oh! Martin–right.” Jon put down his hands and sat up straight. Martin smiled at him affectionately.

“Did I catch you by surprise?”

“Usually you’re here first.” 

They decided to meet again at the coffee shop. Jon had shown up an hour early because if he hadn’t he would have paced in his office. 

“Usually I have to set everything up, it’s nice to have the free time… it’s nice to see you came.” Martin added shly. 

Jon nodded, played with his fingers. “I… yes, well… I was curious… and… you seem…”

“Nice?” Martin supplied with just a tinge of bitterness. Jon felt the knowledge click into place in his head. Martin had never been a popular boy, but he had never been particularly bullied. Just a neutral person in the background that the people around him found pleasant. “Nice.” 

Nice was a word you used when you didn’t know a person at all, at least that’s what Martin thought. Jon had always thought of nice as a nice thing, but with a wave he knew how Martin felt about it. Unseen. Alone. 

“No, I–” Jon said quickly. “Interesting…you seem interesting.” 

Martin perked up just a little at that. 

“I mean,” Martin laughed. “I guess nice isn’t really the word for something like us now, is it?”

“No, not really, although I don’t think anyone would call me nice even before.”

“Ah have you always been interesting then, Jon?” Martin teased.

“Er, well, more of the odd one out. I don’t… do people very well.”

“But you talk to them a lot now.”

“To feed off their greatest fears. It doesn’t exactly win friends.”

“It got my attention,” Martin smiled. 

They talked for… longer than Jon had thought. It was getting dark outside and their drinks had grown cold. Martin was an interesting person. Jon even told him a bit of what he knew of the Web, the other powers… more than he had meant to maybe, but something in him trusted Martin–maybe trust wasn’t right. Liked. He liked Martin.

Oh. He liked Martin. 

Elias wouldn’t be pleased.

Jon smiled. That could only be a good thing really. 

[bigballofstress]

You Are Mine Now (Sansa Stark x Shifter!Reader)

Request:  Sansa x fem reader(reader is a wolf shapeshifter and she is from a powerful royal house that helped the Starks for centuries). And Sansa falling in love with her since meeting her and always pleading her family to arrange a marriage between them because the two houses have always married between the two houses but they say no and shit happens and Sansa is off marrying Ramsay(fuck you Petyr for that dick move you pulled).One day reader shows up with her army right behind her, wanting to assist Sansa in any way possible at fighting Ramsay and Sansa being happy to see the reader again and deciding to make her move on the reader, cornering her against a wall and kissing her. Sansa is the only one that can dominate her(Personal note, Sansa is the hottest woman even more than Margeary in my opinion).

To @purplewings12 here’s your request!  I changed a couple of details, but I’m really happy with the way it turned out.  I really hope you like it, and I’m sorry it took so long (finals)...  Anyways, enjoy!

(Y/F/N) = Your Father’s Name

The wolves of Winterfell.

Most people didn’t know the truth of where that name came from -- the reason behind House Stark’s sigil.  They assumed it had no true reason.  They believed the direwolf was merely an exceptionally strong animal that the first Starks saw and rather liked.  They didn’t know it was for someone.

There was never much information on House (L/N).  All that anyone knew for certain was that they never left their frozen territory in the farthest reaches of the North and that they were fiercely loyal to the Starks.  There were rumors, though.  Whispers about the danger they posed to anyone who dared cross them.

Recently the family has been under scrutiny for two reasons.  

The first was born of suspicion.  After the Boltons took Winterfell, the entire country was terrified of how you might retaliate.  They had been told stories of the lengths the house would go to in defense of their liege.  It almost felt as though they were all holding their breath.  

The second reason seemed to be more of a curiosity.  House (L/N) had recently been handed down to the eldest daughter of (Y/F/N) (L/N), and immediately the world wanted to know who the new leader of the fearless house was.  She was said to be strong, wise, and kind -- a leader from birth, as the letters announcing her recent inheritance put it.  What made the people truly curious, though, was the tales of her looks.  No one had seen someone of such elegance and beauty since Lyanna Stark, and there were even some elders who claimed that this new woman was even more beautiful than the flower of the North.  Still, no one knew for certain, as you and your house continued to stay hidden from the world.

--Sansa’s POV--

Yet another night in this gods-forsaken place.  I almost couldn’t take it anymore -- the beatings as well as seeing what was once my home being overrun by traitors.  More than anything, I simply couldn’t stand to be forced by Ramsay’s side.  He was cruel and hateful and everything I detested in a partner.

My mind flashed to you.  The only person I ever truly wanted to be with.  My heart still ached whenever I recalled the day I’d told my parents how much I wished to marry you.  They had immediately forbade it, saying that I would be marrying a young lord when I came of age, and that was the last time they ever wanted to hear or it.  Soon after that, you had stopped visiting.  I had ruined everything.

I sighed and pushed the thought from my mind.  I couldn’t keep torturing myself with thoughts of you.  I had to move on.  Even if I almost couldn’t bear the thought of doing so.

Suddenly, shouting erupted from the courtyard below.  I furrowed my brows and moved to the window, where I saw Bolton soldiers scrambling about, trying to find something to do.

“My lady, beg your pardon, but Winterfell is under attack,” a maid had appeared in the doorway, which was usually locked from the outside.

“What?!” I gasped.  Someone was here.  Was it Jon?  Had he left the Wall to come save me?  Or perhaps someone even worse than the Boltons.  I quickly sent a prayer to the gods, begging for it to be anyone other than the Lannisters.

“Yes ma’am.  I’m here to get you to safety,” she said, motioning for me to follow her into the hallway.  I frowned and glanced back out the window.

“No,” I stated firmly.  “I’m staying here.  Now leave.”  If it was Jon out there, he would be able to find me in my room, and if it was someone horrible, at least I might die rather than be captured again.  Behind me, the door clicked shut.  I sat back down on the bed.  No matter what happened now, I would accept it.

--Time Skip--

Silence.

After hours of yelling orders, swords clashing, and screams of pain, the only thing to drift through my window was silence.  The battle must be over.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to look outside and risk the chance of being greeted with the sigil of the flayed man where the beautiful direwolf once stood tall and proud.

I could hear the sound of footsteps making their way through the hallway and stopping outside of my door.  My breath caught in my throat.  This was it.

The door opened, revealing a young solder and a large, (H/C) wolf at his side, standing so tall it reminded me of poor Lady.  I backed up a bit, my heart pounding in my chest as I stared warily at the unfamiliar face and the terrifying creature.

The wolf approached slowly, its eyes holding mine in a deadlocked stare.  I couldn’t move or speak or even think as we stared at one another.  I found myself almost entranced by the large, (E/C) eyes.  Soon, it was just a hair’s breadth away from me, its nose twitching as it sniffed at my dress as though it was deciding what to do with me.

Then something happened that I would have never imagined to be possible.

The wolf changed.

Fur became skin, paws turned to feet and hands, and its long nose shrunk into a soft-featured face.  Standing before me now was the dearest friend and strongest love I’d ever known.

It was you.

“Thank the gods you’re ok,” you whispered weakly, engulfing me in an almost strangling hug.  When I didn’t move, you pulled back.  I felt colder now without your arms around me.  “I’m sorry, I know this must be a shock to you.  I’m just glad you’re safe.”   The words were barely registering in my overwhelmed mind.  “Listen, I’ll be in my old guest room.  Whenever you are ready, just come over, alright?”  I nodded slowly, and you quickly exited, whispering something to the soldier as you did, causing him to abruptly follow you.

There were so many things that I should have been thinking about right then, the most prominent of which being that you were actually a wolf not five minutes ago.  Still, my thoughts refused to dwell on anything other than the young man who followed you.  You seemed close, and I began to question whether he might be you betrothed or perhaps even you husband.

Quickly, I made up m mind, rushing down the hall to the room I knew you’d be in.  I swung the door open to reveal you, taking in your appearance for the first time in years.  You were wearing a deep grey and dark blue dress -- the colors of House (L/N) -- that fell halfway down your shins with long slits on either side.  Armour covered your chest and stomach with the bleeding heart in the center, the bright red of your sigil a stark contrast to the dark colors.

“Sansa?  Are you ok?” You asked, your brows furrowing ever so slightly.

“Who is he?” I asked, completely ignoring your question and striding across the room.  You backed up as I approached, eventually hitting your back against the stone wall.

“Who is who?” You said warily, leaning slightly away from me.

I ground my teeth together, my impatience building.  “The boy who was with you earlier,” I spat out the words like they were poison on my tongue.  “The one wearing your family’s sigil.”

Your eyes lightened slowly in recognition.  “You mean Ryen?  He is no one -- merely a squire who served my father and now serves me,” you rushed, your eyes darting back and forth in an attempt to gauge my reaction.

Relief filled my chest and overwhelmed my senses.  Before I knew what I was doing, I had grabbed you by the waist and the back of the neck and slammed my lips against yours.  You gasped in surprise but quickly melted into the kiss.

“You are mine now.  Do you understand?” I whispered softly, my lips brushing ever so gently against your ear.  You whimpered and nodded, any trace of the fierce dominance that you had just shown on the battlefield vanished.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmured, still not having fully regained your breath.

“I could never hate you,” I growled, forcing you to meet my eyes and understand the meaning behind my words.  I pulled you back into my arms, placing a softer, more intimate kiss on your lips.  “I love you,” I said softly, still not breaking the connection. I felt you smile and wrap your arms around me.

“I love you, too.”

[kellanswritingblog]

Safe for the Night

Set during Season 1 while Martin is staying overnight in the Archives to avoid Jane Prentiss - Tim decides to stay with him after a late night of sorting through paperwork. As morning dawns and they awake, cuddled up together, Martin realizes how natural it is to be kissed by Tim and how much he craves his touch.

Read below, or head on over to AO3!

(Rated Mature for implied, almost intimate times, but there’s nothing explicit)

It was a late night.  Despite Jon’s intention to organize the Archives, he didn’t actually do much of the work, and passed the mess on down to his assistants.  As such, Tim and Martin found themselves with documents and files spread out across every surface of their workspace, still trying to decipher statement numbers and names as the digits started to flow together after staring at so many for so long.

“I can finish this in the morning,” Martin remarked after a yawn.  “You should head home.”

Tim was stretched out on the floor, leaning back against a cabinet.  Their focus had long since left them; the remainder of the mess would wait for a new day.

“You’re still staying here?”  Tim asked.

Martin just nodded as he cleaned up a few miscellaneous pages.

“That must be tough.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“It’s late.  If you want, I can just stay here overnight.  It’s got to be eerie here, all by yourself.”

Martin clutched the pages he’d collected and hugged them to himself.  “You don’t have to do that, Tim.  I appreciate the offer, but… it’s alright.  I’ve gotten used to it.”

“I know I don’t have to, but maybe I want to.”

He finally met Tim’s gaze and smiled back at him, hoping that the warmness in his cheek wouldn’t be too bright in the dim light of the Archives.

“I would appreciate the company,” Martin admitted.

After a few drinks from a bottle Tim had apparently been keeping in a drawer of his desk and plenty of time talking that made the late night move into early morning, Martin and Tim found themselves in the spare room that had become Martin’s home since his visit by Jane Prentiss.  The cocoon of blankets Martin had assembled was stretched out just enough to make space for the two of them.  If it weren’t for their tiredness, Martin might have been uncomfortable with the closeness between them, the way Tim absentmindedly reached out for Martin in his sleep, the way their fingers laced together, the way that Martin finally felt he could relax – that he was safe.

Or, maybe, if he’d been less exhausted, Martin would have realized how he wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

When Martin awoke in the morning, his forehead pressed against Tim’s chest and a hand wrapped around his waist.  For a brief moment, he panicked and was about to bolt out of the room, but then he noticed how Tim’s arms loosely rested around him.  Martin looked up at Tim’s still sleeping form, smiled, and nuzzled a little closer into his chest.

The movement was enough to wake Tim up, however, and he murmured blearily.

“Good morning,” he said with a smirk.

Martin was loathe to relinquish his position.  “Thank you for staying with me.”

Tim chuckled.  He released his hold on Martin and slid down so that they were level in their impromptu bed, then lifted Martin’s chin up with a gentle touch and pressed his lips to his.

“Is that alright?”

Martin momentarily lost the ability to speak as every emotion raced through him at once.  In the end, euphoria won out, and he kissed Tim back.  The caution of their first kiss was replaced with surety and joy.

“Mm-hmm,” he finally replied, uttered against Tim’s lips.

It felt so natural to kiss Tim, just like it had felt natural to be wrapped up in his arms while they slept.  There wasn’t any hesitation as Martin pressed himself to Tim and kissed him again, and then again, and again, and again…

Tim’s hand snaked under the gap in Martin’s shirt, causing Martin to gasp as his fingers traced up his spine.  And as Tim’s nails dug into his skin even the slightest amount, Martin let out a quiet moan into Tim’s mouth.

“Martin!”  Tim laughed.  “What if someone hears us?”  The glint in his eye made it very clear he wasn’t at all concerned.

“It’s okay.  This room is pretty much soundproof.”

“Is that so?”

With that, Tim flipped over so that now Martin looked up at him, both expectant and a little bit nervous.  And Tim took full advantage of the fact that the room was soundproof.

He nipped at Martin’s neck and ears, provided just the right amount of friction in just the right places, and savored every noise that Martin made in response, particularly when all he could do was stammer out Tim’s name.

“I never would have guessed that you were so vocal,” Tim teased.

Before Martin could reply, Tim bit down on his lip to get another delightful moan out of him.

Somewhere amidst Martin’s utterances and losing more of the limited clothing they still wore, neither heard the door open.  Only Jon’s shocked apologies broke them from their interlude, and then the door was shut again, leaving them alone.

“I thought this room had locks on it?”  Tim asked.

“Jon has a spare key,” Martin stuttered quietly.

Still pressed together in a mess of blankets, Tim and Martin gazed at each other for an agonizing moment as they considered whether to pick up where they left off or move on with their day.

“We should probably get up.  Get dressed and… get to work, and…”  Tim grumbled, extracting himself slowly from Martin’s grip.

“You’re right.  I don’t suppose we could… again?  Some other time?”

They now sat beside each other, and Tim leaned over to give Martin another firm kiss, his fingers tracing through Martin’s hair as he did so.

“I know your flat is out of the question, but you can always come back to mine,” he offered.  “Might be more comfortable than the floor.”

Martin chuckled and blushed.  “If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll make you buy me dinner first.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

They both giggled and kissed again briefly.  Then, Tim stood and rummaged around the room for his clothes from the day before.  Instead of donning his own shirt, though, he grabbed Martin’s and pulled it on; it was a little big on him, but Tim could pull off any look.

“Tim, please,” Martin tried to insist, but he couldn’t stop smiling at the sight of Tim wearing his clothing.  “Somebody’s going to notice…”

“Let them.”

“Tim.”

“What?”  He had that same glint in his eye as he smirked and dared Martin to try and stop him.

“You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?  More than usual.”

Tim knelt back down in front of Martin and leaned in close, until their faces and lips were mere millimeters apart, and then whispered, “I have no idea what you mean.”

With that, he hastily stood and stepped out of the room, leaving Martin alone and craving more.

As Martin predicted, Sasha noticed immediately that the shirt Tim wore was not his own, and she just gave them both a knowing thumbs up.  Jon went out of his way to avoid them throughout the course of the day and seemed even more awkward than usual when asking for one of his assistants to check some details for a statement.

And Tim turned up the insufferableness, teasing Martin at every opportunity – winking at him across their office space, fidgeting with the edges of the shirt he wore, letting his hand linger when he accepted a mug of tea from him…

And, throughout it all, Martin couldn’t wait for their next night together.

[efortmanteau]

TMA Headcanons

I sort of spoiled myself in terms of headcanons for The Adventure Zone, so now I try to finish/get caught up on podcasts and form impressions entirely in my head before introducing visual ideas via fanart. And lately I've been focusing on The Magnus Archives SOOOO here we go:

My headcanons for The Magnus Archives. A few were originally written after listening through s2. I've added my s3 thoughts below characters or in a new section. I'm only 3 episodes in to s4 so no spoilers after the end of s3.

Jon (I only recently discovered that there's no H in his spelling, whoops) aka The Archivist - Obviously Jon doesn't really have fun ever, so the main word I think of is 'austere.' He's a pale white guy with dark hair and greyish or brownish eyes who basically always dresses formally--collared shirts, slacks, maybe even vests, usually neutral colors. He's thin, but not fit--just the type of guy who doesn't put on weight since he doesn't focus much on food. Rectangular face, maybe has facial hair… I haven't decided, but if he does, it's like a goatee/mustache scenario that's always well trimmed. In my mind, he's young to mid 30s, but could look older. When he's scared or disshevelled though, he looks a lot younger. I think he's also kind of short, maybe 5'8", so he keeps really good posture to make up for it. Ben Whishaw is almost right, but he'd have to be homelier. S3 updates: Not really any? Although apparently it's Jon without an H. I've confirmed that he looks older than he is since the spider picturebook episode (which I would love Don Hertzfeld to animate, perhaps with assistance from Jules Feiffer who is 90 gd years old… that episode is so vivid in my head). Also I forgot Jon has worm… scars? Pock-marks? Not sure how that works, but you probably don't see them much, given I can't imagine him in short sleeves or shorts, although maybe he has a few on his neck visible pretty frequently, above collars. I'm was pleased to learn he is canonically asexual, but not all that surprised. Something about the way he interacted with Georgie in her apartment had me wondering… maybe it reminds me of me and my ex (I'm the asexual one, my ex isn't, but we still get along).

Martin - I immediately imagined Marty (Terry Gross Waters-Waters SAT tutor in Gayle) when I learned more about soft, sweet lad Martin, so Matty Cardarople has always kind of been in my head. That is probably just a similar name situation, but it's kind of perfect. Since Martin said he wasn't the smallest of guys but still made it into a basement window, I imagine he's kind of tall and chubby, but doesn't seem tall, slouchy, not the most confident person. Sort of a Neville Longbottom situation (before the glow-up). I think somewhere between Matty and Nick Robinson is around the correct appearance: a little more clean shaven and formally dressed than Matty often is with shorter hair (but still flippy), but softer than Nick is. This guy wears sweaters a lot. I guess he's canonically 29 at the end of s1--I had imagined him in his mid 20s somewhere, but I guess he was pretending to be older since he claimed he had a master's degree. S3 updates: Martin is probably the one who was most easy for me to imagine. I never really thought of his fixation on Jon to be a crush, which I'm really intrigued by in terms of character development. I was parsing it more of Martin being a bit of a subservient character, that he was like that to everyone in the office, but we only saw it from Jon's POV as the primary narrator. If I do a re-listen, I'll be very interested to pick out some Martin/Jon moments now that I have a different context.

Sasha (or maybe Sascha) - I sort of had Sally Donovan from BBC's Sherlock in mind initially. I tried to stray away from that and looked up "half black actress." I picked out Zawe Ashton without even realizing that she had in fact played Sally (in one episode, so not her main actress) because of her hair and skin and the fact that her face is pleasant, but not the typical hyper-button baby doll face that some actresses have. Sasha has natural hair with light curls (sometimes straightened). I originally pictured a small afro, but I think in s2, they refer to her as having long hair, so I guess not? I'm also not clear if that was Not-Sasha imitating her, or just straight up not looking like real-Sasha at all. She's slim, pretty posh/minimalist in style--grey herringbone peacoat, umbrella, boots. I imagine she's half Russian heritage-wise, since is a common Russian diminutive for Aleksandra. I would put her in the 25-27 age range. S3 updates: I caught on to Not-Sasha (partially because I saw the name in the voice actor credits, whoops), but I think I also caught something in Lottie's flat affect that clued me in. I thought that the imposter was just good at disguise, not that people had been cursed to forget what real Sasha looked like, so Melanie's introduction and take on Sasha/Not-Sasha threw me off a bit. I don't remember if the "long hair" comment was for real- or Not-Sasha. But I don't have any headcanons about Not-Sasha… just that she looks nothing like the original.

Tim - In my head Tim is the tallest main character, maybe 6'2", and pretty fit. He's imposing at first glance, but since he's so congenial and laid back (at least in s1 before Jon totally pisses him off) everyone who knows him knows he's a nice, fun guy. He's black, with fairly dark complexion, short hair, clean shaven. He probably wears sweaters too, but like… the thinner kind. None of this bulky knit from grandma that Martin rocks. I first think of Alan from Russian Doll (Charlie Barnett), but darker, just black instead of more mixed. I'd say he's around Jon's age. S3 updates: RIP in pepperinos. I guess him being fit is not unreasonable since he is… canonically? (does Alex and Jonny joking about it make it canonical) an outdoorsy adventurer. I certainly missed his friendly nature, but my headcanons didn't really change. He just looked a lot more tired up until the end of s3.

Elias - He is older than the rest of them, I would guess in his 40s or 50s, but given that it's canon that he rose in the ranks kind of quickly, maybe he's not that old after all. I don't really have a good mental picture of him, maybe because I can't differentiate his voice from John's a lot of the time until I piece the context together. In my mind he has a beard and mustache though, kind of full, and maybe dirty blonde hair that's greying a bit. S3 updates: I wouldn't be surprised if he carried a cane that was actually a sword or a gun (I'm American, so having a gun seems very easy to me, so I'm not sure if that would be rare in England). Also, did I hear something about having a grey bun? Maybe I'm completely confusing it with something else, but I'm chuckling about man bun Elias.

Michael - Well, he isn't human… but he looks kind of like a really pale guy who is mishapen and thus wearing a lot of clothing at first glance? He probably wears a lot of clothes so you can't really make him out under the trench coat, scarf, hat, etc. (I might be confusing him with someone else). I think it's canon that his hands are large and maybe have too many bones. For some reason, Michael reminds me of tourmalinated quartz--black and white for the most part, striations cutting through the clearer crystal--sort of like a metaphor for how he kind of… dimension hops? Ends up where he isn't supposed to? I imagine striations of his appearance sort of blip in and out when you look at him based on the static he causes on recordings. S3 updates: I now know that he was an assistant to Gertrude. I guess my idea of his human form is basically the same color and demeanor, just not other-worldly in proportions and bone count. Probably the tall gangly type of white guy. ALSO I guess he's kind of Helen now…? I'll do a separate one for Helen.

---BREAK to add characters I didn't write about until the end of s3---

Basira - I assume she is a Muslim woman, based on her name. I imagine she wears a hijab. I picture her as Middle-Eastern, perhaps Iranian, but she could also be black (there are a fair amount of black Muslims in America, not sure if it's common in England). Other than the hijab, she's not very feminine in her styling. Being on the force probably means you want pretty functional, utilitarian garments. I don't remember if she talked in great detail about how she joined the police, whether it was straight from school, but in my mind she's late 30s.

Daisy - I think I recall she has a back tattoo? She's a murderer so she has a tough air about her, but she's also a subtle murderer, so nothing about her screams that she's dangerous… you just get that feeling, you know? I imagine a white lady, short blonde hair, blue eyes. Kind of like Brienne of Tarth, but more plain than ugly. She's maybe early to mid 40s. I'm not sure if her relationship with Basira is supposed to be romantic or not. I kind of prefer this weird closeness that doesn't always equate to trust given their specific experiences. Regardless, I imagine they are around the same age.

Melanie - Melanie is probably the youngest, early to mid 20s. Typical build and height, maybe a little chubby, but not unable to climb fences or anything (gotta hunt them ghosts). She has a short, asymmetrical bob, dark hair, but part is dyed a bright color of pink, purple, maybe green. I imagine she has a go-to windbreaker that has some neon colors.

Helen - I'm so sad that we had to lose Michael to gain Helen. I really love the Spiral and the characters we've met who are involved with them. Helen in my mind was a badass realtor, ready to close a deal, very driven… and that carried over into becoming SpiralHelen. She sort of outsmarted it with the locked door, didn't she? I can't imagine that's very common for humans/avatars to get the better of their entities. She seems really strong willed, so I'm excited to see where she goes as a human who is becoming an avatar. I think her personality translates into her being 40-something but like lowkey hot? She probably rocks a suit with a skirt in bold colors that men's wear usually doesn't offer (all over red suit, tailored to her, pumps, straight brown hair, nice makeup). I'm not sure how the Spiral would affect her… maybe her angles just get a little more pronounced? She's probably not yet to the point of disfiguration that Michael was anyway.

Georgie - She is like a terrier who will bark at a big dog because they don't know to be afraid of it (or… how to be afraid of it, in her case). She is short, 5'2" or less (I just remembered that a lot of the listeners probably use metric measurements, so sorry for that, but I'm not going to bother converting). I imagine she is cute--she dresses up for her dates to Hungarian restaurants (my favorite detail omg girl get it) and wants to look hot, but really she can't get away from cute. Brown curly hair, big brown eyes, button nose. But resting bitch face… gotta ward off those catcalls and get taken seriously somehow.

Jergen? I can’t spell, it’s Jurgen - Jowly white guy. Wispy caramelly colored hair that's going white. Probably pretty tall, which I'm sure what an annoyance in those tunnels.

Gertrude - At first glance, just some old white lady. But after you get to know her, you realize she can probably murder you and is nowhere near as frail as you think. Curly, wiry grey hair.

[randomwordprompts]

If It’s Magic | Chapter 2

A/N: This is a bit longer than the first chapter, I’m not mad at it but I’m working towards something. No warnings...yet lol

Taglist: @great-neckpectations @wakandas-vibranium @bartierbakarimobisson @wakandan-flowerz @yaachtynoboat711 @oceanscorazon @babygirlofwakanda @storibambino @reaperdeldrunk Lucy huffed as she stood in line in the cafe, giving the barista a pleasant smile once she finally reached the front.

“Hi, I ordered a macchiato on the app under the name Lucille Owens. Is it ready?”

“I’m sorry but there’s no order here under that name,” the young man said with a bored expression on his face, signaling her to move over so he could help the person behind her. Lucy gaped at him and refused to leave the spot, much to the chagrin of the people behind her.

“Excuse me?! I’m gonna need you to check again because I know what I ordered!”

“I understand, but I don’t have your order here and there are others waiting. Either put in a new order or step aside, please.”

Lucy was about to rip into him before she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked at Amira, who’d been quietly watching the two of them, and moved to make room for her in front of the barista.

“Listen, we have an Intro to Psych class to get to and it’s the first day. Could you put in two mocha macchiatos for me and my roommate, lease? She already paid and it’s only right.”

The male’s eyes seemed to glaze over a bit as Amira spoke, looking a bit dumbfounded. When she finished speaking he nodded and put the order in, letting the ladies know that they’d be called when they were ready. While waiting Lucy looked at Amira warily, unsure of what just happened.

Amira noticed and returned the look. “What?”

“You know damn well what. How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

Lucy glared at her and huffed. “Mira...the thing with the barista!! What was that?!”

“Oh, that. It’s a long story that I’ll explain later, when we’re alone. Please ask me something else.”

Seeming satisfied for the moment, Lucy decided to ask something that had been on her mind since their first night together.

“Fine, fine. Tell me about that fine ass dude that came to our place the other night! He was all tall dark and handsome. You said he was your friend?”

Amira silently wished she’d just answered the first question, she thought with a chuckle.

“Xavier is a lot of things. My best friend, business partner, ex-boyfriend, almost fiance-”

“Almost what now?! You not gone just speed past that like you didn’t just say he was almost your fiance. Explain, Canadian.”

“He proposed, I said no.”

Lucy’s eyes nearly bugged out through her glasses at that.

“Why the hell would you say no to that? He fine as hell, probably smart cause he goes here, and he look like he got money! Did he hit you?”

“Girl, no! It just wasn’t the right time. After some talking, we agreed to wait until after graduation.”

Lucy sat back and ended her interrogation for now, just when their orders were ready. With a wink to the barista, they left the cafe and headed to class, speed walking a bit so they wouldn’t be late.

“So you telling me she said no...and y’all are still friends? You’re better than me, dawg.”

Xavier and his roommate Daniel were in the gym exercising between classes. Currently, the latter was spotting the former in a bench press as they spoke.

“We’ve been friends since middle school, dude. Besides, it’s more of a not yet than a no. We talked and decided together that it would be better to wait until after graduation.”

As they continued to speak, Xavier finished his set and got up to switch places with Daniel, spotting him through his own bench press.

“Okay, that’s fair. But why not still be together while in school? From what I’ve seen you two still have chemistry.”

“Man, stop worrying so much about my love life and focus on yours. What happened with that cutie you took out last night? I didn’t expect to see you again until this morning.”

Daniel huffed a bit and rolled his eyes as he paused to meet Xavier’s gaze, “Dude, her friend ended up calling her crying right when we got back to her place. I feel like it was a set up but either way we said goodnight early.”

Xavier barked out a laugh as they continued their workout before hitting the showers and grabbing some food.

Amira sat cross-legged on her bed surrounded by notes and her laptop, hair pulled up into a loose top bun with a pen behind her ear as she typed away. She barely registered the front door opening and closing before Lucy was at her room’s threshold with an excited look on her face and a flyer in her hand.

“Mira, you would not believe what happened today!”

Without looking away from her laptop, Amira raised a brow as she spoke.

“You finally asked that dude out from psych?”

“What? No! I was heading back from buying my brushes and there were these women on 20th Street talking about something called ‘reproductive justice’. You ever heard of it?”

“Yeah, we learned a little bit about it in high school. Women taking charge of what happens to their bodies and shit. Why?”

“Apparently there’s going to be an event next week where they go more into detail on what it is. Would my roommate care to join?”

Amira paused her work and gestured for Lucy to give her the paper so she could look it over, shrugging a bit before she finally answered, “I don’t see why not, I like learning sometimes. Speaking of, I almost got kicked out of my Culture & Society class today.”

“It’s the second week, how the hell did you manage that?”

“I might have told the professor that he didn’t have any culture because he’s white...unless you count inbreeding, theft, murder, and beastiality.”

Lucy damn near fell over she laughed so hard, wiping the tears from the corner of her eyes as Amira shrugged once more with a laugh.

“I mean, you weren’t wrong. But you know you can’t say that to these professors! They already think they’re “aware” because they went backpacking in Denver on their parent’s dime, or decided to stop washing their hair.”

“White people wash their hair?”

“Ya know...probably not.”

They laughed once more until Amira’s phone rang, the contact name “Peachy Kins” over a picture of Jonathan popping up and not going unnoticed by Lucy.

“Wooooow. So you can talk about white people but you got one saved in your phone looking all yummy with a pet name?! Ma’am.”

“Eh, cut that shit out. That’s my brother, he’s basically off black.”

Lucy snorted as Amira answered the phone and ushered her out of the room. “Well introduce me to the black side cause he fine. Heyyyy big brother!”

“Who the fuck was that?” Jonathan’s voice hit her ear as she closed the door, shaking her head.

“My roommate. She thinks you’re cute, ignore her.”

“I mean...I like dick, so I will. Anywhore, are you by your laptop?”

“Yeah I am, why?”

“Oh, just got something you might wanna see. Call me on Skype.”

Amira made a face but hung up her phone as she pulled up Skype on her laptop, calling him right away. When he answered it was clear he was in the basement of their office building, his usual dress shirt’s sleeves rolled up before he turned the camera to face what he wanted her to see. It turned out to be one of her workers, tied to a chair and barely conscious as if he’d been drugged. She was prepared to ask what was going on but Jonathan spoke first as he walked towards the male.

“So it seems we have a mole in our midst. I had Kenneth here followed and apparently he’s been meeting with the Chief of Police when he’s not working. But apparently, he doesn’t work with you guys anymore?”

The man in question was slowly coming to, looking dazed and confused as to where he was currently. Amira leaned back slightly and shook her head, running a hand over her face.

“Oh, Kenny. Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. Nah, he doesn’t work for us anymore because he was stealing.”

“A snitch and a thief? Heavy stuff. How do you wanna handle this?”

“Given that he has nothing the cops can actually use...just put him in the hospital. I think that’s a fair punishment.”

“Alright, will do. Later babe.”

“Oh Jon, wait! Make sure he can’t have any kids? No one needs to have that burden in their lives.”

At those words, Kenneth came to slightly, struggling to get out of the chair he was tied to with increasing strength. Jonathan snorted at his attempts before looking back to his sister.

“I can see why you’d say that. On it though, I’ll keep you updated on the other shit.”

After exchanging ‘love yous’ and ending the call, Amira grabbed her phone and texted Xavier the situation to keep him in the loop. She was surprised when he opted to call instead of replying, but answered the phone regardless.

“You know I don’t like texting.”

“I know, but I figured you were busy. Actually, what is that sound?”

The sound in question was what slurping and gagging, but Amira thought she might be mistaken.

“It’s nothing important honestly,” Xavier began, prompting the girl sitting between his legs to pull her mouth from his semi-hard dick, irritation clear on her face as she inquired who the fuck he was talking to. He raised a brow at her and smirked before putting the phone on speaker and replying so that both women could hear him.

“I was talking to someone that actually knows how to suck a dick, you might wanna ask her for some pointers because your mouth is pretty sad.”

Amira’s voice floated from the phone laced with pure amusement.

“Damn, you called me while she sucked you off? That’s sad as hell. Do better, Mr. Rose.”

At this point the girl was fuming, standing and going on about how she didn’t need this shit and Xavier wasn’t that cute anyways before she let herself out. Xavier simply pulled his sweats back up as Amira cackled on the other end of the phone, no doubt wiping tears from her eyes.

“She was trying to be cute, who does that?”

“People that don’t know how to suck dick, but I digress. Did you read my text?”

“I did. Jon’s handling it right?”

“Of course. I just didn’t want to leave you out of the loop of information.”

“Mighty white of you, beautiful. Since I have you on the phone though, you got plans next week? Daniel and I are going to stage a sit-in on administration about having a BSU and it would mean a lot if you showed up. You can even bring your loud roommate.”

Amira chuckled and stood from her bed, stretching her legs and letting out a small groan.

“Lucy’s just passionate, give her a break. But let me see what my week is looking like and I’ll get back to you?”

“No problem. In the meantime, go eat.”

“How do you know I haven’t eaten?”

“Because you sound hungry. Now go eat or I’ll come over there and feed you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time unless you plan to follow through. But fine, I’ll eat...you can still come to feed me though,” she said with a smirk as she left her room to head towards the kitchenette.

“The hell he can! I got an early class tomorrow...” Lucy interjected as Amira grabbed some ingredients for a quick stir fry.

Daniel tried not to laugh in Xavier’s face when he relayed how he was basically shut down by Amira’s roommate, but he quickly failed.

“I’m sorry dude, but it’s funny. Why don’t you do something cute, like ask her out?”

“Because she’s my girl and I don’t have to do that? She knows how I feel.”

“And? Nigga, the same shit you did for her to be your girl, you now have to do to keep her that way. Fuck around and be single by your sophmore year.”

Xavier looked at him for a moment before shaking his head, “Nah, it’s not like that with us. We’ve always been friends first since we were kids.”

“Key word there? Kids, my nigga. Y’all grown now, and she’s gonna want to know that you don’t see that same little girl anymore.”

“...you give a lot of advice for somebody that ain’t got nobody.”

“You don’t listen and you won’t have nobody either.”

Xavier thought about Daniel’s words but brushed them off, sure that Amira knew how he felt about her already. Besides that, they’re bonded. They can’t be in love with anyone else...right?

___________________________________

Daaamn, Daniel! Did he have a point though? Tell me what you think!

[mollyraesly]

Time with Wolves -- Chapter 5

It was disappointing not to spend time with Jon over the holiday weekend, but Sansa was so exhausted by Friday night that she fell asleep on the couch before the normal time they would have left for the reservation. She’d been busy all week studying for a math exam, helping to clean the house, sewing bonnets for the upcoming school play, and being her mom’s sous chef for Thanksgiving meal preparations that her body had just quit on her.

Together, they made enough food for twenty: the seven of the immediate family, her uncles Benjen and Edmure, her cousin Robin, aunt Lysa and creepy step-uncle Petyr, grandfather Hoster, great aunt Nan, second cousins Lyanna and Hodor, and their family friends Luwin, Yohn, Rodrik, and Jory. Her mom handled the turkey, stuffing, yams, and gravy. Sansa was in charge of the cranberry sauce, greenbean casserole, and mashed potatoes. Plus she baked all the pies (six different variations this year: pumpkin, cherry, apple, chocolate crème, bourbon-pecan, and pear crumb) and chopped all the onions and celery for her mom to make things easier. She would have liked to sleep for days after all the dishes were washed and put away, but she didn’t want to miss all the early-morning Black Friday sales. She forced Robb to drive her to the mall the next morning at five. She got half the presents she needed for Christmas just from the outdoor sporting goods store, a fantastic set of cutting shears, half-priced antique lace, and more thread at the craft store, expensive shampoo and conditioner at 60 percent off, and a pair of pale pink kitten heels from Anthropologie she just couldn’t walk away from. Robb, in turn, got a girl’s number, and free breakfast on Sansa, so he wasn’t as crabby on the way home as he’d been on the way there. Still, even a sleepy Sansa was a thinking-about-Jon Sansa.  Jon’s birthday was in less than three weeks, just a few days before Christmas, and Sansa had been stressing out about what to get him. She’d never given a boy she wasn’t related to a proper present before. She wanted to make him something, as she always thought handmade gifts were the most personal and meaningful. But she wasn’t sure what it should be. Eventually, she realized that Jon didn’t have a heavy enough winter jacket, particularly if he was going to be going even further north to the army base. Sansa was being genuine when she told Jon she thought he’d make a great soldier, but she was worried. The men who were stationed at Castle Black always looked so broken when they came back home—if they came back home. Sansa didn’t want to tell Jon not to go, not if being a soldier was his dream. But she did want him to take care and stay warm.

 So she went with Margaery to the fancy vintage shops and found a lovely black leather jacket that looked like it would fit him—only she lied and told Margaery it was for her brother. Sansa ripped out the seams inside and gave it a whole new lining so that way it would have better insulation. She polished the leather and made sure all the buckles shone. Along the collar and the cuffs, she added little wolves, stitched in black. They weren’t noticeable, unless you looked closely, but Sansa wanted the jacket to remind him of the reservation—of Ghost, of the North, of home—of her. It was silly, and she strained her eyes trying to make out the black thread patterns on black fabric. But she was determined that the wolves would be there and that the stitching would get done on time. In addition to all the usual scarves and gloves she knitted at this time of year. She made some for Jon and his mom, as well, with snowflakes on them. When the week of Jon’s birthday finally came, she met him in the driveway with her arms full of gift bags and a case of nerves. “What’s that?” Jon asked as he took the bags from her so she could get into the car. “These are heavy. Are you playing Sansa Claus tonight?” Sansa normally would have rolled her eyes at the tired nickname, but she was too keyed up. “It’s for you. For your birthday. And well, there’s Christmas stuff too—for you and your mom—and something for Mr. Mormont and Ghost, of course.” Jon looked down at the bags. “You got me a birthday present?” he asked, sounding stunned. “Well, it’s a big one, eighteen, and all. And friends give each other birthday presents and we’re...friends, right?” Jon gazed at her with his gentle gray eyes. “Of course.” He handed her the bags back and then hopped into his side of the car. “Should I open it now? Or do you want me to wait?” “Wait,” Sansa told him. She didn’t want it to happen in her driveway, where any member of her family could interrupt them. “Till we get to the reservation.” “Okay.” Jon turned on the radio and pulled out of the Stark driveway. “Can I guess what it is?” Sansa laughed at his enthusiasm, like a little boy on Christmas morning. She’d never seen Jon so giddy. “You can, but I don’t think you’ll guess it.” “Is it smaller than a bread box?” he asked.

“What kind of bread?”

“Pumpernickel.”

Sansa laughed, and Jon kept her laughing until they arrived. When he finally put the car in park, he turned to her. “Please. The suspense is killing me.” Sansa sighed with feigned annoyance but then grinned. “Okay, open this first.” She handed him one of the bags.  Jon smiled as he peeked his head inside. “Cookies.”  “The first box is for you and your mom, a collection of various Christmas staples: sugar, chocolate chip, M&M, peanut butter, pecan snowballs, jam thumbprints. The other is just for you. They’re gingersnaps.” “My favorite,” said Jon with a smile. “Your favorite,” Sansa agreed. She handed him another bag. “These are for Christmas.” “Shouldn’t we do Christmas after birthday, since that’s the chronological order?” “No,” Sansa replied decisively. “Gifts should always be ordered by how good they are.” “Well, then you’ve already screwed up, because your cookies are better than anything.” “Shush, open this.” Jon dutifully opened the bag and took out the scarves and mittens she’d knitted.  “They’re for you and your mom.” “They have little snowflakes on them.” “Yeah, cause you’re the Snows. Is that silly?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.  “No, it’s perfect. My mom will love them. I can’t wait to show her.” Her smile returned. “Okay, and here’s the last thing. For your birthday. I wasn’t sure what to get you, so I ended up making something—not from complete scratch—but, well, you’ll see—and if you don’t like it—" “Of course I’ll like it—“ “But if you don’t—" Jon brought his finger to her lips and stunned her into silence. “Why don’t I open it, hmm? Before you decide I must not like it?” Sansa nodded, frozen by the feeling of his skin on her lips.  Jon removed his hand and moved his attention to the gift bag in front of him. He took his care removing the tissue paper and pulling the jacket out of the bag. He raised it up to his eyes, his mouth agape. “What? You—you made this?” Sansa blushed. “I retailored it. It’s vintage but in really good condition. I redid the whole lining to make it warmer—you know, for when you go up north. Cause I noticed your coat isn’t that warm. There’s little wolf decorations on the collar and the cuffs. They’re in black so they’re not too noticeable. Do you like it?” “I love it.” Jon slipped off his jacket and pulled the new one on. It fit well in the shoulders, just as Sansa hoped it would, with a little extra room for him to grow. He inspected the details on the cuffs. “I like the wolf bits. They look like Ghost!” “That’s what I was going for.” “Thank you, Sansa. Honestly, no one has given me a gift as nice as this before. I’m going to wear this all winter. Maybe even in the summers too.” She laughed. “You’ll die of heat.” “It’ll be worth it.” He cradled her face in his hands as his mouth swooped down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “Really, Sansa, thank you,” he whispered softly to her. “You’re welcome,” she breathed back. Job pulled away, running a hand through his curls and giving Sansa a chance to admire how well the jacket fit him. “I, uh, got you something too.” “What? Why? It’s not my birthday.” “But it is Christmas—and I probably won’t see you again—alone at least—til after.” Sansa smiled, her heart already full just from the idea he thought to get her something.  “It’s not wrapped up fancy like yours were. I didn’t know we’d be exchanging gifts tonight.” “That’s all right.” “They’re in the glove compartment.” “They’re?” “Yeah,” murmured Jon, his ears going red. “There’s two things.” “You didn’t have to—“ Jon leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He tossed a brown paper bag into her lap. “And you didn’t have to either, and look at this jacket. It’s amazing—you’re amazing.” He gave her a smile. “C’mon, Sansa, just open it.” She took her time smoothing out the bag’s creases and reaching inside. First, she found a piece of plastic and pulled it out. It was a CD case.  “It’s a mixtape—of the songs we listen to in the car. Mostly the Cure—but there’s a few others in there. The ones you tend to mouth the words to.” Sansa flipped the cd case over to see Jon’s messy handwriting; he’d listed the songs he’d included along with the artists’ names. “You made me a mixtape?” she asked incredulously. “Is it lame?” She shook her head, feeling slightly overwhelmed by how adorable the gift was—how adorable Jon was. “No—the opposite. It’s so sweet. I love it. Thank you.” Jon smiled, the anxiety leaving his eyes. “You’re welcome. There’s one more.” Sansa reached into the paper bag again. Her fingers felt plastic with something sharp but smooth underneath. Curious, she pulled it out. She found various crystal beads in blues, grays, white, purple, and green. “They’re beads,” Jon explained.  “They’re gorgeous.” “I thought you might be able to make something out of them—not for anyone else this time, but for you. See the gray ones? They reminded me of the color of Lady’s fur.” Tears collected in her eyes. She reached over and hugged him, flinging her arms around his neck, fingers just brushing against his curls, her nose going straight to his neck. “Thank you, Jon.” She felt Jon’s hands tentatively move to her back, getting tangled up in her long hair. “You’re welcome, Sansa,” he whispered with his cheek resting against the top of her head.

She wished the hug had lasted longer, but they needed to get into the reservation before it closed to see Ghost. Mr. Mormont appreciated that scarf Sansa had knitted him, and Ghost seemed to tolerate the red and green bandana she made to go around his neck.  She asked Mr. Mormont to take a picture of her, Jon, and Ghost. And the bandana stayed on for only a few minutes more. Luckily, Ghost seemed to enjoy the moose-flavored treats Sansa made him more. When they were back in the car, Jon asked to see the photo. They were crouched down, both hugging Ghost. Sansa was laughing as Ghost sniffed at her hat, and Jon, in his new leather jacket, was smiling softly at them both.  “Could you send that to me?” “Of course.” Sansa had Jon’s number—had had it for years— but they rarely texted. hated the acronyms, bad grammar, and stiltedness of talking through texts—or worse, through emojis. Once, a boy from school had sent her a “u up” text, followed by several pictures of his dick, and Sansa was appalled. Where was romance? Where was common decency? Sansa knew Jon would never send her anything so crass, but she preferred phone calls or handwritten letters to texts.

And, moreover, she had a general rule of not contacting Jon too much throughout the week, lest she be too much of a bother to him. “I’d really like to spend more time together tonight, but I promised my mom I’d get home. She wants to go get a tree tonight before all the good ones are gone.” “That’s fine,” said Sansa, doing her best to hide her disappointment. “But maybe—next rime—would you like to go to the diner?” “Sure! Their takeout is always quick.” “No, I mean inside—dinner in a restaurant, not a parking lot—would you like that?” “Yes.” Jon grinned. “Great. So next time—dinner.” 

Sansa beamed. “Next time—dinner,” she repeated.