#only to find they’d all been claimed in the first ten minutes

[hauntedfalcon]

@nonhoration right?! every time I think about how much a meatspace nonprofit could accomplish with the money AO3 is doing nothing with, steam comes out of my ears. flames! on the side of my face!

[runninriot]

written for @steddie-week day 4

and the @steddiesongfics july prompt

Easy

prompts: trade, body swap & song: Nik Kershaw (Wouldn't It Be Good) | wc: ~1.2k | rated t | cw: recreational drug use | tags: steve has a bad relationship with his parents, good uncle wayne appreciation, repressed feelings, steve has a crush on eddie, friends to lovers | also on ao3

They’re lying on Eddie’s floor, sharing a joint like they often do. Hanging out, just the two of them, enjoying each other’s company.

Eddie’s been rambling for the past ten minutes, talks about how he’d like to swap bodies with Steve for a day, how he’d want to experience a day in Steve’s life first-hand.

   “Why the hell would you want that?”

   “You got it easy,” Eddie says matter-of-factly and Steve snorts at this very untrue claim.

   “Yeah right, I wish.”

   “What could possibly make Mr popular rich boy’s life hard, huh?” Eddie teases and Steve knows he doesn’t mean it in a hurtful way but it still stings.

   “You don’t know a thing bout it,” he answers simply, before snatching the joint from Eddie’s fingers and taking a long drag.

Steve doesn’t want to open up that box. He came here to forget, not to talk about what’s keeping him up at night.

   “So? Tell me then. I wanna know. Because- and don’t take this the wrong way, Stevie – but I really can’t see it. I mean, look at me. I’m certified trailer trash. I know what it’s like to live on nothing but toast and peanut butter for weeks because the washing machine broke and the next pay check isn’t yet due.” Eddie laughs but Steve can’t find it in him to join in on it.

He hates when Eddie calls himself that, trailer trash. As if living in a trailer park makes him less of a person. It doesn’t! It just means that Eddie and his uncle are less fortunate than others.

Steve didn’t do shit to earn the comfort of growing up in a big house, was just... lucky to be born into the Harrington family.

Wayne on the other hand is doing his best, is giving his all to make their life as good as possible.

Steve envies that.

Wayne is an honest and hard-working man, and even if Eddie likes to joke around and belittle himself for their situation, Steve knows he cherishes everything Wayne has done for him. Steve knows Eddie will do everything to make him proud. To repay him for taking him in when he needed a place to stay. For always being there for him, for supporting him. For loving him unconditionally.

They might not have much but they have each other. It’s something Steve would trade everything he owns for without hesitation.

In a heartbeat, he’d give up his inheritance for a relationship with his parents that is as respectful and loving as the one between Eddie and his uncle.

Because Steve might have a nice car, a pool in the backyard, and a name that can open doors for him but- at home, he feels lonely, unloved. He’s a failure, his father keeps reminding him. And worst of all, he’s afraid to be his true self around them because they’d never accept it, would never understand.

   “Steve? You with me?” Eddie pushes himself up on one arm, his face hovering over Steve’s. “Hey, did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to-“

   “Nah, you’re good. Just got a little lost in my thoughts.” Steve offers a weak smile but he can sense that Eddie doesn’t buy it.

He knows him too well.

Has this annoying ability to read Steve like an open book.

It’s like he can see right through him, can see right through Steve’s little white lies whenever he tries to talk himself out of something.

There’s only one thing Eddie doesn’t know about him and never will. It’s Steve’s best kept secret; not even Robin knows. Because he can’t risk his parents finding out about it.

If Eddie knew, maybe he’d understand and take back what he said earlier because yeah, sure, Steve’s life might seem easy from an outsider’s point of view, someone who only sees the shiny exterior of his golden cage.

It’s a false illusion, because contrary to Steve, Eddie does not have to hide a certain part of himself out of fear of the consequences.

Wayne loves him regardless, accepts all of him. Wayne knows, and he’d put up a fight with anyone who doesn’t agree with Eddie’s... choices.

Steve’s father would kill him if he ever found out that his son is-

   “Alriiight, enough for you!” Eddie sits up and reaches for the joint that’s slowly burning down in Steve’s hand.

Their fingers brush and it feels like the world stops for a second. Steve finds Eddie’s gaze, can’t look away, slowly loses himself in Eddie’s dark brown eyes. The air is crackling between them and Steve feels tiny electric shocks prickle on his skin when Eddie lifts his free hand and cups his face.

The hand doesn’t linger, unfortunately, moves up his temple to brush a strand of hair back from Steve’s forehead. It’s a kind gesture and Steve wishes he could lean into the gentle touch.

But he can’t. He can’t let the wall crumble because Eddie would instantly know what it means.

Would know that, behind layers of pretentious confidence, Steve hides this vulnerable part of himself.

That there, locked away in his fragile heart, burns a small flame. A flame he tried to smother, that keeps flickering unrelenting.

Because every time Eddie looks at him, every time he smiles, every time they touch – it’s like gasoline to the flame, setting his insides ablaze.

Eddie’s hand retreats but the sensation on Steve’s face remains, hot and red. He knows he’s blushing, hopes he can blame it on the buzz from the weed.

   “Sometimes I wish-“ Steve realises too late that he said it out loud.

   “Wish what?” Eddie asks, curiously waiting for Steve to continue.

   “Sometimes I wish things were different.”

   “What would you change?”

    This right here, Steve thinks. You being so close but not close enough.

   “I’d change who I am.”

   “Who would you want to be, if you could choose?”

    Yours.

   “I’d want to be someone who’s brave.”

   “Pff, you’re literally the bravest person I know.” Eddie scoffs affectionately.

   “If I’m so brave, then why I am so scared?” Steve knows it’s more than he should confess, too much for Eddie not to keep digging.

   “Scared of what?” Eddie looks at him like he’s searching for the answer in Steve’s eyes, intense and pensive. And then he smiles, bright and warm and fond in a way that makes Steve’s heart stutter.

Inside him, the flame flares up, spreads heat from his heart through his veins and Steve knows, in that moment, this might be his only chance.

   “Scared of my feelings for you.”

Eddie kisses him and suddenly, everything does seem easy.

Kissing Eddie back is easy.

Leaning into his touch and holding him tight is easy.

Loving Eddie is easy.

Because it feels right.

It doesn’t matter what his parents will think of him if they know – this is right and it’s all he wants.

This is who he is underneath.

This is who he wants to be, openly and unafraid.

   “You don’t have to change, Stevie. You don't have to be anyone else. I love you just the way you are.”

And that, Steve realises, is more than enough.

[shadowtriovibes]

dance in a storm in my best dress

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3K

Summary: by request: "I have a fun idea! How about Sebastian and f!mc are "just friends" until one day she asks him to help her try on/give his opinion on some new dresses, and desire and spice ensue??"

"Go on and change back into your robes, Mister Sallow," the shopkeeper says. "I suspect we’ll be inquiring about your opinion shortly." While Sebastian returns to the back, Mr. Hill summons a modesty screen around the rack of dresses you’d pulled and waits patiently while you slip out of your school robes and wrestle your way into that first dress – the periwinkle blue. There are so many layers that it takes you at least ten minutes to even put on your crinoline, which Mr. Hill assures you he’ll let you keep on for all three options. "Have you even put one on yet?" you hear Sebastian call out when he returns. "Merlin's beard, you’ll take on a den of trolls by yourself but you’re bested by today’s fashion trends!"

“Thank you for coming with me,” you say softly, shyly tucking your face a bit deeper into your oversized scarf as you avoid snow swirling around you.

It’s not an intense blizzard by any means, but nevertheless you appreciate that Sebastian had agreed to trudge down to Hogsmeade with you that afternoon when he could have spent the day with a dreadfully boring book by the fire in his common room, which is typically how he spends any free time he has as a seventh-year N.E.W.T.s student.

“Of course,” he says easily. “It’s about time I came up for air, so to speak.”

Despite the ongoing pressure of your final year of school, it had felt like all of Hogwarts had been abuzz about the upcoming holiday ball for what felt like weeks. Even you and your treasured trio of Slytherins had made plans to go together, and your daydreams of twirling across an enchanted dance floor in a fabulous gown had helped get you through some of the most arduous study sessions you’ve ever experienced.

With your end-of-term exams having concluded the day before, there was now only one thing standing in the way of you blowing off some steam at the ball with your best friend.

You need a dress.

Poppy had been the one to inform you that Mr. Hill had specially ordered some lovely fabrics from London as soon as he’d caught wind of an upcoming formal occasion. While it’s certainly too late to have anything custom made, you hoped you’d be able to find something in his shop that would suit you with a few minor alterations.

You’d invited Sebastian to join you on your shopping trip primarily for moral support, as the two of you were going to the ball together as friends.

(Anne had been quick to claim Ominis as her date so that she wouldn’t have to take her own brother, and you and Sebastian had been equally loath to bother asking anyone else.)

However, you suspect you may also need some help physically donning the dresses. You may not know much about what’s in fashion these days, but hearing some of your classmates boast about precisely how many garment layers they’d be wearing had nearly made your head spin.

“Do you have your dress robes?” you press him skeptically. “Anne said you were procrastinating.”

“Yes, nosy,” he laughs. “Ominis made me pick some out last weekend, and Mr. Hill should have them in for me by now.”

“Good,” you say primly. “You’ll have to try them on while we’re there and make sure they fit.”

“This is now my second trek into Hogsmeade for this silly ball,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I hope it’s going to be as enjoyable as you lot are saying it’ll be.”

“It will,” you insist. “We all need something like this, something that’s just… joyful, I suppose.”

Sebastian glances sidelong at you with a tender smile.

“Fair point,” he agrees. “Right as usual, you are.”

“You’re still surprised after all this time?” you tease him, bumping your shoulder against his while he laughs.

When the two of you walk into Gladrags, Augustus Hill perks up excitedly and slips out from behind the ornate counter.

“Ah! Just the young witch and wizard I was hoping to see today,” he crows. “Come in, come in! I dare say, it’s awfully frigid today.”

You hang up your cloaks while Mr. Hill rustles up a tray of tea for the both of you. Ever since that troll encounter years ago, the Gladrags shopkeeper has always had a soft spot for you and Sebastian, which often results in the two of you feeling downright spoiled every time you visit him.

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” you say as you accept the warm mug he offers.

“Mister Sallow,” he says as he hands Sebastian his tea. “Your dress robes came in just this morning! Why don’t I send you off with young Otto to try it on and mark up any alterations?”

You glance warily at Sebastian, reluctant to split from him as you do your shopping.

As though he’d read your mind, Mr. Hill laughs and insists, “He won’t be kept long, my dear! Fitting a young man’s dress robes is a much simpler task than that which you have on your hands, I should expect.”

“Why don’t you just pick out some things to try while Otto works his magic?” Sebastian teases. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Once you agree, Mr. Hill sends Sebastian to the backroom while you sip your tea and discuss some of your preferences with the kindly shopkeeper. You admit to not being very knowledgeable about fashion, but you have some colors in mind that you think may suit you – as well as very strict expectations on how much range of motion you want to maintain.

“I need to be able to breathe,” you insist, glancing hesitantly at some of the impossibly small corsets in the window display.

Peering over his spectacles with a wise smile, he answers, “I think that can be arranged.”

He then begins to show you the collection of remaining dresses he has in stock. As the premier clothier for the majority of your fellow witches at Hogwarts, he doesn’t have an unlimited supply this close to the ball, but his selections don’t disappoint.

“This blue color is quite pretty,” you sigh, gingerly inspecting the sleeve of one of the dresses he offers.

“I suspected you might like that one,” he says brightly. “Let us pull it for now and select a few more for you to try on, hmm?”

You end up also selecting a red gown with a smart-looking cape that would show off your house colors brilliantly and a crisply white evening dress with delicate golden embroidery around the bottom of the skirt.

“This should do for a start,” Mr. Hill says.

“Really? No green?” Sebastian asks from behind you.

When you turn to remind him pointlessly that you aren’t actually a Slytherin, your words fail you.

He looked utterly dashing in his dress robes. At first glance, he appeared to be wearing what looked like a Muggle tuxedo, but the extra-long tails and high collar gave away that it was most certainly wizarding apparel. His jacket and pants were both inky black – so dark that they appeared to even darken the room around him, or maybe you had just lost focus of everything that wasn’t him.

Of course, having been expertly fitted by Otto, Sebastian’s robes seem to cling to every inch of him. The waistcoat makes his waist look exceptionally narrow, or perhaps it’s that his chest looks so broad. His shoulders appear to be broader as well underneath his jacket, and while the long tails might appear to shorten other men, on Sebastian they merely elevate the length of his legs.

He slips on a pair of white gloves that Otto hands him and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek. He looks like a proper gentleman dressed like this, you think – not at all like the haphazardly-robed young man you’re used to seeing.

“Ah! Excellent,” Mr. Hill says with a clap, breaking your trance. “A perfect fit.”

“How do I look?” Sebastian asks you teasingly.

“B-brilliant,” you stammer. “It, um. Fits. You’re fit – I mean, it fits very well.”

“Of course, we’ll charm the waistcoat to whatever color you’d like to match your dress, once you’ve made your selection,” Mr. Hill explains as he gestures to the garment. “Or simply leave it white.”

“Of course we’ll match,” Sebastian says easily. “But getting this one to make a selection isn’t going to be easy.”

You scoff and turn back around to the rack of dresses to hide your persistent blush.

“Go on and change back into your robes, Mister Sallow,” the shopkeeper says. “I suspect we’ll be inquiring about your opinion shortly.”

While Sebastian returns to the back, Mr. Hill summons a modesty screen around the rack of dresses you’d pulled and waits patiently while you slip out of your school robes and wrestle your way into that first dress – the periwinkle blue. There are so many layers that it takes you at least ten minutes to even put on your crinoline, which Mr. Hill assures you he’ll let you keep on for all three options.

“Have you even put one on yet?” you hear Sebastian call out when he returns. “Merlin’s beard, you’ll take on a den of trolls by yourself but you’re bested by today’s fashion trends!”

“Come and help me then!” you whine.

“Er – is that alright?” Sebastian asks Mr. Hill.

“Of course!” he exclaims. “He’s your date, it would be unchivalrous not to assist you.”

That’s when you realize that Mr. Hill probably thinks you and Sebastian are properly dating, but for reasons you don’t want to admit to yourself just yet, you don’t correct him.

You could also sorely use some help as well.

“Mind the petticoat,” you mumble as he ducks behind the screen.

You’re both quiet as Sebastian helps carefully bundle up the skirt of the dress and drape it over your upright arms, slowly working it down your body so that it doesn’t catch on any of the boning in your corset. Once the skirt gracefully pours down over your petticoat, you gently smooth the bodice and turn around so he can lace up the strings crossing your back.

“Too tight?” he asks softly.

“N-no,” you murmur. “You can even do them a bit tighter, actually.”

You gasp softly when he pulls on the strings and cinches your waist tighter, and Sebastian pauses for a beat, but you don’t instruct him to loosen it.

Once he fumblingly ties the strings together at the small of your back, he mumbles, “All set.”

He offers you a hand to steady you while you shuffle out from behind the screen. Mr. Hill immediately laves praise onto the dress, and while you agree that it is quite lovely, a glance in the mirror reveals that periwinkle blue just isn’t a color in which you shine.

“No matter,” the shopkeeper insists. “Onto the red, shall we?”

Sebastian again helps you slide the dress off up over your head and replace it with the red one, this time lacing you tightly from the start. There’s a delicate cape that goes with this one, so you turn around to face him so he can drape it over your shoulders and tie the small silk ribbons that sit just at your collarbones.

“Ought to be plenty warm in this one,” he jokes halfheartedly, trying and failing to resist the urge to sneak glances at your décolletage.

“Is the cape a bit…?” you ask quietly, wrinkling your nose. “Is it too much?”

“What?” he asks dumbly. “O-oh, no, I – I think you look great. It’s a great dress, really.”

You’re nearly as red as the dress when you emerge for a second time, and once again Mr. Hill thinks you look like “a buxom Beauxbatons beauty from the boulevards of Paris.” However, regardless of your house pride, if you’re going to be blushing like this all evening at the ball – and the odds on that are significant – you know you simply can’t go with red.

“I have one more to try on,” you tell Sebastian softly. “It’s that white one, just there.”

You notice Sebastian’s gaze linger on the ornate embroidery, a pleased look passing over his face.

“It’s stunning,” he tells you. “Shall we get it on you?”

You merely nod, not trusting yourself with words at the moment.

The moment Sebastian helps you slip into the white dress, you know you have a winner. As if imbued with magic (and perhaps it is indeed), the white silk shimmers almost like the fresh snow outside the shop window. However, instead of feeling like a proper ice princess, you feel warm all over – especially where Sebastian’s hands mindlessly reach out to trace the fine embroidered patterns on your bodice.

“You look…” he exhales. “You just need to see, come on.”

He walks you out for the last time and even Mr. Hill refrains from commenting until you twirl in front of the mirror, your skirt gracefully lifting and falling with your movement.

“...I look beautiful,” you whisper. “Oh, Mr. Hill, it’s just lovely.”

“This is the one,” Sebastian insists. “You have to pick this one, it’s hardly even a choice.”

“Your companion is correct!” Mr. Hill crows. “My dear, it’s as if that gown was made precisely for you.”

Otto comes by to charm a few simple adjustments into the fabric of the dress and you watch yourself in the mirror with wide eyes as it molds itself to your body. Now it looks just like one of those custom dresses in the illustrations that the girls in your year pour over in the shopping pages at the back of the Daily Prophet.

“I think we’re done here,” Sebastian says quietly, his eyes still fixed on that one embroidered seam at your waist where your bodice meets your skirt.

“Of course,” Mr. Hill agrees. “Let’s get you out of that crinoline so I can send you two lovebirds on your way for a nice Butterbeer or two!”

As he babbles on about how it’s just like the last time the two of you came into his shop together, you meet Sebastian’s gaze and realize both of you are steadfastly refusing to correct the man. You know that you’re blushing, but seeing him blush just as fiercely is quite revealing.

After you pay Mr. Hill and make plans for Otto to deliver the dress to the castle once the storm lets up, you and Sebastian wordlessly trudge down to Sirona’s lively pub. There you manage to snag a small booth in one of the far corners – one that you’re well aware is a popular spot for snogging.

“So…” he says softly. “Lovebirds, are we now?”

“Don’t start,” you warn him. “You know how Augustus is, it’s usually just better to let him talk than spend all afternoon trying to correct him.”

“You didn’t even try,” he observes.

You counter, “Nor did you.”

Just then Sirona drops off your drinks and Sebastian forfeits his turn in your verbal duel by taking a pointedly long sip.

Then you forfeit your own turn when you get too distracted by the bit of Butterbeer foam on his upper lip to offer anything remotely witty.

“Well, regardless,” Sebastian eventually murmurs. “You did look beautiful in that dress.”

“Thank you,” you say. “And you were very handsome in your robes.”

“Proper fit, one might say,” he retorts.

The cheek, honestly.

“Sebastian,” you say quietly. “I need you to be honest with me about something.”

“Go on,” he says, taking another long sip while you consider your words.

Slowly, you ask him, “Since we met… have you ever once thought about us being more than just friends?”

“Have I ever once thought about it?” he repeats. “Of course I have. Countless times, probably”

“Then why haven’t you ever said anything?” you ask, staring deep into your mug to avoid having to meet his eyes.

You flinch slightly when Sebastian reaches across the table and plucks one of your hands off your mug. He laces his fingers with yours and pulls you closer, and the noise in the room seems to dwindle to a whisper as he meets your gaze.

“Between you and me, you’ve always been the brave one,” he tells you earnestly. “And I’d rather have only friendship with you than ask for too much and lose you entirely. Believe it or not I have learned when to stop.”

You smile ruefully at the reminder of just how much Sebastian has grown since you chose to give him the chance to do so.

He drags his thumb across yours. “So, if you want to be brave, I’ll be brave with you.”

You exhale shakily before you finally confess, “Of course I want to, Seb.”

You’re nearly in his lap at this point, and there’s absolutely no way the conversation you’re having could be interpreted as merely friendly by any onlookers. So, you think, why not be brave?

When you kiss him, the first thing you notice is that he tastes like the caramelly richness of the Butterbeer you’d both been drinking. But then it melts away and it’s just him, just Sebastian. He’s wonderfully warm, and underneath the initial sweetness he tastes a bit like the fluxweed stem he mindlessly chews on while he studies to help him focus.

His nose slots against yours as he tilts his head to kiss you deeper, and you wonder what he’s noticing about you.

But a moment later, the feeling of his warm hand on your thigh immediately makes you lose your train of thought.

“Seb,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to press your forehead to his.

“Let’s go back to the castle,” he blurts out eagerly.

You fondly roll your eyes and let him steal another kiss before you push him back with a gentle hand on his chest.

“I believe you just said something about having learned when to stop?” you tease him.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he says cheekily.

“You’re just going to have to be patient, Mister Sallow,” you insist as you reach for your drink. “I thought I saw quite the gentleman in you today. I don’t suppose you could act like him until after the ball?”

“I could,” he offers. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“Tell you what,” you bargain, leaning in close. “If you can be a perfect gentleman from now until the ball, I’ll let you help me put my dress on, and then afterward I’ll let you take it off.” 

You hear him loudly swallow and take a deep breath before he holds out a hand for you to shake and breathes, “You have yourself a deal, love.”

[raepritewrites]

The Return

There were some good things that came out of Heather’s metamorphosis, despite it being one of the most painful experiences of her life… which was saying something, because she had experienced being vivisected while fully conscious. She wouldn’t recommend either of those experiences, by the way, a definite zero out of ten.

Still, at least the end results of her body mutating were beneficial. She was more durable than she was previously, her healing factor was a good bit faster, and while the fangs were annoying at times, the paralysis venom they made was infinitely useful. She could feel it collecting like a thick second kind of saliva just above the roof of her mouth throughout the day, which grossed Kurt out to no end when she explained it to him. He had fangs too, but his were for show, or so he claimed with a winning grin.

After a while, she’d figured out that if she concentrated she could use the venom on command. Once she knew how to do that, she started collecting excess venom into glass beakers before transferring it into small darts. Kurt thought it was hilarious the first time he walked in on her standing in the kitchen with the glass precariously gripped between her fangs and bottom teeth as she scrolled Instagram on her phone. When she had enough darts filled, she would load them into some wrist cuffs that Tony had gifted her. It was a lot more hygienic than biting a criminal’s neck. (Seriously, who knew where they had been?)

Another small perk of the venom her body naturally generated? Poisons, knockout gas, and paralysis formulas barely worked on her anymore. Ninety percent of the time, her body could fight off whatever it was, and she’d be up and moving again in twenty minutes tops. She still wasn’t bulletproof, but hey, she’d take what she could get.

Which was why, when the alarm system started blaring in Mount Justice and thick smoke filled her room, she didn’t panic right away even as her vision swam and she found herself collapsing to the floor.

When consciousness returned to her, the alarm was still going off, and she checked her watch. She’d taken a ten minute cat nap thanks to that gas, and she estimated that the old her probably would have been out for hours. She quickly left her quarters, checking on everyone’s rooms as she swung down the hallway. Out like a light, every one of them; even Conner, who was a lot more difficult to knock down than all of them combined. Whoever had hit the mountain knew about them, and that scared her a little.

What scared her more was finding Robin’s quarters empty.

“Shit,” She hissed, crawling along the ceiling as fast as she could, searching for the little bird.

The biggest reason she’d accepted Nightwing’s plea for her to return to the team in a mentor capacity was because of Robin. After Jason had died, they’d all spiraled in their own way, but Bruce was the worse off by far. Nightwing and Batgirl had thrown themselves into team missions, Heather had retreated from the caped life and into her secular work, but Batman… Batman was not doing well. He’d pushed away everyone, even Superman and Dick, and he’d grown reckless and more violent in his cases. Dinah had tried repeatedly to talk with Bruce about the obvious grief he was going through, but it was like talking to a brick wall.

The three of them all blamed themselves for Jason’s death, but Bruce had taken the loss of his son the hardest. He didn’t want to let himself be close to anyone else, and he was having less and less regard for his own life. Something had to change, but she, Dick, Barbara and Alfred were all unable to figure out what.

Then along came Timothy Drake.

Tim knew about them. About all of them. He’d been stalking the bats for at least two years across the rooftops of Gotham, and none of them had noticed, not even Heather. Her only explanation for that was the boy didn’t set off her spider sense. He’d never meant them any harm.

He figured out their identities a long time ago, and the only thing he’d done about it is defend their public personas in online forums and take pictures of the bats as they protected Gotham. It was clear that Jason was Tim’s favorite Robin, most of the pictures were of him. Dick tried very valiantly not to be jealous, but Heather could tell it rankled him a little.

Tim was more than just a fanboy though. He was scary smart. His computer skills rivaled Barbara, Dick, and several members of the League combined. When Tim realized something terrible had happened to Jason, he started keeping closer tabs on Bruce. He saw the dark path Batman was heading down, but unlike them, he had a solution.

And so eleven year old Tim Drake, with the biggest nerves of steel Heather had ever seen in her life, had rang Bruce’s doorbell when he knew he was at home (apparently, the Drakes were Bruce’s closest neighbors?? Who knew?) and had told Bruce in no uncertain terms that he knew he was Batman, he knew he’d lost his Robin, and he needed a new partner so here he was.

Seriously. The kid had blackmailed Batman into giving him the mantle. Heather would have been a little offended - heaven knew Dick was - if she hadn’t been so impressed. Plus, if she was being honest, she’d kind of done the same thing to Spiderman back in the day, even if in the end he’d essentially dumped her into the team and ghosted her from there as much as he could. The point was, who was she to judge?

It was obvious immediately that Tim was more than capable of taking up the title, too. The kid was small, but much like Dick at that age, he was full of surprises. He took to fighting like a fish to water, using a bo staff as his preferred weapon over even wingdings or Dick’s own escrima sticks. He wasn’t like Dick and he wasn’t Jason, that was certain, but that was okay. Tim was his own Robin, and he treated the title with so much respect it was practically religious. He followed Batman’s instructions, but he wasn’t so much of a fanboy that he couldn’t disregard an order if needed, something she could appreciate.

Heather took to the kid pretty quickly, much quicker than Dick had. From the little Tim would say about his parents she had pieced together his homelife situation, and the picture wasn’t great. His parents were… inattentive to say the least. The Drakes seemed more interested in globe trotting and growing their business than being home with their son. While Heather had been able to rely on her mom being home every night, she could still understand how lonely Tim must have been. Growing up in a giant cold mansion alone for weeks at a time… that sounded like a nightmare to her.

After several long talks between herself, Dick and Dinah, her friend had finally come around to the idea of someone else taking on his old moniker. The anger that had initially accompanied Jason ‘stealing’ Robin away had finally melted into a bittersweet feeling for Dick. On the one hand, he was still mad at Bruce for not asking his permission, but he was finally able to admit that Jason had been a worthy successor. Too late to actually tell the boy that in person, but at least now Dick could be a better brother to Tim than he had been to Jason.

When Dick had asked her to return to help the team, but especially Robin, she couldn’t say no. The kid had seen how much Bruce was drowning, and pulled the man back from the deep end. She was grateful to him for that, but he was also just genuinely fun to work with. It helped ease some of the ache that still lingered around Jason’s memory, and made it a little easier every time she visited the manor.

Now, Tim was missing, all the rest of the team were either out on a mission or knocked unconscious, and judging by the static in her earpiece, the comms were down. She’d be damned if she let something happen to that kid on her watch.

She resisted the urge to call out his name as she ran through the mountain, just in case the kid was holed up somewhere hiding from whoever or whatever had done this. She just prayed this wasn’t another Tornado family reunion, that had been a nightmare she never wanted to repeat.

When Heather finally skidded around the corner of the gym, her heart caught in her throat. “Robin!”

The boy wonder was pinned to the wall at the neck by a man wearing combat boots, cargo pants, a leather jacket, and a bright red full face helmet. There were guns sticking out from holsters under the jacket and he was holding a wicked looking knife to Robin’s neck. The boy had clearly already been fighting off his attacker for a while, blood leaking from a cut above his right eyebrow, and while one arm was desperately grasping at the man’s giant hand so he could draw in a full breath, his left arm hung limply at his side.

Scarlet Spider moved on instinct, webbing flinging out to grab the intruder by the back of his jacket and yanking him away from Robin who fell limply to the floor with a cry of pain. The attacker looked up at her as he rolled from the floor back to his feet smoothly, slicing the webbing off of him in one movement. “You should still be asleep, little spider,” his modulated voice sent a shiver down her spine, but only for a moment.

"What can I say? I'm a light sleeper," She snapped, lunging for him.

The man backflipped away, smoother than someone his size should have been able to, then made a wide slash at her with the knife. She jumped back, grabbed his still extended wrist and twisted until the knife clattered to the ground, kicking it well out of reach.

She saw Robin slowly trying to rise to his feet from the corner of her eye and realized he was trying to help. Sweet, brave, dumb boy, he really is a bat, she thought just as the attacker broke out of her hold, kicking her in the chest and sending her flying back. She scrambled to her feet and dove for the attacker as he turned his attention back to Tim.

"Robin, run!" Scarlet Spider snapped, wrapping her arms around the man's thick arms and torso.

"That's right, Robin. Run away like the fraud you are," the man taunted, trying and failing to break her hold on him. "You never had a chance."

"Shut up!" Robin said, but his voice warbled. He leaned against the wall, clutching his clearly dislocated arm and glared at his attacker.

"Poor little replacement just can't cut it," the man continued, planting his feet and flipping Scarlet Spider over his head. She twisted in mid air to land her feet, skidding back on the concrete for a few seconds before resuming her fight stance.

"Leave him alone!" She demanded. Every big sister instinct she had was screaming at her to get Tim out of there. "Pick on someone your own size, you bastard."

"Big words coming from someone who lets child soldiers fight their battle for them," he mocked, reaching for his guns only for her to web them straight out of their holsters and into her own hands. She removed the magazines and dropped them to the ground.

"Robin has the right to fight for what he believes in as much as any of us," she shot back, keeping herself between Tim and the assailant. "You're the asshole who broke in here and specifically targeted him."

"He shouldn't be here!" The man yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Tim. "He doesn't deserve to wear those colors. He's. Not. A. Robin." He grit out, reaching for something in the pocket of his pants, but Heather had had enough.

She jumped forward and tackled him to the ground, using more of her enhanced strength than she normally would as he fought to free himself from her grasp. For several tense seconds, the two traded punches as they rolled across the floor. Eventually, she gained the upper hand, and had him pinned beneath her. She kept his arms locked above his head even as he bucked and writhed like a wild horse.

"I don't normally like to do this," she grunted, tightening her grip. "But for you? I'll gladly make an exception." She opened her mouth wide, venom already dripping and sunk her fangs into the small sliver of skin visible between his helmet and armored shirt.

It took less than thirty seconds for his body to go limp, but she didn't let go for several more, not trusting him to not have another trick up his sleeve. Finally, she released her hold and sat back, breathing out a sigh of relief. She looked down at his lolling head and reached for the edge of his helmet, only for her spidersense to flare up. “What kind of psycho puts something that dangerous right next to his face?” She muttered, pulling away from the helmet. That was a puzzle she’d sort out later.

A painful groan snapped her attention back to Robin, who was struggling to stay upright. “Kid! You okay?” She was at his side in seconds, gently taking his chin so she could examine the cut above his eye. She was careful of the bruising that had started to appear on the boy’s neck as she tilted his head back and forth. “That doesn’t look too deep. Head wounds just love to bleed. What’s wrong with your arm?”

Tim grimaced. “He popped it out of the socket. Wrist is on fire. Sprained, I think.” He spoke in terse short sentences laced with pain, but he was still standing and she gave him credit for that.

“Any other injuries?” Heather asked, lightly running her fingers over the swollen skin of his wrist, gently prodding for broken bones. Tim hissed and she murmured her apologies.

“Head hurts. Pistol whipped,” He reported reluctantly.

Heather knew if he was in a different frame of mind, he never would have admitted to that one. Like all the bats, he was notorious for skimping on injury reports. It used to drive her up a wall. It wasn’t like they were extra durable the way she was - they were more human than most of the league and the team combined. Sometimes, it was like they had begun to believe their own made up rumors, that the bat clan was something other. Which, as Heather well knew, they were not. They could bleed, they could break, they could even die.

Heather swallowed quickly against the deja vu as she saw a vision of a different Robin in front of her for a moment. She was thankful for her mask as she blinked quickly. “Right, let’s get you to medical. He’ll be out long enough for me to send a distress signal to the League and get someone here to help.”

“Is everyone else okay?” Tim asked, watching Heather quickly web his assailant to the floor.

“Unconscious, but otherwise fine. You were targeted specifically. The question is, why?” Heather wondered aloud, waiting until Tim’s brow scrunched in thought before quickly popping his shoulder back into place.

The boy howled, crumpling against her. She gripped him in a tight hug and ran her fingers through his hair. “Sorry, sorry, sorry! You know it goes in easier if you aren’t thinking about it. Sorry Timmy, sorry,” she hushed him gently as she felt a few tears hit her shoulder. “You did so good, Tim. I’m so proud of you.”

“Why?” Tim sniffed. “Why would you be proud of a pathetic replacement? Jason would have had that guy knocked out and cuffed in seconds. I couldn’t even hold out more than twenty minutes. He’s right - I’ll never be worthy of the title.”

“Hey!” She pulled back enough to meet Tim’s eyes even through their masks. “None of that. Do not ever think you aren’t worthy. You’re more than capable of being Robin. You are a good Robin, maybe better than even Dick was,” she admitted.

“But-”

“Are you really going to let the likes of him tell you whether you should have the mantle?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the still knocked out assailant. “You’re smarter than that, Tim. Don’t be like me, kid. I spent too many years feeling unworthy of taking up Dad’s mantle, hiding behind the name Black Widow, and that wasn’t even mine either. I finally realized that my Dad would have wanted me to be the Scarlet Spider, and if he were still here I know he’d be proud. Jason would be proud of you Tim, do not let anyone tell you different not even yourself. You got it?”

Tim sniffed once and nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, okay,” he said, with about as much enthusiasm as he would have if she’d told him to do push ups.

Heather sighed and gave him a small smile. “We’ll work on that confidence together, yeah? Come on, let’s get you to med.”

It took very little time to get Tim set with some basic first aid. An xray showed his wrist was sprained, not broken, and only required some wrapping and an IV for fluids and light pain meds. Heather had found bruises all across the boys body that he had failed to mention. She vowed to herself to have a team meeting ASAP on honesty in all things - especially field injuries.

Once she didn’t have Tim to worry about as he fell into a light sleep, she was able to overcome the jamming signal that the assailant had used. She would have to discuss with Batman the Mountain’s security measures. Something about the attack rubbed her the wrong way, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.

“Mount Justice to the League, this is Scarlet Spider. The mountain was infiltrated and the team was attacked. Requesting backup,” Heather waited impatiently for someone up on the satellite to answer her, although it actually only took a few seconds.

“Batman here, status?”

“The team was knocked unconscious with some sort of gas, even Superboy. Robin was specifically singled out and attacked by an assailant currently in custody. I need you, Martian Manhunter, and possibly one other Leaguer to assist.”

There was a palpable pause. “Robin was attacked?”

Heather could hear Bruce under Batman’s terse question, the parental worry only obvious to someone who knew him well. “He’s stable. Dislocated arm, laceration above his eye, light head injury, bruising all over his body from the fight… he did good, Batman. You should be proud. I only had to intervene at the very end after I regained consciousness,” she added.

Another pause. “That’s good to know. We’ll be down shortly. I’ll bring Black Canary and one of the lanterns as well.”

“I’ll have the assailant in holding. Scarlet Spider out.”

Heather rolled her neck and sighed. She knew Batman would want a more thorough report later, but for now she had a would be assassin to move to interrogation. Normally, suspects would be taken straight to the police, or possibly the satillite if they were big enough threats for interrogation. But this was personal, and Heather would be damned if she let the League take charge of what was a team matter, and she knew Dick would agree with her.

She found the suspect right where she’d left him, cocooned to the floor. She hoped the Manhunter would be able to remove the helmet without harming them or the suspect. Well, if the suspect got a little hurt, Heather wouldn’t have minded.

She knew that was cold, she knew it wasn’t very heroic. However, all she could think of was how easily Bruce could have had to bury another son today had she not gotten there in time.

She stretched out her spidersense as far as she could, sensing for danger or ill-intent, but there was nothing. The man’s chest rose and fell evenly in drug induced sleep, muscles lax. Still, she stayed on her toes as she lifted the man over her shoulder and carried him to an interrogation room. Once he was in a metal chair, she gave him another layer of webbing to anchor him in place. He hadn’t seemed to possess super strength, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

In short order, Dinah and J’onn appeared.

“Are you alright?” Black Canary asked, eyeing their suspect with barely disguised disgust. All the Leaguers were protective of the team in one way or another, but the Robins held a special place, especially for the original members like Dinah.

Heather shrugged. “Not a scratch on me. I’m assuming Batman is with Robin?”

“Indeed,” J’onn replied. “Green Lantern is scanning the cave for clues. We’ve already checked on the others. They show no adverse affects from the gas that was used on them. It was only flooded into the private quarters and a few of the public spaces, but the gym where Robin was held no traces of the gas. You’re initial assessment appears correct. Robin was the target.”

“They knew enough to get into the mountain’s security and how the airvents flow to distribute the drug,” Black Canary said thoughtfully, leaning against the metal table that Heather had moved to the side.

“But they didn’t know the gas wouldn’t work well on me,” Scarlet Spider added. “Who could have that much knowledge about us? Who would go through all this trouble just to attack Robin here, rather than in Gotham?”

“Maybe they wanted Robin isolated from Batman,” Canary suggested.

“But why Robin?” Heather asked again, feeling at a loss.

“Perhaps we should ask him,” Manhunter suggested. “He is awake, though very good at masking it. I almost did not sense his change in brain activity.”

The assailant had the nerve to chuckle, lifting his chin from his chest. “Good as ever Manhunter. Couldn’t ever get anything passed you.”

“You act as though we have met before,” Manhunter said, his tone flat.

“Haven’t we?” The man turned towards Canary and Spider. “Black Canary, lovely as ever.”

“Who are you?” Canary demanded, making a move like she was going to remove his helmet, only for Scarlet Spider’s hands to catch her own.

“His helmet is booby trapped,” She explained when the older woman gave her a raised eyebrow. She released her grip and Canary stepped back thoughtfully. “That’s part of the reason I asked for Martian Manhunter. I thought he might be able to remove the helmet without anyone getting hurt.”

“You always did have a bleeding heart, Black Widow… or is it Scarlet Spider now? I can never keep up with your latest identity crisis,” The man said dryly, knowingly.

None of them outwardly reacted, but Heather felt her heart skip a beat. This man knew how to access the mountain, knew how to knock out even a Super, he knew she’d had a prior codename and that she’d struggled with accepting it.

There’s no way he heard me talking with Robin. I mean, he was unconscious, and I was speaking too softly to be overheard, She thought and turned to Martian Manhunter who mentally linked her with Canary so they could discuss how to handle this.

Maybe we should wait for Batman to conduct this interview, Canary thought as they watched their captive struggle in his sticky prison.

That could be a while, Scarlet Spider replied. He won’t want to leave Robin’s side.

I agree, we can handle this and inform Batman of the results later, Manhunter answered.

As if he’s not going to be watching the security monitors, Black Canary thought with a snort. Manhunter, can you phase the helmet off? I wanna see this guy’s face.

J’onn floated forward and placed his hands on either side of the red helmet.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ll all go sky high,” the man said in a singsong voice that struck Heather as strangely familiar, although she couldn’t say why.

The Martian didn’t reply, merely phased the helmet off completely intact, revealing the explosives rigged into the bottom of the equipment. That wasn’t what Heather was focused on however. Tan skin, sharp jawline, black curls with a shock of white hair right at his temple, eyes hidden by a domino mask, but Heather would know that face anywhere.

“What the fuck?” Heather breathed, stumbling back a step. “Jason?!”

Dinah and J’onn both looked equally stunned. For a moment, time almost stood still, then someone pressed fast forward.

“Is it really him? Can you check, J’onn?” Dinah asked at the same moment Heather rushed forward and cupped his face in her hands.

“Take a picture, it will last longer,” Jason spat, trying to wrench himself from her grip but she wouldn’t let him get far.

Keeping one almost bruising grip on his chin, Heather used the other to pull off his mask. His eyes were a bright toxic green, not the clear blue she remembered, and for a moment she doubted. Then he spat in her face to try and get her to let go, and she felt her heart shatter and reform a thousand times in her chest. Ignoring J’onn and Dinah’s protests, she reached up and removed her own mask so they could meet eye to eye.

“You’re fucking nasty,” she said, voice warbling with tears. “I can’t believe it’s you, Jason.”

He grit his teeth, struggling to pull away. “Let me go, bitch!”

“I am never letting you go again, brat,” She countered, pulling him into a bone crushing hug. “I don’t know what happened to you, or why you’re so angry, but I am never letting go. Do you hear me? I had to say goodbye to you once - I won’t do it again.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dinah demanded.

“He has been exposed to Lazerus waters, it has made many of his memories hazy or tainted by hatred,” J’onn said, his eyes glowing as he concentrated. “From what I can glean, he…” the Martian hesitated before continuing, “he awoke in his coffin and dug himself free, then wandered for some time in a vegetative state. His next clear memory is of a woman of Arabian descent taking him somewhere, and then being thrown into one of the pits.”

Heather pulled back from Jason and looked at Dinah in dawning horror.

“Talia!” “Ra’s Al Ghul!” They exclaimed in unison.

“No wonder your brain is all scrambled,” Heather said, turning back to Jason, who suddenly looked less angry and more confused. “If you weren’t mentally well when you got dumped in a pit, it would only get worse with exposure to Lazerus waters. The pit revives the body, but it causes extreme psychological damage if your mind isn’t completely whole.”

“How would you know?” Jason demanded.

“What did you think I was doing during those long nights when there were no cases to work on down in the cave?” Heather asked. “Once my assignments were completed, I read up on old cases. I basically read the whole databank in the batcomputer; anything I could get my hands on, including all of Bruce’s info on Lazerus waters and the League of Assasins.”

“And what right did Talia have bringing you to Nanda Parbat in that mental state instead of bringing you home?” Dinah said indignantly.

“She -” Jason was blinking sleepily, and Heather saw that J’onn was working overtime to repair his damaged memories. “She was trying to help.”

“She kidnapped you!” Dinah retorted. “She literally kidnapped a minor. She may have had good intentions, but she of all people should have known what a terrible idea it would be to put someone in your mental state into a pit.”

"I swear to god, next time I see her, I'll punch her in the face. I don't care how fond of her Bruce is or where she stands with her father, she had no right to put us all through this," Heather vowed, running her fingers through Jason's hair absently. "If she found you like that, she should have brought you home!"

"You - you didn't care that I was gone," Jason argued weakly, his eyes now closer to their original color than before.

J'onn shook his head as his eyes stopped glowing. "I don't want to push too much too fast. It may do more harm than good, but I've done my best for now to help him remember his past and curb the influence of the Pit on his memories," he explained quietly to Dinah as Heather crouched down to eye level with her long lost brother.

"Jason, I - losing you nearly broke me," she whispered fiercely, eyes shining. "That night that Bruce brought you home? I don't know how I survived it. Sometimes it still feels like a part of me died too. I'm not the only one either." She swallowed thickly. "Nothing has been the same since. Dick, Babs, Alfred and I have been a mess. And Bruce is-"

"Don't you dare talk about that asshole right now!" Jason snapped, even as his own eyes grew red and glittery.

"You can't blame only him for what happened," Heather protested, shaking her head. "It was all our fault, and mine most of all. I should have been able to stop you from leaving the cave. I should have been able to find you! I-"

"I don't blame you for my death, Heather," Jason rolled his eyes.

She frowned. "How could you not-?"

"I accept that you couldn't get there in time," he interrupted impatiently. "I accept that I made a bad decision, and I paid for it. What I can't accept is why the fuck the Joker is still alive?!"

Understanding dawned in her eyes, then regret. "I… Jason…" She turned and looked at Black Canary and Martian Manhunter. "I need you guys to give us some space for a few minutes."

The Leaguers exchanged doubtful glances.

"Please, I promise we're good here it's just-" Heather couldn't hold their gaze. "I made a promise to never discuss this, but Jason needs to hear this now, and I can't wait for permission. I'll call you back when we're done."

Dinah considered her for a moment before relenting and J'onn followed her lead. Once the interrogation room had just the two of them, Heather turned purposefully to the security cameras, arms crossed. "I know you're listening to this Bruce, and I know what I promised, but this can't wait for a family meeting. I would do this regardless of what you said anyway."

She grabbed the other chair she'd shoved to the side and put it in front of Jason's, sitting down heavily. "I'm sorry you're still ah stuck here," she motioned at her webbing keeping him in place. "But given what happened earlier with Robin, and what I have to tell you, I think it's for the best to leave it be for the moment."

Jason rolled his eyes, but he'd stopped trying to break free a while ago. "Nothing you could tell me is going to change how I feel. The Joker should be dead. Not for me, but for every other single innocent life he's ruined."

"He did," Heather said flatly.

Jason blinked. "What are you talking about? I'm not fucking stupid. First thing I checked once I came back to my senses was to look into the bastard, and I know he's in goddamn Arkham!"

"Yes, currently he is," She agreed. "But the Joker did die." She scrubbed at her face roughly, looking suddenly ten years older. "Nightwing killed him. He found him, beat the shit out of him, and I- I watched it happen and did nothing to stop it."

Jason's jaw worked furiously for a few moments, emotions warring on his features. "I don't- I don't understand-" he finally managed hoarsely.

Heather leaned forward on her elbows, her face earnest. "Taking a life changes you. It kills a part of you that you can never get back."

"How would you know?" He scoffed.

"Three people have died directly because of me," She said quietly. "My father, my classmate, and you. Those deaths broke me. They took something from me, and I've had to stitch myself back together every time it happened, but I've never been the same after. When I saw Dick's face after that piece of shit stopped breathing… I knew he was different now too, and I-" tears were pouring down her face now but she made herself continue. "I couldn't let Dick live with that guilt. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't do it, I'm not strong enough."

"What did you do?" He demanded, eyes flaring toxic green again.

"Batman had gotten there and pulled Nightwing off the body, and I just- instinct just took over. I did CPR," she sobbed, gripping her bowed head, "and I hated myself every second of it, but I couldn't bear seeing Dick look like that."

[masterwords]

curve of the earth

Summary: Hotch & Gideon go undercover in Astoria to try and find a serial killer's ex wife. Hotch also manages to find love…and more secrets.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 11.8k

Warnings: see AO3 tags

Notes: Kindergarten COP AU, because I'm a sucker for undercover stories. That's all. Sorry for never updating my big stories, writing isn't really vibing right now. My head's not in it. I'll get there! In the meantime, enjoy this spectacle of borderline crack-fic proportions.

********************************************************************

“When we land in Portland,” Jason said, breaking into his third bag of airline peanuts. They were so salty that his fingers were coated after the first couple and Aaron had to turn away in order not to see when the salt dusted his lap. It was a short flight but he claimed to be famished. Aaron had given him his own bags, preferring to stick only to a small cup of iced club soda while Jason ate almost non-stop since they’d met up that morning. Aaron was staring out the window, skimming the clouds as the sky went from bright blue to the pale gray of the northwest. It had been too long since Aaron had been here, a fact that made him feel weary. He hadn’t lived here long but it became part of him and he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until he started to get close.

Jason continued munching on his salted peanuts and talking a little too fast about what the plan was. They’d been over it multiple times already but once more wouldn’t kill either of them, Jason figured. He had a lot of nervous energy and flying across the country, being cooped up in a passenger airliner in coach, he had nowhere else to put it. His knee bounced, his voice droned on and he only interrupted the plan by more eating.

They hadn’t been working together long but Aaron had already become well acquainted with Jason’s endless nervous energy. “You listening?”

“I am. You’ll go to the baggage claim, I’ll get the rental car. I’m driving because I’m familiar the region. Got it.” He didn’t mean to be short, he just didn’t have all of that nervous energy. In fact, he had none. What he did have was a headache.

As they crested the airspace over central Oregon, Jason’s stomach grumbled. He burped, pressing his fist to his mouth to try and hide it, and Aaron did his best not to pay it any mind. About ten minutes later he was rubbing at his stomach and Aaron had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling.

“Everything alright?”

“Not feeling too hot. I’m sure it’ll be fine by the time we land.”

“Couldn’t possibly be something you ate…” Aaron muttered with a smirk that Jason didn’t care for. He’d put more food into his mouth in the time they’d been together than Aaron usually did in two days. Five minutes after that first burp, Jason was pulling the little white puke bag from the chair in front of him and resting it gingerly over his lap. Just in case.

Read the rest on AO3!

[direwombat]

a possessive kiss that is meant to stake a claim . + Sybille and Jacob?

another installment of me chipping my way through the prompts in my askbox. have a late-game katc moment where the gang (guns for hire) find out that syb's a peggie now :)

2.2k

It isn’t uncommon for Sybille to disappear for days on end. 

She’s a private person who values her alone time, and considering how much she’s done for the county since Joseph declared the Reaping, Grace is willing to grant her privacy. Without her, John would still be terrorizing the Holland Valley, and Faith — or, Rachel, as she’s going by nowadays — would still be infecting everyone’s minds with Bliss. Without Sybille, the Resistance wouldn’t have been able to organize in the way that they have. 

Without her, they’d still be fighting for survival, rather than making the organized efforts in dethroning Joseph Seed from his reign of terror. She stepped up when no one else would and became the leader the county needed. 

The poor woman has been to Hell and back more times than Grace cares to count. The woman works herself to the bone and barely sleeps. If she decides she needs some time to disconnect and get some rest, Grace isn’t going to stop her. 

Even machines break down if they’re not taken care of properly. 

But, after going a week without hearing from her, Grace starts getting antsy, and after another few days of radio silence, she decides to take matters into her own hands. 

She has a map of the Whitetails spread out over the table of one of the booths at the 8-Bit, desperately trying to get Nick, Hurk and Sharky to fucking pay attention. Last she heard, Sybille was in the Whitetails, which means that odds are she’s being held prisoner at the Veterans Center. And that means doing recon is essential. 

Jacob Seed is fucking smart. They can’t just go in guns blazing if they want to rescue her. 

“You know who’d be real good help here is Boomer,” Sharky says. “That guy could sniff out every Peggie in a ten mile radius! Locks onto Peggie B-O like a fuckin’ missile.” His grin falters and his heavy brow furrows as he frowns. “Where is he, anyways? I ain’t seen him around in a while.” 

“Might’ve gotten captured along with Syb,” Hurk says thoughtfully. “She said that John was gonna send ‘im up north before she freed ‘im, right?”

Nick groans in dismay. “Shit, Jacob better not be turnin’ him into one of the Judges. I don’t think I got the heart to kill old Boomie if he attacked me, y’know?”

“All the more reason for you all to focus,” Grace grits through her teeth. “Now, can we please —”

“Hey, y’all?” Adelaide calls from where she stands behind the bar, fixing herself her third cocktail of the hour. “I ain’t gonna say you’ll all want to see this, but, uh… I think y’all should.” 

“What is it, Mama?” Hurk asks. 

“I don’t — I can’t…” It’s the first time Grace has ever heard the woman at a loss for words. She’s usually so easy to joke -- the more serious the situation the more inappropriate the comment -- but when Grace locks eyes with her, all she sees is fear. “Just come look at the TV.” 

Grace’s stomach drops. 

Ever since the Cult took over, nothing good has been playing on TV anywhere in the county. Most days it's just broadcasts of Joseph’s sermons interspersed with other programs that are blatant Cult propaganda — cult song sing-alongs and storytimes led by the former-Faith, John’s alleged “self-help” programs, and, perhaps the only useful things that play between segments: Jacob’s five-minute survivalist tips. But every now and then, the Cult puts out something new. Something that looks more at home in a horror film than it does on public television. 

The broadcast of Deputy Pratt, ankle deep in water, tied to a chair, sobbing and pleading for his life will forever be burned into Grace’s memory. 

She and the boys slip out of the booth and all cautiously approach the television resting on the bartop. The video quality is poor — dark and fuzzy — but when she makes out the figure on the screen, she claps a hand over her mouth. 

“Shit,” she breathes. 

At the same time Nick cries out, “Jesus Christ!”

Standing, at attention, before the red-and-black version of the Peggie flag and dressed in the garb of the Chosen is the Deputy. She stares into the camera, her face calm and expressionless. No fear or anger; she remains stoic as the soldier she is. 

The camera zooms in for a moment and then back out, focusing on her face before the voice of Jacob Seed sounds from offscreen. “State your name for the record.”

“Sybille Marie La Roux,” she answers. 

Jacob steps forward, just enough so that only one of his broad shoulders is in frame. “Do you, Sybille Marie La Roux, solemnly swear to support and defend the Project at Eden’s Gate against all enemies, both foreign and domestic?”

The words ring bizarrely familiar in Grace’s mind, and it takes her a moment to recognize them as a bastardized version of the Army’s Oath of Commissioned Officers. Her breath hitches and dread roils in her gut. It twinges painfully when Sybille answers with a firm, “Yes, sir.” 

“Do you swear to bear true Faith and Allegiance in the Father and the Project?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bullshit,” Nick hisses under his breath. Bullshit, she’s swearing this oath of her own free will. Surely, Jacob did something to coerce her into this. 

But what if he didn’t? What if she is joining the Cult of her own volition?

Grace’s jaw clenches so tight that her ears ache. 

“And do you swear to well and faithfully discharge the duties asked of you by the Father and your Commander?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Jacob steps further into frame, completely obscuring Sybille from view. There’s the distinctive sound of a knife being unsheathed and Grace catches the red flash of its handle as he appears to lift one of Sybille’s hands and presses the blade against the soft flesh of her forearm. “Then in the name of the Father, I appoint you Judge, Jury, and Executioner of Eden’s Gate.” He wipes the knife against his jeans and slips it back into its sheath, and lifts his hand to draw something on the woman’s forehead. “May you act as God’s Divine Wrath and enact His judgment against our adversaries.” 

“Yes, sir.”

He leans down to pick something up and then moves to circle behind her, revealing the red cross he drew on her forehead. It matches the blood that stains the faces of the wolves he’s tortured into submission. Leaning down, his lips brush the shell of her ear and he eyes the camera with a sadistic smirk. 

Even where she stands, miles away from the Whitetails, Grace barely suppresses a shudder. It may be a video recording, yet she still feels like he can see them through the screen. 

“Praise be to the Father,” he says, low and breathy, with the intimacy of a lover.

Sybille lifts her hand to her forehead in salute. “Praise be to the Father,” she repeats. 

What happens next stuns everyone into utter silence. 

As Sybille’s hand falls back down to rest by her side, Jacob is wrapping a hand around to cradle her jaw and tilt her head up and towards him. It’s so quiet that Grace nearly misses it, but he mutters a quiet, “Good girl,” before leaning down to capture Sybille’s lips in a devouring, open-mouthed kiss. Her eyes flutter shut and she leans back against him, allowing his tongue to plunge hungrily into her mouth. Small, whimpering moans are pulled from her every time their lips move. As she tilts her head back to give Jacob easier access, the red scarf wrapped around her neck slips, revealing a band of leather wrapped around her throat. 

A sharp gasp flies from Adelaide’s lips and she covers her mouth and nose with both hands, muffling the quiet “Oh no…” as her eyes go wide. Nick’s face goes red. Whether it’s in anger or second-hand embarrassment, Grace isn’t sure, and both Hurk and Sharky’s mouths hang agape, absolutely dumbfounded. 

The Chosen uniform, the collar, the kiss — Jacob might as well be fucking her on camera. Not only has Sybille pledged her allegiance to the Cult, but she’s allowed herself to be claimed by one of the most ruthless men Grace has had the displeasure of meeting. 

When they part, Sybille’s lips are swollen and her eyes are glassy. Jacob’s arm wraps around her waist, pulling her back and holding her against him. Her head leans back and she melts into him,, seeming to forget that the camera is still there. 

But Jacob doesn’t. Piercing blue eyes focus back on the lens to address those watching. “Let it be known to all who stand in opposition to the Project: the Sword of Justice will be swift and merciless.” Everyone lets out a horrified gasp when he lifts Eli’s head — severed from his body — into frame by the hair. “Your sins will be weighed and judged. Those deemed worthy, those deemed willing to repent, will be spared. Those who aren’t…” he trails off, lips quirking smugly upwards as he glances at the decapitated head in his hand, “...will be set free.” His gaze snaps back to the camera. “This is the will of the Father.”

The video cuts out, replaced by static before it begins to loop. 

Adelaide turns the TV off, and all those gathered stare at the blank screen in horrified silence. 

Sharky is the one brave enough  to shatter it. “W…we’re gonna help her, right?” he asks, looking to the rest of the group with round, pleading eyes. 

“She’s gotta be brainwashed,” Nick says shakily. The flush of his face has given way to a sickly green. “The conditioning…there’s gotta be a way to deprogram her,” he says before tacking on an uncertain, “Isn’t there?” 

Adelaide’s brows knit together, and she looks to the boys apologetically. “Sugar, I ain’t so sure there’s anythin’ we can do.” 

“Why not?” Sharky asks. His voice is small, almost childlike. 

Grace’s stomach churns. “Because she’s exactly where she wants to be,” she says grimly. 

“What — how…?” Nick stammers. 

Adelaide taps at her throat. “The collar, honey,” she explains. “Y’all’ve met her. You think she’d be wearin’ that if she didn’t want to? You think she’d let him do that to her on camera if she weren’t at least a little into it?”

A wave of disgust washes through Grace. To think that the woman who helped her defend her Pops’ grave and saved Falls End — the woman she looked up to as a leader and commander — is now Jacob Seed’s pet. 

“I’ll be damned,” Adelaide sighs. “The military kink I kinda expected, but I ain’t ever woulda pegged her as a sub.” She knocks back the martini she’d been holding in her hand and grimaces again. “Guess we know why we ain’t heard from her or Eli in a while.” 

“Fuck,” Nick hisses. “Shit.” He drags his hand over his face and rubs at his beard. “How — how the hell did we miss this?” 

Grace sighs wearily and leans over the bar, pulling up the first drink her hand touches. Unscrewing the cap, she doesn’t bother with a glass and drinks whiskey straight from the bottle. 

At first she thought the delegation of missions was just Sybille being a good leader. It’s impossible for her to do everything, and, at the time, it made sense to have teams attacking outposts and doing what they could while Sybille was elsewhere in the county. But then she thinks about how much time Sybille had spent in the Whitetails — how whenever she disappeared for days at a time, it was always when she was up north. How she was always so irritable, almost volatile, whenever Grace had asked about how her “solo-missions” went whenever she returned. 

It’s easier to spot the red flags in retrospect. Hindsight is a bitch like that.

Sybille always played things close to her chest, hiding problems until they couldn’t be hidden anymore. Ever since the night she dug herself out of her own grave and struck Joey during Burke and Virgil’s funeral, Grace has known that something was wrong with Sybille. But she always assumed that they were close enough — that she was trusted enough — that she would confide in her if something was weighing on her shoulders. 

And maybe that’s Grace’s fault. Maybe she should have pressed harder or checked in more often. 

Not that it matters anymore. They all missed the writing on the wall, and while Eli was the first to bear the consequences, he certainly won’t be the last. 

The county’s greatest hope has turned into its biggest nightmare, and now they need to figure out how to fight it. 

Abruptly, the door to the 8-Bit swings open with enough force that it bashes against the wall. They all whip around, pulling their sidearms from their holsters.

Stumbling through the door is a man dressed in Peggie garb. His hair and beard blend into one dark, tangled mass around his face, and his bright green eyes are bloodshot and wild. Wheaty leans against him, his arm wrapped around the Peggie’s shoulders, while his other hand is pressed against his abdomen. Blood oozes between his fingers and he’s barely clinging to consciousness. 

“My name is Augustine La Roux,” the Peggie says, looking to all of them with fearful desperation. “I need your help.”

[the-hedgerow-house]

Excerpt of Chapter 1: Ad Terminum

Here's a snippet of the first chapter of "The Hedgerow House" to whet your appetite with; Y/N POV writing:

Satisfied with what you did manage to scalp off your worn tennis shoes, you took a look around for an indicator of where the festival was going to be; vaguely, you recalled someone in the cafe where you’d heard about the sign up saying it was up in the old campgrounds, deep in the woods where the town’s lights wouldn’t interrupt the ambiance, but where that actually was you had no idea. “Summer camp” wasn’t really your thing growing up, even if it was technically just a four day weekend behind the library. Too many kids from school you didn’t feel like being in close quarters with, uninterrupted, for days at a time.

Taking a guess you weren't up far enough, you pointed your toes uphill and began to march, pondering the other details of the event you remembered from the cafe poster. Any other year, you might have passed up on the endeavor simply because the effort wasn’t worth it, but upon seeing the theme that had been voted on, you felt a glimmer of true excitement. For the first time in five years, they’d passed on the milquetoast ‘harvest’ and ‘pumpkin patch’ themes and dove back to the true root of Eerie Fest: actually being scary.

This year, they picked The Hedgerow House.

More of an urban legend than a scary story, there was hardly a teen or college freshman in the county who didn’t know about that macabre place–it was the main reason the campground had been so sought after this year. There was an old multi-story lodge on the property that was being decorated to resemble the forbidden building of legend, with the decor and spooksters–the nickname for the costumed actors–being assigned a role as one of the denizens of the house itself. Supposedly, the goings-on of The Hedgerow House were the stuff of nightmares that only the most versed and prolific of horror fans would appreciate, from missing persons to mutilations, cult activity, inhuman creatures and enthusiastic cannibalism; each telling of the house was a bit different yet all claimed to be true. They couldn’t possibly water down this theme! Your excitement for a truly awful, memorable, unsettling Eerie Fest experience was all you wanted. To participate in something you actually cared about.

You were already called a monster by enough people in town, it only made sense to finally cash in on that title.

A rapid beeping struck your ear out of the blue, startling you from your thoughts. What was that? Reaching for your earbuds, you felt a bitter hand of worry grip your neck. One of them was gone! How? When?! Turning to look down the path, the worry grew into a near panic. How in the world could you find your lost headphone in this mess!?

You had to try, or that incessant beeping would continue as the paired headset tried to sync up again and again, fruitlessly. Muttering swears at your own misfortune, you trudged back to approximately where you cleaned your shoes, finding the mud scrapes relatively easily. The beeping stopped as you did, meaning the damn thing was hiding out somewhere nearby; it was bright white, so it should stand out pretty well against the dirt and leaves–right?

Even if it did, that didn’t spare you the time it took to rifle through the masses of plant matter, feeling the wet odor of decaying plant life cling to your sleeves and seep under your nails. Three–five–ten minutes later, it finally turned up, somehow nestled safely under the very root you’d used to clean your shoes. For a moment, you swore it hadn’t been there before, but you were too relieved to find it to question whether your eyes were playing tricks or if the forest had mischievous critters hiding around every bush that enjoyed your misery. Cleaning it off, you put it back in your ear–cold! Ugh.

You rose from the ground, losing hope you’d get to sign up on time at all at this rate.

The ground shifted.

Sopping leaves skid over each other, taking your foot with them with a crunch as gravel and twigs gave way. Your knee burned, taking the brunt of the slide you unwillingly found yourself having. Everything went pear-shaped as you landed with a whump on your back at the foot of the hill, staring up at the gray autumn sky between the treetops. Taking a slow breath, a guttural curse wound its way out of your throat.

“FFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!”

Carefully, you sat up, wincing; the pain was mild, mostly just bumps and a wicked rug burn thanks to your jeans greeting the hillside with too much enthusiasm, but your pride hurt the most. How in blue blazes did you manage to fall down the damn hill so easily?!Coming outside was a mistake, you decided, peeling your wet backside off the leafy ground with all the grace of a newborn horse. Home was sounding better and better by the minute, but as you peered up at the way you came, you found this side to be the rear of the hill–and that it was overgrown with tall grass wherever the hillside itself hadn’t crumbled away into muddy shelves between gnarled roots. There was no way to climb back up without a ridiculous amount of struggle, enough so that you briefly contemplated just going to the campground anyway to spare yourself the hassle of walking around to flatter ground.

[thebroccolination]

I try not to make snap judgments in the moment.

A long time ago, a friend of mine waxed poetic about why she hated a celebrity. Friend A told us horrible stuff she remembered them saying, and we were all fairly repulsed.

Then Friend B said, “I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of someone else.”

Friend A frowned. “No. Wait, why?”

“Because That Celebrity did a graduation speech and spoke out against what you’re saying. It’s on YouTube.”

Friend C said, “That’s even worse, then. Hypocrite. Be upfront about your terrible personality traits.”

Friend B said, “Hang on, I’ll look it up.”

And this is when I felt strange, because Friend B was the only one doing research on their phone while the rest of us just watched and waited in expectant silence. Friend C had even buckled down on Celebrity Being Bad even though they’d only just heard some accusations from Friend A minutes before. We trust our friends to have done the research, I think.

Seconds later, Friend B said, “Yeah, you’ve been talking about Another Celebrity.” They read aloud part of an article that quoted the same things Friend A had just told us.

Friend A sat with that for a second, forehead creased, and then said, “Oh, fuck. They were in that movie together! I’ve tarred the wrong feather. Sorry, Celebrity.”

We laughed and moved on.

We were all in our early twenties at the time, and that exchange took up maybe ten minutes of a several-hour hangout during which more exciting things probably happened. It stayed with me, though, and recently while I was scrolling through a comment section, I saw someone claim, “This person said [horrible bigoted thing],” and sixteen people replied with variations on, “EW, I hate them now.” They were all likely strangers, but there was this feral nature in how amenable they were to accept a terrible thing without any evidence at all. (Would someone on the internet lie?)

It wasn’t the first time. I see that exact scenario play out at least once a week. A person accuses someone of a bad thing, some commenters say, “Really?”, the person says, “Yup,” and the commenters say, “Sounds legit. Fuck that person.”

And it strikes me as bizarre that people can just…automatically accept the worst they hear about others without proof. What’s worse, the burden of evidence isn’t on the person making the claim—it’s on whoever cares enough to do the research. I don’t know if there’s a cultural element at play here, but I do suspect that people raised in the United States of Love the Sinner Hate the Sin have a super special proclivity to Moral Judgment. Regardless of one’s cultural faith or religion or lack thereof, I think the States’ particular brand of cultural Christianity seeps into everything and encourages our righteous anger and a subsequent hobby of enthusiastic othering. I see it online constantly, especially in fandom, dressed up as progressive activism: “This person has sinned, and we must punish them.”

There’s rarely much focus on any potential evolution or growth of the accused—just judgment and punishment. But that’s another topic.

Mostly I find it disturbing that so many of us seem to hope that someone else has Done Wrong. So vehemently that they’ll believe a terrible thing from some random person online without looking it up themselves. Username lovelysharktesticles probably did their research, and even if they didn’t, the person they’re accusing is human, so they probably did something bad even if it’s not this thing. Pitchfork ‘em.

That’s not to say that everyone needs to do an internet search on their phones whenever someone makes a casual claim in conversation. I’ve done it, and sometimes the person is right that Someone Said a Bigoted Thing, but they were wrong about which bigoted thing. Or they’ve missed some crucial piece of context that doesn’t explain away what they did, but it takes the severity down several notches. When it’s something I don’t want to or have no way to research in the moment, I just say, “Really?” and then make neutral noises after that. If I remember, I’ll look it up later. That’s if the conversation is in person.

Online, in public spaces, I rarely trash talk anyone. Privately, in chats or whatnot, it’s easier to open a window and do five seconds of research. It’s just a habit at this point. Human memories are notoriously unreliable, judgment is a bonding exercise, and I won’t be told who to judge by a mob parroting accusations they heard from someone else.

I just hope the burden shifts to the person making the accusation, because there are some wild claims out there, and not all of them are true.

[light-lanterne]

This story is set in the universe of one of my main stories, The Darkest Eyes, which I post in AO3 and for which I’ll provide a link below this. While not necessary to understand the contents of this short story, I’d suggest reading up to chapter 6 to further understand the characterisation and relationships that I’ve gone for. This is a direct continuation of Pt. 2 — “Operation Comfort”. Do read that one for some context! Also, please be aware that The Darkest Eyes is a post-canon, Mike-centric Byler story, so this short story will also be focused on that. - - - - - - - - - - - index || prev part || ao3 || masterpost || support me on ko-fi!

Friends. Don’t. Lie.

If Lucas were tasked with finding three words that defined his life, he would probably pick those three. Not necessarily because he believed them to be the force that drove his soul through life or anything along those lines —that’d be silly—, but merely because he’d been hearing those words over and over again for the best part of the last ten years.

Friends don’t lie. The golden rule of the Party.

He’d first heard that sentiment when he met Mike and Will. Those two had been friends for a couple years, and by the time Lucas joined them, they’d already cemented the foundations of their ever-evolving relationship.

The lighthearted nature of their conversations. A deep sense of responsibility for one another. An ongoing quest to spend as much time together as humanly possible. The undying support for each other’s talents.

The everlasting trust.

Even when they were kids, Lucas had been able to notice the pure adoration Mike had for Will, and the admiration Will had for Mike. Their bond was special like that and, in retrospect, it made sense that they’d move towards romantic territory now that they were teens. After all, there was a distinct dissonance between the objective definition of ‘friendship’, and the interpretation Mike and Will had given that word from the moment they met.

It was ridiculous to think how long it’d taken them to get their shit together…

Anyway, back to the point. From the moment he met them and almost every day since, the importance of being truthful to all the members of their friend group had been drilled into his head by Mike and Will. And it made sense: those two shared everything, so the only logical progression was for Lucas to follow their lead.

And it sounded great on paper! The group’s discovery of Dungeons and Dragons had only been slightly predated by Dustin’s arrival, so from the minute Mike had shared the manual he’d unearthed from the back of the school’s library, they had all been excited to come up with some ‘official rules’ for their new party.

They were four people now; they needed to adjust to the change and what better way to do that than to mould their dynamic according to their new shared interest?

It’d made sense to them as children, and Dustin had been the one to suggest that they wrote their stupid little rules in the Book of Law. And when Mike had passionately (and stubbornly) insisted that the first rule had to be ‘Friends don’t lie’, no one had dared go against him. Not that they wanted to, in the first place; Mike had started rambling and getting heated up on his own. But even if anyone had tried to object, they would’ve probably swallowed down their protests the minute their inspiring Dungeon Master started speaking.

(Not that their outspoken acceptance had prevented Mike from going on another tangent, but that was just Mike being Mike.)

So, at the tender age of nine, Lucas had spit on his hand and shook it with his three best friends in the world, promising to uphold their new rules with his life, for as long as the Party was a thing.

Friends don’t lie.

It was a nice mantra. A sweet sentiment.

But it was terribly impractical and unrealistic. Even that day, when they signed the Book of Law, they had all lied a little:

Dustin had pretended not to have eaten the last of Will’s Reese’s Pieces…

…Lucas had claimed to have heard Mrs. Wheeler yelling for Mike (they’d been in dire need of an emergency meeting without their DM)…

…Will… He probably hadn’t lied, to be honest. He was always the best of them all.

…And Mike had lied and pretended that the reason he had abruptly ended the game was that he hadn’t finished writing the campaign, as opposed to the fact that Ted had yelled at him for “not being man enough” and hiding in the basement all day (instead of going outside to play sports or some bullshit).

Day 1 of The Party being official. Day 1 of ‘Friends Don’t Lie’ being the rule of law. And they had all broken it. Even the person who repeated it like a parrot. Mike had broken his most important rule just so he could cry on his own, and just like that, they had all continued breaking it almost Every Single Day.

And yet, they’d always pretended to follow the rule.

Even when they got called ‘nerds’ for mentioning it outside their middle school lockers, back when they’d had that argument about whether or not Mike had copied Lucas’ History homework —he had, but current Lucas couldn’t blame him and it wasn’t like he hadn’t copied Mike’s English project a few days before—.

Even when 16-year-old Nancy said it was all ‘bullshit’ and that there was no way they actually followed the rules, for she was always more mature than them all and she understood that it was an unrealistic standard.

Even when their lives were literally on the line, and they all pretended to be okay when none of them was and they all knew that Vecna would latch onto their pain. And it was so stupid, to want to hide from the only people who could understand them, but they had all done it like idiots and it had almost cost them Will, El and Mike.

Friends don’t lie, they’d always said, and that was perhaps the biggest lie of them all.

Because really, lying was a part of living. More importantly, lying was an inherent part of being friends. Every single person on the planet had, at some point, lied to someone they cared about to make them feel better. Every single person in the world had lied to their friends just so they could keep some stuff private. Every single person in existence had lied to their loved ones in an effort to have a good day as opposed to one filled with concern.

Lying just made sense sometimes, especially when dealing with people you didn’t want to hurt with the ugly truth.

But hey, it was the golden rule, so they had to try to follow it, right? At least that’s what Mike always said, especially now that their nightmare was over and they were in desperate need of some sense of normalcy. So what if their Book of Law was a dingy old notebook that was barely holding on anymore? They hadn’t cared as they grabbed it from Dustin’s shelf and forced El and Max to sign it.

Six names.

Six signatures.

Six promises.

As cynical as Lucas could be about it, he had to recognise that they all tried. They’d promised, so they all tried to be as truthful as possible. With the small shit and the important shit. They tried to be honest, and a year and a half after The End, they were doing remarkably well.

They talked a lot and had several heart-to-hearts a week and it was still hard to open up about their struggles, but they were all slowly learning to lower their barriers. And Lucas liked to think that the Party was closer now than it’d ever been: they relied on each other, did fun shit, and they set apart some time every single day just so they could be together, even if it was only during lunch.

They had been friends for a long time, but fate had decided to strengthen their connection by throwing them into the abyss and now that they had been lucky to escape, they were bonded for eternity. There simply was no universe where Lucas’ life wouldn’t be interwoven with that of Mike, Will, Dustin, El and Max, and they all found comfort in their matching spiritual scars and history. Truth be told, Lucas sometimes imagined that they’d be tied to each other even in death, and he liked to think that he and Max would get to torment Dustin and Mike as ghosts as they waited for the idiots to join them in the afterlife.

They were connected like that, and because of it, they all tried to be honest.

But, again, it was all a lie.

And Lucas knew. He knew this didn’t come from a place of malice and it was, instead, just a way to keep everyone happy. To protect them from stress or fear, to be kind even if that came at the expense of his heart.

But part of him had been hopeful that at least Mike would be truthful, seeing as he treasured honesty the most.

Because yes, out of everyone in the Party, Mike Wheeler was the one who lied the most.

And to be fair, sometimes it made sense. There were so many things that Lucas didn’t blame Mike for, and one of them was hiding his sexuality. Even if Mike had been more confident and less terrified, Lucas knew it would’ve taken anyone a while to muster up the courage to say the words “I’m gay” to the people they cared for the most.

(Not that Mike had actually said it, but his actions had been just as effective and certainly bolder.)

So, Lucas didn’t blame Mike for hiding that. Or hiding his relationship with Will… Heck, Lucas didn’t even blame Mike for not wanting to talk about the shit he was struggling with or the waking nightmares that still haunted him. It made a lot of sense that he’d chose to hide a lot of that stuff and Lucas would be the biggest hypocrite in the world if he condemned Mike for not wanting to talk about any of those things.

Sure, the Party was trying to be more truthful about that stuff, but Lucas didn’t blame Mike for withdrawing.

What he couldn’t comprehend, however, was why Mike would blatantly lie to them throughout the evening, immediately after they’d cleared shit out and they had all expressed their adoration for each other. It was one thing to be reluctant about worrying everyone. It was another to actively pretend to be okay when he was, in fact, not okay at all.

It wasn’t even like Lucas had found out from Mike’s voice or direct actions!

The only way he knew Mike —the idiot who kept preaching about honesty and Friends Don’t Lie and all that— was lying was because he’d woken up to get a glass of water. Literally just that. Had Lucas remained asleep, no one would’ve known that Mike had been lying to them throughout the evening.

The jokes. The laugh. The smiles… It was all a lie. ‘Bullshit’, as Nancy had told them that one time.

At no point during the evening had Mike felt any better. At no point had he stopped worrying about the Party’s reaction to his coming out. At no point had Mike even attempted to let his brain know that it was okay. That he was safe.

Lucas wasn’t Will. He couldn’t read Mike like a book nor could he identify their tall friend based solely on the sound of his shoes against the floorboards or the way he sighed.

He wasn’t Will. But he wasn’t stupid either.

Mike was not on the verge of a crisis. He had already fallen into one, and he was trying his best to push everyone away just so he could suffer by himself. And because they had all been close to the truth, Mike had put on a fake smile and had spent the evening convincing them all that he was okay, that his medicine just made him a little sluggish and that he’d feel a lot better after sleeping.

And he had almost succeeded in deceiving them all… But Lucas had woken up in a cold sweat and had decided to fetch himself some water to calm his nerves, and then he had heard the backdoor open for just a split second. It was a faint sound, but an unmistakable one and what was he supposed to do? Let one of his friends go outside, by themselves, at 3 Fucking AM on a school night, to do God-knows-what in the forest?

Yeah, Lucas would never accept that. A bear might maul them, but at least they’d be together during it. And maybe it would’ve been wiser to get one of the adults, but Lucas hadn’t wanted to lose much time and he’d haphazardly put on his sneakers before sprinting to the backyard.

He’d been immediately hit by the breeze, the cold air biting his cheeks and slapping the last remnants of sleep away from his eyes. His sneakers sunk in the wet soil beneath them, and water latched to the hem of his pajama pants even though he had rolled the edge up. The hairs on his arms and nape rose under the fabric of his letterman jacket (wait, it was Will’s… eh, the little bugger had stolen it from him anyway), and there was a heavy blanket of mist in the air, the thunder echoing from the distance being a clear indication that rain wouldn’t take long to return.

Knowing Hawkins, the first snowfall was only a couple days away and even if it wasn’t snowing now, frost would be covering the leaves and grass by the time they all hopped on their rusty F-series (its name was Frankford Julie the Third, El and Dustin had decided) to go to school.

And there, a good twenty yards in front of him, was Mike. Hands in his pockets as he walked further away from the house and into the forest, his shivers clear even if Lucas was so far behind and hadn’t grabbed his glasses in his rush.

(Yes, he needed glasses now. No, he hadn’t told the Party just yet.)

Frankly, Lucas couldn’t help but be annoyed.

What was Mike thinking? Going out to explore the woods in the middle of the night without a fucking jacket on?

Logically, Lucas knew the area behind the Byers house was safer than most of Hawkins. The Chief had picked the lot with that in mind; had decided that El, Will, Jonathan and Joyce deserved a safe spot to move on from the Upside Down at last. And hell, even if the wilderness had been a little less secure, Mike would’ve probably still been safer there than in town, where he was Public Enemy #1.

Lucas knew this, but he was still annoyed by Mike’s apparent determination to put himself in tough spots. Mike was sad. He got it. But why did the idiot think he needed to put himself through all that? It wasn’t like the Party wouldn’t notice if he got sick or some shit.

Why was Mike so determined to push them away to the point that he was outright lying now? Putting himself in a position where he could get hurt, and no one would’ve known had Lucas’ metabolism hadn’t decided to fuck around with him?

It made no sense, it was foolish, and it didn’t matter. Lucas was annoyed,worried sick, but that wasn’t important now. What mattered was that he needed to keep the idiot from getting mauled by a bear.

So, Lucas followed Mike into the forest, always making sure to keep his distance.

There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to grab Mike’s arm and pull him back into the warm confines of the Party cocoon they’d left in Will’s living room, but he also wanted to see where Mike went.

Mike Wheeler was a liar who’d pretended to be okay all evening, only to go outside in the darkness of the night to drown in his own self-pitying thoughts, and Lucas knew this was the best way to get some answers.

Mike didn’t want to talk to them? Fine. Lucas was going to follow him and see if there was anything he was hiding in particular.

So, they walked. They walked for maybe twenty minutes, a small dirt path leading them safely to whatever their destination was, the occasional howl of a dog or the hoot of an owl making Lucas jump a little in place. Every little twig that snapped beneath their feet seemed to cause a rift in the fabric of the night, their intrusion an unwelcome addition to the usual nightly ecosystem around them. Every single time they moved a branch out of their way seemed to anger the forest, the sneers of racoons and badgers closely resembling the chatter they heard every day in the hallways of Hawkins High.

They were being judged by the world around them and Lucas couldn’t blame it. Two teenagers walking in the middle of the night was not a common sight and it was grounds to wonder what the fuck was wrong with them. After all, hadn’t Will been taken when he was alone somewhere in that very area? Why in their right mind would they mirror that terrible series of events out of their own volition? Why would they—

Pause.

They just crossed Cornwallis.

They’d made it all the way from the current Byers house to the general area where the original Byers residence had existed before the rift swallowed it whole.

Even worse, based on the direction Mike was going, it seemed like they were walking towards—

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

Mike hated that place! He’d been avoiding it since the winter of ‘83, and who could blame him? What they’d seen… What had happened… Mike couldn’t possibly want to go there, could he? Even Lucas felt weird about visiting that place half the time. It was just a tainted location, and the Party had subconsciously decided to steer clear of that place altogether, ever since it all went down. Especially Mike and Dustin.

Mike shouldn’t want to go there.

Except… Except he was. Mike was going there, and the realisation dawned on Lucas like a bucket of ice water because, just earlier, he’d accepted that his friend needed help. That Mike was battling with a lot of inner demons and that the Party needed to get together and discuss some plan of action to force the idiot to get a little bit of help.

Lucas had accepted that Mike Wheeler was not okay, and he’d also accepted that Mike Wheeler was a big fucking liar who’d pretended to take the Party’s love —his boyfriend’s love— all evening, even if he couldn’t feel it.

But was he someone who would torture himself by going to Sattler Quarry in the middle of the night?

The answer was clear as day, even if they were both covered in darkness.

Yes. Yes, he was.

Mike was walking towards Sattler Quarry, and Lucas had to stop himself from running over to stop him because now he was more curious and concerned than ever.

He needed to know what Mike was going to do.

Was he going to stare into the water for a long time? To think about the past and how things should’ve gone differently for them all, seeing as none of them had deserved the misery that had befallen their lives?

Was he going to scream into the darkness into a cry for help and furious defiance to the universe? A wail of desperation ripping through his lips and leaving his throat sore for the rest of the day?

Was he just going for a little swim and Lucas was worrying for nothing? Was Mike’s plan to float in the water and stare into the void of space with those dark reflective eyes of his, dreaming about a life away from the town that had taken so much from them?

Apparently, as Lucas would find out just a few minutes later, none of the above.

Because as soon as they arrived, roughly thirty minutes after leaving the Byers’ house, Mike walked towards the edge of the cliff and simply sat down. And there was nothing simple about one of Lucas’ friends sitting at the edge of a 400 feet drop; it was worthy of the freak-out session that ensued —holy shit holy shit holy shit—; but all in all, it wasn’t so bad (that, Lucas had convinced himself of as soon as he calmed his heart down).

Mike sat on the edge, legs dangling over the abyss, and that was all he did for the duration of the hour they were there…

…Well, almost.

He did something else, but Lucas didn’t know what to make of it. And it could be intranscendental, a gesture that didn’t mean anything and was merely a way to pass time. But even if nothing about Mike’s behaviour made any sense anymore, Lucas clung to the hope that his friend hadn’t changed so much that he would’ve changed his habits altogether.

So, as he watched Mike toss his D20 to the floor for the tenth time, Lucas wondered.

And as they sat twenty yards apart from each other, each of them drowning in their own thoughts for an hour or so, Lucas continued wondering. And yes, even as he ran back to the Byers’ once he’d made sure Mike was also on his way back, he kept wondering.

He kept wondering as he crawled back into the Party nest, and he kept wondering as he heard Mike arrive at the house fifteen minutes later, neither of them sleeping even as the sun came out, both of them ignoring their friends’ concerned glances and suspicious eyebrow rises.

Lucas wondered.

Because he had known Mike for ten years, and if there was one situation where Lucas had seen his friend aimlessly toss a die to the ground, it was when Mike was trying to decide something. Something simple, something complicated. The hardest choices, Mike Wheeler left to luck and he'd stopped doing it the older they all grew, but it was a habit that Mike always fell back into. Especially when he was sad, confused, and didn't know what to do.

And call it a gut feeling, but something told Lucas that Mike wasn’t trying to decide what he’d have for dinner.

This wasn't a children's game anymore. The Party couldn’t continue using terms like “Operation Allies” or “Operation Comfort”. They needed to stop playing around to take this seriously because, call it a gut feeling, Lucas felt like they were about to lose Mike, one way or another.

And that really fucking scared him.

He'd said it to himself earlier and he repeated it to himself as he watched the fake smile plastered across Mike's face as he teased Max for her hair: he'd failed one of his friends once and she almost died.

Hell, they'd all failed Mike once and he almost fucking died.

But not anymore.

Lucas wasn't going to fail again. He wouldn't let it happen.

Even if Mike Wheeler was a liar who constantly broke the golden rule he so seemed to value, and a hypocrite who'd do everything for his friends yet preferred to fade into oblivion unnoticed.

"Friends don't lie" was a flawed Rule of Law.

"Don't let your friends die" was a far simpler, far easier one to accept.

index || prev part || ao3 || masterpost || support me on ko-fi!

[steppingstonesuniverseguide]

One More Step Out of the Pit: Chapter 7/26

Summary: It had been Tommy and Tubbo for practically forever. They clawed their way out of hell together. They discovered their superpowers together. They started working for the Superhero Guild together before even coming of age. Tommy probably owed Tubbo his life ten times over. So, when the three supervillains he'd been assigned to bring in managed to take Tubbo hostage, well, there was really only one thing to do.

He knew, of course, he was signing himself up for torture and death by offering that trade, but that was okay.

It'd have to be okay.

AO3 Link (See AO3 for Warnings.)

(This story is finished and has been posted on AO3 for a while, but I'm posting it on Tumblr so it's somewhere else too (considering the day AO3 was down a bit ago). The author notes will all be kept as well. If you are following the blog and don't want to see these posts, block the tag #backlog.)

The door to the receiving room slammed shut behind Wilbur to Techno’s shock. What had just happened? Wilbur had seemed way too enthusiastic about having Tommy as a prisoner not 5 minutes ago. Enough so that Phil basically had Techno on babysitting duty. Yet then he’d up and left only on the first step of making sure hostages weren’t dangerous.

Well, Techno guessed he was the one doing this now. He turned back to the other occupant of the room who had been watching Wilbur’s sudden exodus with surprised eyes. He squinted at the newly revealed face. “What are you?” he asked. “12?”

His eyes snapped to Techno and he immediately bristled. “I’m 24,” he claimed with a rather ferocious glare considering the evidence that he’d recently snotted all over his own face still remained.

Now, Techno wasn’t particularly good at decerning ages, both in physical and mental development, but still… “I’m 24.”

Tommy seemed taken aback by this information. “You are?”

Techno folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah.”

“Dude, I thought you were, like, 40. The fuck?”

Techno shrugged. “I’ve heard that before,” he replied mildly.

“But then…” Tommy was frowning, and Techno saw his fingers move at his side as he mouthed some numbers. “That would mean you slaughtered the Carbon Squad at 12.”

Well, actually, he didn’t think he managed to get any of kills on the team of 6 heroes himself, though it was all kind of a blur. Most of the killing had definitely been Will though. He’d been… a bit righteously infuriated. Still, the technicalities didn’t matter. Techno had definitely killed more than that at a younger age on his own power and not. “They shouldn’t have kidnapped my friend,” he replied.

“But 12?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong. I was also a badass at 12… 10 years ago, but Jesus man.”

Techno hummed noncommittally, mind starting to drift from the conversation to what he was supposed to be doing. He wasn’t usually the one to do this step. It was usually Phil and on occasion Will, but today they’d apparently both abandoned him to social interaction.

“Er, so,” Techno said. “I need to check you for weapons now.”

“Don’t have any.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to take your word on that.”

Tommy frowned at him. The space between his nose and mouth was a bit red, Technoblade noticed, and his lower lip was actually bleeding from where it looked like he’d chomped down on it. “Do you, uh, need a tissue?”

He reached up to touch his own face and grimaced at the mess there. “Uh, yeah, maybe,” he replied.

“I… don’t actually have one.” There was an awkward pause. “But, uh, I can find you something.” He quickly walked to the cabinet where they stored things for hostages to change into and pulled out a shirt. “Here,” he said handing it over. Tommy stared at it for a moment, but then shrugged and started mopping up his face with it. “I guess, er, I’m going to touch you now,” he said. God this was awkward. He tensed at basically every brush of Techno’s hand, flinching a couple of times and hiding his face in the t-shirt tissue. As promised, Techno didn’t find any weapons on him.

“You should probably stop biting your lip like that,” Techno said, noting a bit of fresh blood on his face after finishing.

“I do what I want,” he said.

“…Suit yourself.” He returned to the cabinet and grabbed another white t-shirt as well as a pair of light grey sweatpants. “Here,” he said, holding the outfit out. “Change.”

Tommy’s eyes shot to the fabric. He looked up at Techno, mouth set in a line. “No,” he said.

“No?” Techno asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“I agreed to let you take me captive, not to cooperate once I got here,” Tommy said despite the fact that he had pretty much cooperated up until this point and he had absolutely no clear reason to choose this hill to die on. Almost as an afterthought he added, “Bitch.”

“You’re currently in a power neutralizing cuff locked in a room with me in a building you don’t know the location of,” Techno pointed out.

He just squared his jaw and glared haughtily.

“The way I see it, you have two options,” Techno told him, “and I’m being nice by letting you choose.”

“Yeah, and does one involve shanking a bitch,” he snarled with a ferocity that honestly impressed Techno on the inside. On the outside, he blankly stared at him until he saw a bit of the fire die in his eyes, consumed by nervousness.

Techno held up a finger and without comment on the empty threat, spoke. “One: you listen to me and change into this on your own power right now.” Another finger joined the first. “Two: I take you to the ground and put these clothes on you myself like you’re a misbehaving toddler.”

“I’d like to see you fucking try, asshole,” he snapped.

Techno watched him for a moment. “Is that your final answer?” he asked lightly shifting just slightly forward without actually taking a step to close the gap between them.

The threat seemed to actually register then, his eyes going a bit wide as he curled his arms around his middle protectively. Techno waited as he swallowed the pill that was his own helplessness, eyes flickering between fear, pain, and humiliation before hardening again. “Fine,” he bit out. “Hand me the stupid ugly ass clothes.”

Techno offered them and he practically ripped them out of his hands.

“Do I get privacy?” he snapped.

Techno nodded towards a curtain they’d set up for that purpose. “You can use that.”

“Thanks,” the boy said. Techno was pretty sure he added on a “motherfucker” there at the end, but he didn’t comment. He was doing as asked at least, so Techno wasn’t going to complain.

He leaned back against the wall near the door. His posture was casual, but it served the purpose of making sure Tommy wouldn’t find some way to slip out the only exit. He did tend to be very slippery.

Techno could see his feet and the bottom of his calves shifting around as he toed off his shoes. He waited… and waited… and waited until he started to get a bit impatient.

“Will you hurry it up?” he finally said.

The feet went still for a moment before the boy was spitting back at him. “It’s complicated to get off, alright.”

“It’s a supersuit,” Techno drawled. “Not a Victorian Era ball gown.”

“Just fuck off and give me a minute.”

“Fine,” Techno said. “60, 59…”

The boy cursed. “Bastard, you fucking bastard.” He did seem to be hurrying it up based on how his feet kind of pranced around behind the curtain, so Techno kept up his counting.

At 45 he heard fabric rip. “Did you just rip something?”

“I told you it’s hard to get off alone and now I’m on a time crunch apparently!”

“Do you need help?” Techno asked.

“No! Fuck off!”

“Suit yourself.” He either did not notice or did not appreciate the pun.

Techno did not continue counting, but Tommy still scurried out from behind the curtain rather quickly after that. Techno squinted at the person who stepped out into view. Techno had far overestimated the needed size for the t-shirt and sweats. He was tall, yes, but he was also a toothpick and the outfit hung off of him. If Techno had thought he’d looked young when he saw his face, it was nothing compared to how young he looked now while drowning in the white and grey outfit like he was an 8-year-old using his father’s shirt for a nightgown. Now, Techno knew he had to be at least 20 considering he couldn’t have signed up for The Guild until he was an adult, would have needed at least a year of training before being put on the field, and had been on active duty for at least a year, but he certainly didn’t look it.

“What’re you staring at Bitchblade?” he asked, voice cutting like a knife. Techno trailed his eyes up to his face. Somehow the deep bags under his eyes had gotten even deeper in the last few minutes and he looked paler, though maybe that was just due to the white shirt. Despite the sharpness of his words, it was obvious he was exhausted by this point. Now he was just putting on a show.

Techno removed himself for the wall. “C’mon,” he said gruffly, turning to open the door. He saw Tommy shift out of his peripheral, even taking a step closer. “Don’t,” he warned darkly. The figure froze at his tone. Techno reached back and grabbed his shoulder, yanking him forward. He came with a stumble and Techno lightened his touch a bit at the obviously very involuntary whimper that passed his lips, but otherwise chose to respect the kid enough not to mention it.

He guided him to the door that led to the main part of the underground compound and stopped. He pulled a piece of cloth out of his pocket. “I’m going to blindfold you now.”

The boy’s eyes shot to his, startled. “Why?” he asked, just a bit of panic coloring his tone.

“You’re a flight risk,” Techno explained. “If you do manage to escape, we don’t want to give you a head start knowing where you are in the compound.”

He looked at the blindfold and then at Techno. Techno sighed internally. This was going to be a fight, wasn’t it? “No.”

Techno’s grip tightened minutely on his shoulder and he flinched disproportionally hard in reaction. “Yes,” Techno said firmly.

He still did not seem like he was going to acquiesce, glaring at Techno defiantly.

“The other option is a bag over your head.”

Tommy’s hands fisted at his side, but then he looked down with a slight nod. Techno quickly wrapped the strip of fabric around his head and secured it with a knot. Only then did he type in the passcode to let them into the rest of the compound.

The holding cell was a bit of a walk for obvious reasons, and they didn’t really talk the entire way. About 1/3rd of the way there, Techno noticed the kid starting to shake as though cold despite the fact that the hallway didn’t seem particularly cool. What was… probably happening didn’t occur to him until he noticed the boy’s breath hitch just slightly about a minute later.

Oh god. He was crying. He was crying, wasn’t he? Or dying. Techno hoped it was actually that he was dying. He felt far more equipped for handing that. His breathing started to come a touch faster and he was clearly trying to keep it together, which made it worse because that meant it was real and not him trying to garner sympathy.

It felt like eons before they made it to the cell, Techno trying awkwardly to pretend like he didn’t know Tommy was crying under the blindfold. He swiftly typed in the cell password and led him inside the mostly white room.

“You can take the blindfold off,” he said. He pointedly ignored the red eyes that were revealed by him taking it off, in fact, he mostly avoided looking at him altogether. “So, uh,” Techno floundered for what to say. “This is where you’re staying, uh, bed,” he gestured to the bed as though the boy wouldn’t know what one looked like. “Chairs. If you need something there’s a button on the wall here you can press. Someone will usually be in the next room while you’re here, but even if we’re not, we’ll still get an alert. Er… there’s a faucet and paper cups over there. Don’t try to tear it off and use it as a weapon. We know to look for it, and it’ll just make everyone’s life more difficult. Uh, we’ll feed you. That’s… about it.”

Tommy looked around the mostly empty white room with skeptical eyes and then back towards Technoblade. “Where’s the supervillain creepy dungeon?”

“We don’t have one of those.”

His eyes trailed back to the room. “This feels more like a creepy evil doctor’s observation room,” he said studying the obvious two-way mirror on one wall. “When’s the dissection?”

That read like it was meant to be a joke, but Technoblade wasn’t sure how to respond with how he was wrapping his arms around his middle protectively. Tommy didn’t bother waiting for a response anyway, turning from Techno to go deeper into the room.

“Uh,” Techno said. “Button,” he reminded, pointing.

He fled the room then, but didn’t leave him quite yet. Instead, he walked a few feet to the door of the observation room. Tommy was already out of sight by the time he made it to the one-way mirror, but there was a lump still moving slightly under the covers of the bed.

Technoblade took out his phone and opened up his message history with Phil. ‘He looks 10. Wilbur fucked off saying he had a headache. Now he is hiding under the covers in the bed. He is probably crying. Help.’

Techno sent the message and looked at the now mostly still blob on the bed, very much hoping Phil was done with his phone call and would be here soon.

Author Note:

Technoblade: Father hlp. Big brother abandoned me and now there are feelings. Pls, Father.

I'm really excited about the next chapter! :D

...

(Me? Make most of the things in the room and Tommy's clothes white for dramatics? Nah. What would be dramatic spilled on white sheets and white clothes and a white floor...?)

[welcome-to-hawkins]

The Terrible Eddie Munson

Part one Part two Alternative Ending

Summary: Eddie wins the campaign, and gets to keep you as his prize.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: 18+, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, sex, p in v, vaginal intercourse, missionary, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, cum, multiple orgasms, slight nipple play, I think that’s it 🤣

If you didn’t know any better you’d say the rest of Hellfire knew about the little promise between Eddie and you.

The room was buzzing with excitement, literally, since Eddie had decided that the campaign needed to end with the perfect soundtrack; Black Sabbath.

He had it cranked up so loud that the bass was shaking the walls, the boys huddling in small groups discussing their strategies for todays session.

Well, that’s what they were supposed to be doing. They kept sneaking glances at you and Eddie, like they had been all week, clearly suspicious about the amount of time you two had spent together recently. It made sense, I mean you two weren’t exactly a secret, Jeff had walked in on the two of you in the back of Eddies van and made quick work in telling all of his friends, but given that you and Eddie hadn’t put a label on it yet, what were you supposed to tell the kids?

Like, “Hey Dusty! Just so you know i’m boning Eddie, Dungeon Master and positive male role model in your life, hope you don’t mind!”… not likely.

You didn’t realise you’d been lost in thought until Dustin was clicking his fingers in front of your face.

“Earth to Y/N?”

“Sorry Dus, are we starting?” You looked around to find it suddenly quiet.

Dustin only nodded, filtering into his place at the table solemnly. They were all waiting for you as you took your seat in the middle of the table. You looked to Eddie where he was squatting on his throne, forearms resting across the tops of his thighs as he folded himself into the dramatic pose. He stood suddenly, thick boots scraping across the wood of his seat.

And just like that the campaign begun, and with a wide sweep of Eddies arms the sweet cheesy boy you knew disappeared, replaced with the Dungeon Master.

“Fireball him!”

“Shit, roll again!”

“I need a 14!”

The session was a blur, and before you knew it the party was down to the deciding move. If Dustin could roll a ten or higher they’d defeat the monster and be able to rescue the Princess. If not Eddie… ahem, the monster, would keep you, her. You weren’t sure which thought you enjoyed more.

Eddies eyes locked with yours. Dustin rolled.

Three.

It took the boys fifteen minutes to stop screaming at each other and calm down, all while Eddie sat there with a smug look on his face not bothering to help settle the situation.

That was until Dustin started suggesting that the die were rigged and Eddie looked like he might kill him.

“Are you suggesting that I cheated?” He spat, “that I would EVER break the sacred rules of Hellfire?” Eddie stood, hands braced on the table. Even Erica had the good sense to look scared.

“Okay, that’s enough. Time to go home boys” you said finally, stepping in before Eddie actually killed one of them.

“And I assume you’ll be staying here, with Eddie, again?” Dustin sassed.

“Yes. Now less talking more walking, go home” Eddie asserted.

You did wonder what exactly Eddie had over Gareth to turn him into the clubs personal taxi, but now wasn’t the time to question it.

When the hellfire room finally cleared, with the exception of you and Eddie, the calm was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the night.

Eddie plopped back into his seat, “So…” he started.

“So”.

“I won” his cheeky grin was back, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been dripping wet all day just thinking about what might happen tonight.

“You did, I do believe that means the terrible monster gets to claim his prize.” Your eyes glimmered as you stared at him, the way the dim coloured lights glowed like an aura behind him.

He hummed, “so eager”, a breath and then “but i’m not taking you for the first time here, as much as I might want to” he moved toward you, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “come home with me, Princess”.

And you did.

The atmosphere on the journey home had been tense, both of you too wound up to make small talk. His hand had gripped your thigh like a life raft, only really serving to dampen your panties.

Eddie led you into his trailer and through to his bedroom, fingers interlinked. He turned to you and threaded his fingers into the back of your hair, tilting your face up to look at him.

“Look, I know what I said about tonight but if somethings changed, if you don’t wanna do this anymore or if you wanna wait, that’s fine, okay? I want you to be comfortable”.

The way he was looking at you, like you hung the moon, made your heart clench. You smiled.

“I believe that if you won I was promised a, how did you put it again? Terrible monster?” Your words were clear, face unwavering, as you told him what he was so desperately hoping to hear; that you still wanted this.

“That’s right, Princess. Thing is, you’ve already met the monster. The only real question is whether you’re actually gonna let me keep you”. His teasing words were laced with doubt.

“Good luck getting rid of me now, Munson” you snuck your arms around his middle, under his leather jacket, “now are you gonna do something, or do I need to go find myself a knight?”

He returned your smile, a moment of tenderness before-

“He rolled a three”

“Yes. So?”

“Three.”

“I’m not following”

“Three orgasms.”

Oh. Oh.

In contrast to the heat his statement has created between your legs, his kiss is soft and slow. His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him access. Your kisses are usually passionate, eager, teeth bumping together and tongues clashing. Always hurried moments together desperate for release. You thought tonight would be the same, tearing each others clothes off desperate for release, especially since the only action Eddie had had until this point was his own hand. Instead he was taking his time, enjoying you.

After all, he won. Why rush the claiming of his prize?

He moved the two of you backwards until you thighs hit the edge of his bed. You shuffled backwards as he climbed on top of you, slotting his body over yours like puzzle pieces.

Your hands grabbed onto his broad shoulders as he peppered kisses down your neck. He sat up on his haunches and tugged his jacket off, you followed his lead starting to discard excess clothing, both of you kicking your shoes into random corners of his room.

You caught his eye as you were both stripping your own clothes off. He was shucking his jeans down his legs and you were tangled up in your shirt, the tension breaking with laughter, both of you realising how ridiculous you looked.

You finally pulled down your jeans, leaving you both only in your underwear, and turned back to him.

He laid you back against the pillows and covered your body with his own. Dark hair fell around your face like a curtain. You ran your hands across his naked chest, tracing the outlines of his tattoos. Naked with the exception of his boxers and cold rings you could truly see him in all his glory; slim but soft, pale skin and toned arms from the constant guitar playing.

Gentle kisses trailed down your neck, stopping briefly at your chest as he pulled your bra off and pressed a wet kiss to each nipple, down your stomach before stopping at the band of your panties.

He sat back, spreading your thighs and keeping them apart with his own. Now resting back on his calves Eddie smoothed his palms up the back of your legs, folding them up over his elbows, and buried his face in your pussy with a wink.

Eddie kissed your sensitive bud through your panties, dropping a hand from your thigh to trace the damp patch on your panties. He tugged them down and threw them onto the pile with his clothes, you debated telling him off before he licked a broad stripe up your centre and you lost all ability to speak.

Eddies tongue buried in your pussy paired with his hands digging into the flesh of your thighs was addictive. Your moans were no doubt echoing around his trailer but you didn’t care, not as long as he kept doing that.

You almost cried when he moved, wrapping his lips around your bud and sucking. He was harsh, unforgiving, and you felt your legs start to shake as they tried to close around his head.

“Ed, fuck, m’gonna-”

And you did. Pussy clenching around nothing, head thrown back, crying his name.

“That’s one”, he kissed you, “so good for me baby, so perfect”Eddie climbed back over you, reaching down off the bed to fish a condom out of his jeans pocket.

“Eddie, please” you looked at him, chin glistening with your juice, hair slicked to his face, “fuck me”.

He grinned, tugging his boxers off. You’d felt him through his pants before, and had some idea of his size, but seeing it bare before you…

Eddie was huge. Seven inches and thick. You reached down and gave him an experimental stroke, doing it again with slightly more pressure when his head dropped back, eyes screwed shut with pleasure.

“Fuck baby… if you do that i’m gonna cum and after all this you best believe i’m gonna cum whilst i’m inside you” he groaned.

He rolled the condom on and lined himself up with your entrance. He kissed you as he slid all the way inside, sloppy and all he could muster with the feeling of your walls clamping down around him.

You clung to him, your arms looped round his neck and legs locked behind his back. Eddie dropped his head into the crook of your neck and gave an experimental thrust, both of you moaning at the feeling.

“Fuck baby. So hot and wet. Feels like heaven”

The pace he sets is slow, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in. Your skin sticks to his, damp with a thin sheen of sweat.

“Eds please… more” you whine, and for once he listens to you.

He balances his weight on his arms either side of your head and starts to go harder. Not faster, harder, hitting a new spot inside you that makes your back arch like a cat in the sun.

You can see him better in this new position, his face directly above yours and the sight is almost better than the feeling itself; Eddies face is contorted in pleasure, his eyes shut and eyebrows drawn tightly together, lips dropped open in a silent gasp.

“God, baby. Can feel you tightening around me, you close? Huh, gonna cum all over my cock?” He teased

“Feels so good, wanna cum for you” orgasm creeping up on you as Eddie sped up, pelvis grinding against your clit with each powerful thrust.

As you clamped down around him and clawed your nails down his back you felt his thrusts start to loose rhythm, a sign he was close.

Your own orgasm triggered Eddies and you watched from beneath him as he came undone. Eddie slammed into you once more, body shuddering as he came, the noise burned into your brain. His forehead dropped against your own, panting as he opened his eyes and said “two”.

Eddie flipped the two of you over, you now sat upright on his lap.

He was still hard, hair fanned out on the pillow below him angelically. You took him in, covered in sweat beneath you, and began to move.

His hands flew up to rest on your hips, teeth dug into his lip, as you set a torturously slow pace.

Your head was flung back as you rode him, tits bouncing hypnotically. He sat up to capture a hard peak in his mouth, sucking and biting.

You felt your slick coating his thighs as you rode him. He lay back and braced his heels against the mattress. Your eyes widened as you realised what he was about to do.

He tugged your hips down harshly at the same time as he thrust upwards, head of his cock hitting your g-spot. He set a punishing pace, tugging you up and down on his cock like a doll.

Your eyesight went fuzzy as you felt your third orgasm approaching. Eddie felt the now familiar tightening around his member and moved his thumb to rub tight circles on your bud.

You exploded, gushing around him as you squirted.

Your body went limp as Eddie flipped you again, fucking your through your orgasm and chasing his own.

As Eddie came for the second time you squirmed, sensitive and exhausted.

He flopped onto the mattress next to you, flat on your backs, and said “that’s three”.

You just about registered him standing to discard the condom and fetch a damp cloth to clean between your legs.

He tugged his boxers back on and pulled his Hellfire shirt over your head.

When he was finally satisfied that you were comfortable he dropped back into bed and tugged you against his chest.

“You did so good for me, Princess”.

You snuggled deeper into his side, throwing a leg across his and looking up at him.

“Hey Princess…” usually confident, Eddies voice was suddenly filled with doubt.

“Yeah?”

“Does this mean you’re my girlfriend?”

You chuckled, heart squeezing at the sweetness he was showing compared to the so called ‘monster’ he fancied himself as.

“I told you, Eds. I’m yours.” You smiled at the idea, and leaned up to kiss him, short and innocently, a press of your lips against his.

“So… is that a yes?”

“Yes, you dork”.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading these!!! Alt ending in my Masterlist and linked at the top of post as soon as it’s out.

Let me know if you liked it or wanna see more!

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Parts one, two and the alt ending are linked at the top!

[visionofhope04]

Hii I was lowkey wondering if you would do something maybe like a one shot of neglected where reader is older (18-20) and dipped out of the house and became a singer and one of her songs basically exposed them for how they treated reader and in like an interview she full on tells them how she doesn’t even talk to them and like only Jason

This is literally perfect. I love this idea! I was planning on making a singer batsis reader anyway so here you go! I'll be making this part 4 of the series instead of a one shot. There’s a bit of angst. Btw, thanks so much for your support everyone! I'm glad you enjoy this series! Feel free to request anything you'd like besides smut as well!

This is the longest thing I have ever written so there will be a part 5. I planned on this being the last part but it's just so much. It’s not proofread and neither are all of the other parts because I post at 1 am most of the time lol. Hope you like it!

f/n = friend name

Y/G/N = your group name

N/S = news station

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (Current) Part 5

---

You were sick of it. Sick of how even after confronting them about how you felt and almost dying because of it, they still neglected you. You couldn't wait to move out at the age of 18, even if it proved to be a struggle. You had taken mini jobs since you turned 15 and saved up since then. You just couldn't see them anymore as it would remind you of how they treated you that day at that hospital. None of them apologized either. They just pretended it never happened and continued to ignore you. The media had a field day with speculation of what had happened but eventually stopped because Bruce had claimed it was “just a bad case of the flu” which they believed.

Jason was always the only one that would talk to you. He was the only one that actually cared enough to make sure you were taking proper care of yourself and that you wouldn't have a repeat of what happened. He took you places, spent time with you and gave you advice. You even had a tradition where you'd always meet up at the manor's library every week at the same time that same day every week and just have a mini book club together. He always made time for you and never bailed on you.

So on your 18th birthday, he helped you move out. You managed to rent a small apartment in Star City with the money you had saved up. It wasn’t that close to the manor which was a good thing. The neighborhood wasn’t good but it wasn’t as bad as Gotham’s neighborhoods so you would be fine. You could handle yourself with your assassin training if needed. You also managed to get hired at a cafe which was about a five minutes walking distance from your apartment.

It had taken a while but eventually, you had packed all of your belongings into color coded containers and moved them into Jason’s car with his help. You didn’t say goodbye to anyone as you had no friends to say bye to and you knew that your so called “family” couldn’t care less about what you did with your life. ‘This is it, hopefully the last time I’ll ever be near this place.’ You thought. You didn’t plan on stepping foot in Gotham ever again after you left. It would bring back too many memories you prefer to keep buried away deep inside your mind.

The car ride to Star City was entertaining. You and Jason conversed the whole time, telling jokes and listening to his funny tales with the radio playing softly in the background. Eventually, a song you both loved came on and you both started yell-singing along to the lyrics. You wished those moments could be permanent. You were both so carefree and nothing else mattered besides having fun and enjoying yourselves.

You now stood in the doorway of your new apartment, admiring your new home. Jason and yourself had just finished unpacking all of your belongings. You really liked how it looked and thought you both did an amazing job at designing the place perfectly according to your style. Jason, unfortunately, had to leave in order to avoid raising suspicions. Once you both said your byes, he left you to your apartment.

Jason drove back home in silence. He hated to admit it but he would miss you dearly. You were always there for him and helped him with anything. You tried your best to always comfort him and make him feel better on his darkest days and it would always work. Somehow you seemed to always have the right words to say or knew exactly what to do to help him. Out of everyone he was closest to you. He assumed it was because he could relate to you the most. More so how you felt. He’d felt like the black sheep of the family before you came, and he was. When you came, you took that role from him. It pained him to see how much their insults would affect you, even if you were good at hiding it. He could just tell.

Jason made it back to the manor after a while and went straight to the library. He didn't want to deal with the others. After the whole hospital situation, he'd never really bother interacting with them. He hated how they treated you as if you didn’t exist and hated how much pain they had caused you and that they didn’t even care. He guessed that they'd probably be doing something for Damian's birthday and forgot that you were his twin. They probably couldn’t even remember that Damian had a twin.

He made it to the library and pulled out one of his favorite books. He’d read it so many times you’d often joke that he could probably recite the whole book by heart at this point. Sitting down in a chair, he started to read. However, he couldn’t bring himself to stop thinking about what it would’ve been like if they treated you how they did Damian. The both of you were Bruce’s real children. You both even looked like clones of him! At first, Jason thought you would’ve been the favorite twin due to your personality. Even though you were twins, your personalities were polar opposites. You even refused to kill! You were trained by the League so why didn’t you kill as Damian did?

Jason knew you would benefit them greatly if you joined. You had self control, didn’t kill, could act perfectly, lie perfectly, do well under pressure, and not to mention your skills. Being raised by the League may have been torture, but you managed to gain incredible skills out of it. You could take on at least ten guys who doubled you in size and beat them within five minutes. You even bested Damian in spars and he was supposedly dubbed the “better twin” by Talia, so why hadn’t they let you join their nightly crusades like they had let Damian when the both of you first arrived?

Damian passed by your room but noticed something was off. He decided to take a look. He twisted the doorknob and pushed. The room which was once occupied by you now looked extremely plain and bare, stripped of all of its accessories. The only things left were the bed itself, multiple dressers, and a vanity. It looked as if it had been vacant the whole time. It might as well have been. Damian couldn’t really remember what it had looked like since he’s never paid much mind to it but he could tell there was a drastic difference. He knew that you disliked just leaving your room plain unlike himself and wanted at least something to make it look less boring.

He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Had you finally been kicked out by Bruce? Did you get shipped off to a boarding school like he had been suggesting to your father for years? He decided to go ask. He exited the room and closed the door behind him, taking off for Bruce’s office. Walking down the hall, he suddenly remembered that he had seen you leave with Jason. This meant that you were not at a boarding school like he had originally thought. But then why was your room vacant?

Instead of going to see Bruce, he decided to go see Jason and bring up the matter with him instead. He changed directions and headed to the library where he knew he’d find Jason. It was no secret that Jason was a book worm so Damian had a fifty percent chance of finding him there.

He entered the library and was immediately greeted with the sight of Jason sitting comfortably on a chair, legs crossed with a book opened in his hands. Jason didn’t bother to look up from his book as he spoke.

“What do you want Demon Spawn?”

“I’ve come to obtain the whereabouts of my sister.”

“You mean my sister?”

“She’s not your sister!” Damian exclaimed.

“Well I act more like a brother than you do.”

“Where is Y/N? Her whole room is bare.”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Just tell me, you imbecile!” Damian said, growing increasingly frustrated by Jason’s blunt answers.

“She’s not here.”

“Then where is she?”

“Not here.”

“Just tell me already Todd, I have no time for your foolish games!”

“She moved out.” Jason said, giving in.

“What?! Where.” Damian demanded.

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because I demand to know!”

“Okay and?”

“Tell me!”

“No.”

“Why not!”

“Because you don’t even care.”

“And you do?”

“Yes, I actually do Damian! I’m there for her when she needs me the most. I’m there for her while she’s watching you live the perfect life that she’s just a background character in! While you and the others ignore that she even exists! I’m there for her when she breaks down and has panic attacks! And what were you all doing to try and help her? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” Jason snapped.

“Y/N’s fine, I know my twin!” Damian screamed.

“Do you even know what her favorite color is?” Jason questioned in a harsh tone.

“...” Was Damian’s reply.

“Exactly! You don’t! You and the others have never cared about her, so why all of a sudden do you care now? You don’t know anything about her so don’t act like you do!” Jason then stood up and walked out of the room in a fit of rage.

Damian stood there, shocked. Had Jason just refused to answer his question? He was about to follow him but decided against it. Why was Damian going to chase Jason down just for her? She was just an annoyance, a mistake, imperfect. He had been wanting to get rid of her for so long, so why doesn’t he feel relieved? Why does he feel guilty? He decided to stop dwelling on it and get on with life. He figured it would happen eventually if it hadn’t happened then.

---

It had been a year since that day. The day you left your old life behind and started a new life, a better one. One where you weren’t constantly ignored. One where you actually had more than one person care about you. Instead of seeing yourself as a failure and disappointment, you now saw yourself as an amazing person (which you always were). You had been going to a community college in Star City. You made many friends there and started up a music career with three of them.

Their names were f/n, f/n and f/n. You all started off by taking random gigs anywhere you could. You performed covers of songs and would receive standing ovations all the time. Seeing as your group was well liked, you decided to write and produce your own songs. At the age of 19, Y/G/N released their first album. It went viral within a day and everyone was talking about it. After a week, several articles were posted, praising your work. News Stations talked about all the records Y/G/N managed to break. People started to stream it like crazy, and you couldn’t be happier with all the positive feedback you were receiving.

You had been a Wayne once, meaning you had experience in dealing with the media. Since you had already been used to it, you knew you’d all eventually be invited to interviews. So, when you had received an email stating how N/S wanted a one on one interview with you, you weren’t sure how to feel. You weren’t looking forward to interviews with your whole group, let alone one where you would be alone. You knew how unfiltered interviewers could be and didn’t feel comfortable with it.

However, you decided it would be best to go. So here you were, sitting in front of the interviewer in an uncomfortable chair preparing for the interview to start. You had somehow managed to keep a smile plastered on your face the entire time while you were a nervous wreck on the inside. You hoped none of the questions would be sexist as they usually were towards women. However, you had no more time to think about that. You heard clicking, signaling that you were about to go live. Once you heard the last click, you knew you were live and the interview had begun.

“Hello everyone, welcome back to N/S. My name is Jerald Tangleberry and I’m here today with songwriter, singer, and celebrity, Y/N Wayne! How are you?”

You waved to the camera and then answered, “Hello everyone! I’m doing good, how about you?”

“I’m doing great, thanks for asking! So by now I’d assume everyone knows that you’ve released an album with your group. How does it feel to gain more fame?”

“It doesn’t feel any different. Fame wasn’t our goal when we released the album. It was to express ourselves.”

“Mhm, well Ms. Wayne, what inspired you to write songs?”

“Well we know people may be in a tough spot in their life right now and want them to know they aren’t alone.”

“That’s so true. Some fans have been speculating that every member has three songs that specifically relate to them since there are twelve songs in total and three of the songs have the same group member as the introduction part of the song. Is this true?”

“Yes, it is true.”

“So all three of your songs relate to family issues of some sort. Is that hinting that you have family issues?”

“Yes, actually. My family isn’t the best. They ignored me all the time, even when they weren't busy. The only person who didn’t was Jason.”

“You’re saying it in the past tense.”

“I moved out about a year ago. When I was around 14, I suffered from anorexia. My family would always ignore me since they were either busy doing work or hanging out with each other. The only family member that acknowledged me was Jason. I assumed it was because there was something wrong with me. I started to hate myself so much to the point of starvation. One day, I passed out right before a gala and my oldest brother Dick found me passed out on the floor. They took me to the hospital and when I woke up, Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Damian started fussing about how I’d ruin their image if the media knew what actually happened. They started to yell at me and told me how I was a useless burden. I started to have a panic attack so I kicked them out. Jason stayed behind with me and comforted me. Ever since then I made a planed to save enough money so I could move out when I turned 18, which I did.”

“Oh, wow. So Jason was the only one who interacted with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like the Wayne family isn’t as perfect as they seem.”

“No family is actually perfect.”

“Did your family try contacting you at all after they found out about Y/G/N?”

“Not yet. They’re probably too busy or don’t care.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright, I got over it. What’s the next question.”

“Oh-” He cleared his throat and continued the interview. (So basically I don’t wanna bore you all lol)

---

Jason had woken up late into the afternoon that day. Patrol that morning had exhausted him. There was a huge breakout at Arkham they had assisted with. They successfully locked up every escapee, so today, Jason just wanted to relax until it would be time for patrol again. Even though he was exhausted, he knew he couldn’t take a break. The others wouldn’t and it would be unfair to them if he did.

He headed over to his couch with his phone and a bowl of popcorn in hand, ready to watch random movies the entirety of the day. He set down his phone on the coffee tables and grabbed the TV remote. When he turned on the TV, he almost dropped the popcorn and remote. You were sitting on a chair, giving an award winning smile while you politely answered the man’s questions. He was baffled. He didn’t know why you were being interviewed, let alone on TV at all! You made it clear you didn’t want to have any relations with your family any longer and you couldn’t stand publicity, so what were you doing?

He placed the bowl down and snatched his phone off the table. Unlocking his phone, he quickly dialed your phone number. However, he realized that the interview was live and that he would be interrupting it if he called you then. Deciding to wait, he placed his phone back down, picked up the bowl, and then got comfortable.

---

Tag list: @fake-id-69 @pepelachanel @loxbbg @what-0-life @yoongi-holland @omnivorousfangirl @cawcaw-pretty-thing @sexysamsungl @iceddonuts @buginetye @portrait-ninja @azazel-nyx @alculai

[yournameoneverypage]

When You're Ready

Reader request: Shawn Mendes x (y/n). "Shawn is on tour and invites the reader to the show so he can ask her to be his girlfriend and he sings When You're Ready, but Camila shows up and the reader is convinced that it's for C and not for her."

Word Count: ~3.7

Notes: Mostly fluff with brief moments of angst, and a smut ending.

Warnings: NSFW

~ * ~

(Y/n) stood at baggage claim at LAX, waiting for her blush-colored suitcase to roll by on the carousel. She was going to be in California for almost a week. Why? Well, her best friend was Shawn Mendes and he was currently on tour. He was missing her something fierce, he had said, and he wanted her to come see him.

Shawn had two sold out shows, consecutive nights, at the Staples Center followed by a show in San Francisco three days later, so why not make a week of it? His idea, but the second he mentioned it she was on board. She’d figure it out, find a way to make it work.

Any time she got to spend with him was both treasured and torturous. But she would go through the pain and heartache over and over again if it meant nearly a week with her most favorite person.

See, the thing was, (y/n) had been in love with Shawn for nearly as long as she had known him.

~ * ~

After retrieving her bag, (y/n) went in search of her driver. Shawn had said he or she would be holding a sign with her name on it. Shawn had a few interviews to do that morning, so (y/n) would be taken to his hotel to wait for him to finish, and then they’d have the entire afternoon and evening to spend together.

Aside from the aforementioned interviews, this was a day off for Shawn and he wanted to make the most of it because the Staples Center shows were the following two nights, and there wouldn’t be much down time during the days with soundchecks, meet and greets, and Q&As before showtime. Fortunately they would have more time to spend together between LA and San Francisco.

(Y/n) located her driver, who smiled brightly and introduced himself as John. He took her bag and engaged her in friendly chatter as he led her toward an idling Range Rover.

Who left a vehicle like this idling curbside at the airport?

John opened the rear passenger door for her with a knowing grin. (Y/n) started to climb in before she even noticed him.

“Shawn!” She almost tipped over into his lap reaching across the seat to hug him.

“Surprise, babe!” he chuckled into her ear.

“You’re here!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t collect you myself, but as much as I love my fans, I didn’t want to get stuck here for a half an hour taking selfies.”

“I thought you were in interviews all morning.”

“I was. I was hoping to come with John to pick you up, but I honestly didn’t know how long all the interviews were going to take so I didn’t want you to be disappointed if I said I would be here but then wasn’t.”

He was always so thoughtful; it was one of the many, many things (y/n) loved about him. She linked her hand with his between them, squeezed, and smiled. “I missed you.”

With a grin, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Missed you, too. So much. I’m so happy you’re here,” he breathed.

~ * ~

The day flew by way too quickly.

Once Shawn got (y/n) checked in and settled at the hotel, in a room that adjoined his, they grabbed lunch at one of Shawn’s favorite places.

It was (y/n)’s first ever visit to Los Angeles. Shawn had asked her if there were any specific things that were on her must do/see list, and he’d take care of everything.

They visited the Griffith Observatory, and strolled down the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

(Y/n) thought, and Shawn agreed, that too much attention might be drawn to them if he was spotted along Venice Beach or the Santa Monica Pier, as he had already been approached a few times during their activities earlier in the day. (Y/n) had been understanding and supportive of him spending a few minutes chatting with his fans and taking photos. She actually took a few of the photos herself.

Another day, he promised.

Instead, they spent a good part of the late afternoon and early evening at the Getty Center Museum.

They had dinner in Little Tokyo, followed by drinks at a tiki bar. Only one for (y/n) because she was a lightweight and tiki drinks were known to be quite strong. Shawn stopped after two, as he had a full day the next day and didn’t want to risk waking up with a hangover.

Back at the hotel, freshly showered, in pajamas, and in Shawn’s room, stretched out on his king-sized bed, Shawn and (y/n) ordered something from room service to share.

Even though they had chosen a movie to watch, they were too busy talking and laughing to pay much attention to the television.

~ * ~

Staples Center, Day One, had (y/n) immersed in the thick of things with Shawn, his band, and his crew. She knew only a few of them and was introduced to many more. Her laminated pass was the same as what everyone else had, giving her access to anything and anywhere she wished.

She soaked up as much as possible.

Shawn didn’t always attend soundcheck with his band, but for (y/n) he definitely wanted to be there so she could fully experience it. She stayed backstage, chatting with Shawn’s people while he did his meet and greet photos. She sat in on his Q&A session but stayed unobtrusively toward the back of the room. She could talk to him whenever she wanted; this was his fans’ time with him.

The concert was unbelievable, as (y/n) knew it would be. Shawn always left his heart and gratitude on stage.

That night they were in (y/n)’s room, she on one of the doubles, Shawn in the other. He was still a little high on adrenaline, asking her how she enjoyed the day, and especially how she enjoyed the show.

She knew it wouldn’t be long before he completely crashed out. When he did, he was still in her room.

~ * ~

Staples Center, Day Two, was much the same, although they started the day with Shawn dragging (y/n) to the gym to work out with him. They also skipped soundcheck to get lost together in the backstage corridors.

The closer it came to showtime, the more anxious Shawn seemed to get. He had a different vibe about him than he had the night before.

While eating dinner, (y/n) asked him if everything was alright. He assured her everything was amazing; it just felt like something big was about to happen and he hoped it would turn out to be a good kind of big.

~ * ~

Again, the show was absolutely incredible, although after the song he normally ended with, before acknowledging his band and going into the encore, he tried to quiet the deafening audience with a finger pressed against his lips.

Of course, it was futile. He just laughed, somewhat nervously, and said, “This song is for someone very special to me. Someone who is here tonight. I want her to know how I feel about her...”

That seemed to get everyone’s attention.

Shawn found (y/n) in the audience, met her eyes, and smiled adoringly.

Maybe I had too many drinks But that's just what I needed I hope that you don't think that what I'm saying sounds conceited When I look across the room, and you're staring right back at me Like somebody told a joke and we're the only ones laughin'

(Y/n)’s heart started thumping. He couldn’t be singing this for her, could he...? He had never expressed any interest in her as more than a friend. Had he?

Don't know why I tried 'Cause ain't nobody like you Familiar disappointment every single time I do Every single night my arms are not around you My mind's still wrapped around you

A couple of girls beside (y/n) bent their heads together and pointed to something or someone standing to the side of the stage. Shawn seemed to notice, as she had, and looked toward the side stage.

She followed his line of vision to see Camila standing there, beaming brightly. She put her fingertips to her lips and blew him a big kiss.

(Y/n) didn’t notice, over the dizzying blood rush in her head, that Shawn seemed to stumble a little through the chorus.

Baby, tell me when you're ready I'm waitin' Baby, any time you're ready I'm waitin'

Even ten years from now If you haven't found somebody I promise, I'll be around Tell me when you're ready I'm waitin'

He glanced once more toward Camila, but just as quickly his smile settled again in (y/n)’s direction. His voice steadied and grew stronger.

What if my dad is right When he says that you're the one No, I can't even argue I won't even fight him on it Call you when it's late And I know that you're in bed 'Cause I'm three hours back Seems like you're always six ahead

(Y/n) smiled back, although it seemed more reflexive than genuine, as her heart was currently crumbling to pieces. She tried her hardest to be happy for her best friend and the woman he was currently confessing his feelings for, on stage, in front of everyone.

Don't know why I tried 'Cause ain't nobody like you Familiar disappointment every single time I do Every single night my arms are not around you My mind's still wrapped around you

Baby, tell me when you're ready I'm waitin' Baby, any time you're ready I'm waitin'

Even ten years from now If you haven't found somebody I promise, I'll be around Tell me when you're ready I'm waitin', yeah

And if I have to, I'll wait forever Say the word and I'll change my plans Yeah, you know that we fit together I know your heart like the back of my hand...

Before the song ended, overwhelmed, unable to continue her façade, (y/n) had slipped from the crowd and backstage.

She wasn’t sure where to go once she was backstage. She was fighting back tears, so her vision was blurry, but she didn’t want to stop to ask anyone how to get out of the venue because they might ask why she was crying and then it would all turn into one big mess.

A voice from behind her asked, “You’re Shawn’s friend, right? Are you looking for his dressing room?” Was she? Would she be able to face him after his encore and bows?

“Yes, please,” she found herself answering.

“End of the corridor, turn right, first door on the left.”

(Y/n) nodded her thanks and began to follow the directions she was given. She wasn’t sure if it would be the first or last place anyone would be looking for her.

~ * ~

Shawn burst into his dressing room, out of breath from the end of his show and running around looking for (y/n). Incredibly relieved to see her, he gasped, “Are you okay? What happened?? You just disappeared!”

“I’m sorry. I just needed a few minutes.”

“In the middle of the most important song of the night?”

Her voice cracked. “I said I was sorry.” And she was. She should have stayed till the end. “I was caught off guard.”

“Oh no, babe. Shit! I’m sorry, (y/n). I overwhelmed you, didn’t I? I shouldn’t have made it so public. It should have been a private conversation. Forgive me?” he whispered.

“Of course. You’re my best friend and I’m happy for you,” she smiled softly, truly. And she was. His happiness meant more to her than anything else. It was just going to take some time to refortify her heart. “I wish you and Camila the best.”

“Camila?” Little wrinkles formed between his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, what am I talking about?” she puffed.

Suddenly Shawn started laughing.

(Y/n) placed her hands in the center of his chest and pushed him away, unamused.

He caught her wrists and pulled her to him. “I wasn’t singing that song for her.” He placed her hands over his heart and covered them with his own. “I was singing it for you, my beautiful, clueless, wonderful, precious love.”

“What?” she exhaled.

“I finished singing and looked for your eyes, only to find you gone.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“I was going to ask you to be my girlfriend. Not Camila. You, (y/n). In front of the entire Staples Center audience. Why did you think I wanted Camila?”

“You kept looking at her side stage.”

“I glanced at her twice,” he contended, lightheartedly. “I was surprised. I didn’t expect her to be here tonight. It’s true that she recently told me she has deeper feelings for me-”

“And you have always had feelings for her.”

“I had feelings for her. Past tense. Before I met you. Are you really arguing with me about how I feel about you?” he smirked.

“But you didn’t sing that song last night, when Camila wasn’t here.”

“You are!” he laughed again.

“Stop laughing!” she exclaimed, unable to stop herself from giggling, her heart blooming with hope. She then whispered, “Did you really mean it?”

“Oh, darling...

“If I had professed my feelings last night and you had turned me down, I don’t think I would have been able to get through tonight. Telling you tonight, when there were three days before San Francisco, would have either given us time to disappear together for a few days, or would have given me time to sort myself out if you didn’t want me the way I want you.

“Please tell me you want me.”

(Y/n) wanted to scream, yes, I want you!, but instead she teased, trying to keep a straight face, “I don’t know. Any boyfriend of mine has to be a good kisser. Are you a good kisser?”

“I am a fantastic kisser,” he grinned. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and slid his hand to the nape of her neck.

“Prove it.”

His other hand circled her waist, fell against the small of her back. He leaned in, watched her eyelids flutter, then close, and gently guided her lips to his.

She had imagined this moment for so long but it was much more than she had ever expected. Thousands of thoughts were forced away to make room for one single idea. How could one kiss cause the world to fall away around her?

“Shawn,” she said, breathless, easing away.

“Still proving it,” he murmured. He softly licked at the seam of her lips, and when she responded he deepened their kiss. Her heart was pounding, and she was warm from head to toe. She felt his tongue meet hers and her entire body began to hum.

Their knees were weak when their lips separated.

Shawn touched his nose to hers. “Well...?”

“I will be more than happy to kiss you all night long, but only after you take a shower,” she giggled.

~ * ~

(Y/n) knocked on the adjoining door. She didn’t wait for a response before letting herself through.

Shawn was leaning against the dresser, partly sitting on it, phone to his ear, wearing nothing but baggy, cotton pajama pants. His chest and feet were bare. By his side of the conversation, (y/n) grasped that they were talking about the plan for the days leading up to San Francisco.

He held his hand out to her in invitation. His legs fell open and she automatically moved into the V they made. He ended his call, set his cell aside, and placed his large hands on her hips.

“So, about what you said... Something about kissing me all night long?”

She moved even closer to him. One of her hands curled around the back of his neck, the other tangled in his still damp curls. The roughened pads of his thumbs caressed the bare, soft skin just above the waistband of her pajama shorts.

She kissed him, tenderly at first, and then with growing intensity. He gently bit her top lip, sucked it, her teeth tugged on his lower lip. His kiss was determined and sent her head spinning. She began to tremble as she clung to him.

Shawn’s lips slowed and softened; he eased away and breathed, “I’ve already waited so long; we can take our time.” He slid his hands further up (y/n)’s sides, under her shirt. “We don’t have to rush into anything. I can wait for you.” She felt his thumbs brush either side of her breasts.

She started trailing tiny kisses from his chin up along his jawline before touching the tip of her tongue to the lobe of his ear. “I don’t want to wait,” she purred.

“Oh, thank God,” he groaned before again pressing hungry lips to hers.

She responded without hesitation.

Her hands trailed down his chest and to his sides, her fingers playing over the ripples of his stomach. She brushed her knuckles against the start of his arousal and his breath hitched, cupped him through thin cotton.

He arched his pelvis against the heat of her palm and she heard a low, rumbling moan from the back of his throat. He tangled a hand in her hair, tugged gently. He bit down on the skin of her clavicle, sucked, soothed it with his tongue.

She pulled away from his mouth. “Shawn!” she scolded, playfully, chuckled, “You’re going to leave a mark!”

“Good. Show everyone you’re mine. Mark you everywhere. But this,” he smirked, kissing the already purpling bloom, “will be the only one people can see.”

“Fuck,” she sighed. His claim on her made a shiver trickle up her spine.

“If you insist,” he grinned, smugly.

Feeling bold and sexy, she hooked a fingertip in the waistband of his pajama bottoms and starting walking backward. He stood to his full height and followed.

(Y/n) felt the backs of her legs hit the mattress. With fluid movement, she slid her shorts down, stepped out of them, and pulled her camisole up and over her head. She stood before him in small lace panties, breasts bare, nipples tight.

The way he looked upon her made her blood thrum, her body flush. He licked his lips, bit softly on the fuller, lower one.

His hand reached out and cupped one of her breasts. He gently tugged at her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, her hand slipped between her legs, at her core, and she rubbed herself through the damp lace. His nostrils flared when he caught the scent of her arousal. He whimpered, her name falling like a prayer from his lips.

“I wanna see you,” (y/n) purred.

Obeying, oh so eagerly, Shawn pushed his pants down, over his ass, off, his cock bouncing free, filling, curling up toward his stomach right before her eyes. He wrapped thumb and forefinger around the base, his other fingers pressed flush against his scrotum.

“Been thinking about me like this?” he hummed.

Yes. God, yes. Maybe one day she would tell him just how much. It was her turn to lick her lips and bite the lower one.

They fell together onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and with a crash of lips. When they separated to catch their breath, (y/n) reached over to turn off the bedside lamp.

“Nuh-uh, Sugar,” Shawn rasped. “Waited too long for this.” Voice rough with desire he sang softly, “I wanna love you with the lights on, keep you up all night long... Darling, I wanna see every inch of you, I get lost in the way you move...”

She might have giggled if her panties weren’t being drawn down over her hips, if calloused fingertips hadn’t begun to dance along soft, hot, electrified skin, lips and tongue following.

He took a dusky, peaked nipple into his mouth. Her back arched, hands grasping at the sheets at her sides, and moaned softly. He sucked her other nipple into his mouth, tasting, humming.

“Shawn,” she whined, moving a hand to tangle it in his dark curls, tugging him away from her breasts.

“Tell me what you want, Love.”

“I want you. I need you,” she pleaded.

“What was that?”

“Fuck me, Shawn.”

“Mm... Since you asked so sweetly,” he smirked, stroking his cock. He rolled on a condom and moved to rest between her legs.

She reached between them, taking him in her hand, and he shuddered. She wanted to feel the moment he slid into her. He let her guide him. Their eyes met and held, bodies drew together, foreheads touched. She groaned with deep satisfaction into his mouth as she adjusted to his girth and length.

He wheezed, stilled as he bottomed out. She was so tight around him that if he began to move in that moment it would be over too soon.

“You okay there, Mendes?” she purred and imperceptibly tightened her legs around his waist.

“Oh God.” That tiny shift was almost too much. “You feel so good. Too good,” he mumbled. “I need a minute.” His arms on either side of her, holding his weight above her, he buried his lips in the crook of her neck, centered on the scent of her skin as he salvaged control.

One hand again tangled in in his hair, the other stroked the skin of his upper back.

“Okayokay,” he mumbled, and he began to rock into her, slow... rhythmic... deep.

She gasped when the pebbled nubs of her breasts brushed against his taut nipples. Her whimpers and groans mingled with his rumbles and moans. She was torn between closing her eyes and wanting to watch his face as warmth and pleasure coursed through her.

He wanted her to climax before him. Wanted to watch her fall apart beneath him.

He knew she was nearly there when she began to ripple on the bed like a wave on the sea. The tide came all the way up; he was caught in the rush. And then the knot at the root of his cock dissolved in fire and he was falling fast, craving the feel of her so close to him, unsure where he ended and she began.

( FIN )

~ * ~

@theregoesmyherojd @benito-mi-vida @shawn-is-my-giant-jellybean @mendesblurb

[thevoidfishsminstrel]

Lena let out an undignified squeak as she grabbed hold of the bookshelf beside her in an effort to not land on her face.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

Lena turned, wiggling her foot back into her heels properly, before freezing, eyes widening at the caped figure now scrambling to her feet.

An array of books and magazines were spread out on the floor, presumably the culprit of her latest near death experience. It was as though National City’s newly revealed superhero had been sitting in between the bookshelves on the library floor… studying?

Lena clutched the cheesy romance novel she had been too busy reading to her chest as Supergirl looked at her in concern.

“Miss?”

Lena’s brain finally restarted and she cleared her throat, straightening her blazer. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Supergirl was wringing the edge of her cape in her fingers, looking far too nervous for someone who was suspected to be the strongest being on Earth by several sapphic blogs that Lena most definitely did not read.

“I’m fine.” She reached out to put a hand on Supergirl’s forearm in an impulse comfort gesture. “I promise.”

Supergirl seemed to relax slightly, some of the tension seeping from her shoulders. She held out a hand. “I’m Kara.”

Any tension that had left her immediately returned tenfold, eyes widening in panic as she froze.

Lena bit back a smile and took Kara’s hand, shaking it despite Kara’s lack of movement. “Lena. And don’t worry - your secret’s safe with me.”

Kara deflated, running a hand through her hair. “Alex is going to kill me.”

Lena laughed and patted Kara’s bicep (definitely the strongest being on Earth). “Maybe you should stop saying names now.”

Kara grimaced. “Oops.” She looked like she was about to say something else but stopped and looked at Lena again. “Wait… are you Lena Luthor?”

Lena straightened up, careful mask falling into place to try to hide the way her heart sped up and her throat constricted. “Yes.”

But before she could launch into her speech about how she was different from the rest of her family and only wanted to help, Kara lit up, crouching down to shuffle through her piles of literature until she came up with an issue of a science magazine from a few years ago.

“I just read your article about sustainable building and how we can introduce cost-effective eco-friendly measures to construction to reduce the damage done to the environment and promote a symbiotic relationship with nature.”

Lena blinked.

Kara almost poked herself in the eye before redirecting the movement to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry, I just thought it was really interesting. You’re probably tired of people asking you about your work.”

Lena’s eyebrows rose. “No I… I don’t mind.”

Kara smiled and Lena found her heart racing for an entirely different reason. She redirected her attention to the books scattered on the floor.

“So what’s National City’s resident superhero doing studying civil engineering, first aid and… veterinary science on the floor of the library?”

Kara blushed and knelt down to start scooping up all her things. “Sorry - I know I should have been at a desk I just got carried away.”

The pile of books was up to Kara’s eyebrows when she stood up and Lena laughed, taking the top third of them from her. “And I shouldn’t have been reading and walking. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Supergirl shrugged, toeing at the worn carpet with her red boots. “I’m new at the whole superhero thing. I don’t know where to freeze breath a building to hold it up or how to save someone who’s got water in their lungs from almost drowning. The other day I rescued a snake from a tree and tried to wrap it up in my cape to keep it warm and the owner told me ‘thanks, but reptiles are cold-blooded so they don’t warm up like that.’” She pouted at Lena. “The owner was a ten year old.”

Lena bit back a smile. “So you’re trying to learn how to be a better superhero?”

She shrugged and bit her lip. “I just don’t want to mess up.”

Lena considered her for a moment. “You know, I happen to have degrees in a few different kinds of engineering. And I made everyone at L-corp, including myself, take a first aid course when I took over.”

Kara looked as though she was trying to contain her hopeful expression. It wasn’t working very well, although that probably wasn’t surprising since her motto was ‘hope, help, and compassion for all.’

Kara bounced on her toes excitedly. “Would you help?”

Lena grinned and gestured to the left with her head. “Come on, I know which desk is the best in the library.”

———

It became somewhat of a routine after that. Every Saturday, Lena would go to the library as normal, pick out a new cheesy romance novel for the week and some kind of thick science book to hide it underneath, and then meet Supergirl in the back corner of the library, at the desk hidden behind the spare computers from the 90s where no one would find them.

Kara would normally already be there, pouring over texts and making notes in coloured pens and highlighters. Lena had bought her a rainbow of folders and dividers for each of the aspects of superheroing she was trying to improve in, and they had spent one very unproductive but fun day labelling and decorating them. They were now covered in random doodles, squiggly multicoloured patterns, and stickers that Kara had found in a rotating rack by the front desk, immediately claiming were essential for her learning.

During the week, Lena would keep an eye on any news of Supergirl, getting some strange looks from Jess when she walked into her office to see Lena cheering as Kara did something they’d worked on together. At the weekend she would listen to Kara excitedly retell those same events until the librarian came over to shush them. She seemed to be the only person in National city that wasn’t completely charmed by Supergirl, and it always led to half an hour of Kara pouting and asking Lena why the librarian didn’t like her.

It was a few weeks before Lena got there first. She frowned, checking the surrounding isles of books for any caped figures but they were all empty as usual.

She sat at their desk and opened up the book she had randomly grabbed off a shelf, putting her latest romance novel inside it to covertly read. It was called ‘Lost and Found: A Love Story’, the back of it claiming it was about a woman who ‘drops her scarf at a train station but ends up finding something much more meaningful in the woman she bumps into at the lost and found.’ It was exactly as awful as it sounded.

Kara bounded up to the table about 20 minutes later, a coffee cup in each hand and a satchel slung over her shoulder that made her cape bunch up awkwardly. She beamed at Lena and set a coffee down in front of her.

“Guess what I just did.”

Lena slammed the books shut inside each other, scrambling to put her arms over them and rest her chin in her hand casually. “What?”

Kara either didn’t notice or didn’t care, rounding the desk and putting her bag down on it with a grin. “I laservisioned the supports of a broken crane back together using some metal from a billboard and now it’s totally fine for use again.”

Lena’s eyebrows rose. “What happened to the crane in the first place?”

Kara’s cheeks heated and she looked away, rubbing the back of her neck as she mumbled, “I may have flown into it a little bit.”

She scowled at Lena as Lena started laughing but it was undermined by the way her lips tugged up.

“Oh!” Kara lit up and started rifling through her bag. “I brought you this.”

She held out a book with a bright smile. Lena’s eyes widened as she looked down at the cover of what was very clearly another cheesy romance.

“It’s my favourite love story. It’s a bit like the one you’re reading at the moment but better, in my opinion. I thought you might like it.”

“What?” Lena scoffed. “I wasn’t reading a romance. I was reading…” she glanced over to check what book she had picked up, internally filling with regret as she read the title, but she had already committed to the facade. “The rhyming dictionary.”

Kara was very clearly trying not to laugh. “Ok. Well I’ll just leave this one here. And in case you didn’t know,” she leaned closer to Lena’s ear as she climbed into her seat, and whispered, “I have x-ray vision.”

Lena blushed, refusing to look at Kara’s smug grin. She cleared her throat and moved her books off to the side, along with the one Kara had put down, as casually as possible, and attempted to change the subject.

“So you remembered about weight distribution in support structures?”

Kara paused in taking folders and notes out her bag to turn to Lena excitedly, rambling on about her save, gesturing wildly with her hands.

Lena picked up her coffee as she listened with a soft smile, absentmindedly taking a sip.

She frowned down at the cup. “Is this my usual?”

Kara paused in her rambling. “Yeah. Does it not taste right?”

Lena shook her head, staring back down at her perfect coffee, cheeks heating at the heart drawn in latte art that Kara probably didn’t even have anything to do with. “No I just… I didn’t know you knew my order.”

Kara grinned, raising an eyebrow (Lena should never have taught her how to do that). “Perhaps you’re not as elusive as you think, Lena Luthor.”

———

Lena arrived at the library one Saturday to find Supergirl staring at the front doors like she might set light to them any moment.

“What’s wrong Supergirl? Lose a fight with a door handle?”

Kara turned to her with a pout, pointing at a sign hanging on the other side of the glass. It read ‘Library closed until 23rd due to water damage. Apologies for the inconvenience.’

Lena sighed.

“Where am I going to get my books for this week, Lena? I’m never going to understand civil engineering without them.”

Lena bit the inside of her cheek, the rational part of her brain at war with the part that was helpless to the superhero’s pout. It had to be one of her superpowers because Lena would never admit she was actually soft.

She tore her gaze away, trying to seem casual. “I actually have some engineering textbooks at my apartment. I guess you could borrow them if you wanted.”

Lena squeaked as Supergirl crushed her in a bear hug, lifting her a few inches off the ground. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

Lena laughed, trying to turn it inconspicuously into a cough when a passerby gave a slightly shocked and confused look at the sight of a Luthor and a Super laughing on the library steps. Kara dropped her back to her feet, stepping back with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, I got excited.”

Lena shook her head with a smile. She turned to go but as she went to gesture for Kara to follow, her hand caught against Kara’s. Her brain misfired and decided in the split second where her index finger hooked onto Kara’s pinkie that the best course of action was to commit to it and simply hold hands. In an attempt to make it seem less affectionate and more practical, she walked off quickly, dragging Kara along in the direction of her apartment.

She could feel Kara’s smile like rays of sun behind her. At least her hair was down to cover up the heat that was creeping up the back of her neck.

Her apartment was only a few minutes from the library. She had to slap Kara’s hand away from the elevator buttons before she pressed them all, marveling at how many floors there were.

“So this is where you live?” Kara looked around the hallway, panicking when she snapped a leaf off of a decorative plant, while Lena unlocked the penthouse door.

Lena pretended not to see her discreetly dropping the leaf into the plant pot but raised an eyebrow at her. “No, Supergirl. I just decided we should come and stare at this random person’s door.”

Kara ignored her, walking past into her apartment and looking down at the city below through the large floor to ceiling windows. “Nice view. I should take you flying sometime - it’s even better from up in the clouds, especially at night.”

Lena closed the front door, trying not to think about romantic flights and being cradled in strong arms. “I’ll go get the textbooks.”

She moved towards her home office, Kara trailing behind in interest. The engineering textbooks were over in the left corner and she scanned the alphabetised section for the ones she wanted.

Kara ran her fingers over the spines of books until Lena was done. She smirked at Lena, letting her hand trail teasingly down the bookshelf before she left. Lena blushed as she realised why. Kara had found her fiction section, over half the books in which were very clearly a certain genre.

Lena groaned and followed her out.

They spent the entire afternoon on the floor around Lena’s coffee table, going through the textbooks, laughing over Kara’s constant puns, and eating the seemingly endless supply of snacks Kara produced from her bag. It wasn’t until the sun had started to set that Lena realised how long they’d spent simply telling jokes and stories.

It was alarmingly easy to just be around Kara. Strangely, Lena didn’t think she minded.

———

Lena frowned as someone knocked on her door. It was a Saturday morning and she was just about to leave to meet Supergirl at the library.

She only grew more confused as she opened the door to see a fluffy white cloud panting happily at her and squirming in her direction. A head poked out from behind it, looking just as happy.

“Lena, hi! Sorry to just turn up but the mean librarian lady threw me out because apparently you aren’t allowed to play fetch in the library.”

Lena stared at the woman currently holding a large puppy in front of her, familiar blonde curls pinned back and glasses slipping down her nose. “…Kara?”

Kara blinked at her for a moment before she seemed to realise. “Oh! Right. Sorry - this is what I look like normally. When I’m not being Supergirl I mean. Alex said I wasn’t allowed to wear the suit all the time because it had to be washed.”

Lena nodded slowly, trying to reconcile the image of this Kara with Supergirl and to not think too hard about the implications of Kara being comfortable enough around her to show her her civilian identity. “Right. Why do you have a dog?”

Kara lit up. “I saved an animal shelter from a fire and they let me adopt this guy. Isn’t he adorable?”

Lena looked at the matching faces of excitement. “Very cute. But why is he here?”

Kara shrugged. “Well I couldn’t leave him after I’d just adopted him so I thought he could join us for our study session?”

Lena crossed her arms and Kara pouted. It was somewhat undermined by the puppy licking her face and making her giggle but Lena was still helpless to resist.

“Ok but he better not mess up any of my stuff.”

“Yes!” Kara grinned, wiggling the puppy excitedly, his ears flopping about.

Kara kissed her cheek on her way into the apartment and Lena’s heart skipped a beat. The puppy licked her in an attempt to join in but even that didn’t stop the way her heart raced.

They settled on the couch, facing each other as Lena quizzed Kara with flashcards. The puppy alternated between curling up in Kara’s lap and zooming around Lena’s living room, falling over his own paws.

“Ok, last one. How do you treat a sprain?”

“Ice it with my freezebreath, wrap it so it’s compressed but not cutting off circulation, keep it elevated.”

Lena grinned proudly. “That’s it! Done.”

Kara threw her hands in the air in delight, squealing as she propelled herself forwards to tackle Lena to the couch. She pulled back just as quickly, pushing up to brace herself over Lena.

“Sorry. I got excited.”

All the breath had deserted Lena’s lungs and she stared up at Kara. A light flush rose on Kara’s cheeks, pale pink against the deep blue of her eyes, bringing out the freckles that dusted her skin.

The flashcards slipped from Lena’s grasp as she surged up to meet Kara’s lips. Kara’s arms almost buckled but she caught herself. And then she was kissing back.

Lena’s hands slid up Kara’s back, practically pulling Kara down on top of her.

They were both breathing hard when they pulled apart, eyes closed and foreheads rested together.

Kara was smiling softly down at her when she finally opened her eyes. She had shifted to hold herself up on one hand and one elbow, her free hand gently stroking back Lena’s hair.

She looked like she was about to say something when she did a double take over the armrest of the couch behind Lena and her soft look turned into a wince. “What was it you said about the puppy not messing up any of your stuff?”

[gryffindors-weasley]

For The Very First Time

Sirius Black x Reader

Summary: Sirius Black just might be more sentimental than you think when he takes you on a trip down memory lane.

Prompt used: “Sorry how do you spell that?”

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: mild angst, smoking, fluff, kissing

A/N: This is for @sweeterthansammy ’s 1k writing challenge! I hope you enjoy. Flash backs are italicized, and the prompt I used is bolded!

The weather was a little bit chillier now that the sun was dipping down in the sky, chilly enough for a sweater or a light jacket. Something you didn’t have much time to think about with the spontaneity of Sirius’ plans and just how urgent he’d been making them out to be. Really, there was no rush and he knew that, of course he knew that, but he was far too eager for his own good and you knew that.

You were certain he’d under dressed when you found him standing by the front door, leaning against the frame in that tattered old jean jacket. The one there’s no chance in him getting rid of, not in a million years. It’s got a myriad of holes here and there in the faded, washed out denim, the cuffs having seen better days as the frayed material dangles down half torn. A miscellaneous pin from James is still on there, even that bright yellow smiley face is stuck on the collar that you’d put there ages ago. It was more than a well worn article of clothing, that much was for sure.

You managed to break away from James and Lily’s conversation, more so Lily, and any other time you wouldn’t have minded a single bit. You absolutely wouldn’t have, but with Sirius calling you from the floor below in the small Potter home, you find yourself having no choice but to give in to saving the conversation for later in favor of quieting the raven haired wizard.

You walk down the stairs until equally tattered converse come into view, then those same old black denim jeans, the those frayed jean jacket cuffs. You smell the distinct smell, something that’d only further been confirmed as you reach the very last step.

“Either I’m a fool, or time just stopped,” he says, flicking the ashes from his cigarette as he smiled down at you.

The corner of your mouth quirks up, the kind of smile he knows isn’t a hundred percent sweet.

“I think you’re just a fool, Pads,” you say, that smile widening a fraction. There it is. He walked right into that one and he knew it, rolling his eyes. “And I don’t think Mr. Potter would approve of you smoking in his beloved family home.”

“Which is exactly why I’m standing outside,” he grins before bringing the cigarette back to his lips, throwing his hands up as he takes one step backwards through the threshold of the doorway just so he can officially say that he is in fact outside and not at all breaking the rules of the residence.

Sirius Black liked to bend the rules when he could, he liked to walk on the wild side just about every chance he got no matter how trivial it may be. He claims it’s the only way to be, claims that’s what having fun is all about and anything less is boring. Nonchalance is simply in his nature.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” you counter, hopping off the very last step when he tugged on your hand to urge you out the door.

He pulled the door shut behind him and stopped you in your tracks, making you turn on your heel before you could take another step forward. You look up at him with a narrowed gaze and await an explanation as to just why it is he’s gone and stopped you when all he’s done the past ten minutes is tell you how desperately he’d wanted to go. So you stand and your stare and you watch as smoke blows past parted lips, lips that quirk upwards in a smile as he looks at you.

In that moment, he dips down, pressing his lips on yours in a kiss that’s as smoky as ever and the gesture alone has your smile pressing into his kiss. A smile that’s genuine just as much as it’s teasing.

“I thought we had somewhere to be?” You say, breaking away as you look up at him with a raised brow.

“We do,” he says, taking another puff before you snag the cigarette right from between his fingers, dropping it to the little stone walkway before putting it out beneath your boot.

You take notice of his pursed lips that fight a smile, at the squinted gaze he’s got set on you as you spin on your heel and walk ahead, leaving him to stand there and stare after you for a fleeting moment or two. You’ve got all the amusement in the world sitting on your expression and he doesn’t even need to see it to know it, he can tell just by simply hearing the laugh fall from your lips. He can see it as he catches up to you within a second’s time.

“How very rude of you,” he says in faux offense, but it’s not too long before you feel the tips of his fingers brushing against yours.

“How very generous of me,” you counter, and his scoff doesn’t go unheard.

The next time you look up at him, he’s got those sunshine yellow shades on, those obnoxiously yellow sunglasses that sit on his nose seemingly more often than not. James had gotten them for him at the town fair just a few years back, a gift just for laughs that he’d gotten with the rest of his tickets. They were bright and they were bold and very much fitting for the year nineteen-eighty-one, but he’d gone and kept them. Of course he did.

Sirius Black kept every single thing his friends have ever given him no matter how ridiculous or trivial it may have seemed. Even when he was just a child still stuck in his dreaded family home, he’d saved a shoe box from a pair of dress shoes he absolutely hated wearing, one pair of dozens that inevitably got scuffed up just a little too much for the liking of his parents before they’d gone and bought him a new pair to look more presentable for the family image. Aside from that, he’d kept a shoe box, one that he had tucked under his bed.

Inside were all the letters that James and Remus had sent him by owl over summer break, each and every letter even if it was simply James complaining about some nonsensical thing or a joke or if it was Remus writing to see if he’d gotten his Hogwarts letter yet. He kept all of them. He kept the four leaf clover James had stumbled upon, and he kept that special quill Remus had swiped from Snape. He never knew his best friend had a knack for being mischievous until that moment.

He’d read those letters on his best nights and his worst, read them just for so. They were tattered and worn at the creases where they were folded, but he didn’t plan on getting rid of them any time soon.

Over the years that sentimental collection grew and grew, adding to it a myriad of pressed flowers and leaves from Lily, and bookmarks from Remus, postcards from James that were the absolute most ridiculous he could find. You added to it with miscellaneous letters and a guitar pick you thought he might like. He never used it, he didn’t want to ruin it. He kept that feather boa you’d found and even that lucky coin. He kept it all.

Sirius Black was more sentimental than he let on, he’s got a softer heart than he showcased to most, he kept every one of those things no matter how stupid or trivial it may seem to someone else. But he’d never in a million years admit it. James had found it once, but he never said a word about it.

“You never did tell me where we’re going,” you say, kicking a pebble out of your way as you walked along the cracked sidewalk.

“I believe that’s the point of a surprise, love,” he says, and you catch his smile as you look up at him, lips pursed as you nudge him with your elbow.

“You’re terrible at surprises,” you tease, your smile in your voice and had he not been wearing those sunglasses at sunset, you’d have been able to see his eye roll. But you knew him well enough to know he’d gone and done it regardless of the visual confirmation.

“Have I ever told you you’re a pain?” He asked, his chuckle following his words as he grins ahead, glancing down at you briefly.

“Yes, and I take that as a compliment,” you say, hearing his continued laughter as he shakes his head.

You try and put the pieces together, try and pick up any hints to put together any form of information that just might lead you in the direction of where you could possibly be going. It was in town, that you knew for certain. It was somewhere, local otherwise he’d have taken Mr. Potter’s car. The attire was no use in a giveaway because there was not a single chance there’d be an occasion where you’d find Sirius taking you somewhere in which you’d need to dress to the nines. The days of pristine suits and freshly polished shoes were far behind him, he hated dressing up with everything that he had.

He didn’t even dress up above and beyond for James and Lily’s wedding; well, he did, but he dressed down his suit with a half loosened tie that wound up being a headband and that tattered pair of converse. And he even wore those same old yellow sunglasses.

It was early evening, and things don’t tend to stay open for that much longer, so that narrows things down just a little bit more. Makes things just a little bit clearer, but it all proved to be not as helpful as you’d like it to be.

The small town was dotted with street lamps casting the area in a warm glow as it began to get darker and darker outside. The surrounding trees held reddening leaves that dropped and fluttered to the ground when the breeze sifted through them. And it’s only then that it hits you, the smell of coffee and spice that wafts through the air the closer you get. The sweetened air the closer you got. You even heard that familiar little clang of the bell over the door.

It wasn’t until then that you’d realized that maybe this was his surprise, that it absolutely was judging by the way he’d been biting the inside of his cheek to stifle his grin.

“Sirius Black, is this what I think it is?” You ask, your brow raised as the corner of his mouth quirks upwards.

Your question is answered when that smile breaks through, when you do indeed stop in front of the door to that ever familiar coffee shop and he holds the door open for you to step inside. It’s noticeably warmer than the chilly weather outside, cozier than ever as the smell of coffee washes over you. It looked just the same as when you were here last, felt just as inviting as it always did.

There were a few carved pumpkins sitting outside the door, an assortment of fall decorations littering inside the small shop. Each of the little wooden tables have cozy orange table cloths, and string lights are hung. The entirety of the shop smelled like fall festive drinks and what was left of the pumpkin rolls and muffins, not to mention the sweeter than sweet scented candles that were lit.

He tugged on your hand as he stepped up to the counter.

“Can I get a black coffee with two creams and a hot chocolate?” He asks, dropping your hand to dig around for his wallet in the pocket of his jacket.

That was another thing, Mr. Potter had gifted him that very same wallet a handful of years ago. It was a hand-me-down, but that was the least of his concerns when he was given the leather wallet. He didn’t care about the scratches or worn corners. That was the first real gift he’d ever gotten that had true thoughtfulness behind it.

He remembered your order like the back of his hand, and he’d gotten the same thing every single time.

The drinks were ready in no time and he put some money on the counter with a little extra for a tip, handing you yours as he headed towards that ever familiar table tucked away in the corner by the window.

He ran his hand through his hair, sitting those sunglasses back on the top of his head once more to push his hair out of his face. Your smile was fond as you looked at him, a stubborn chunk of black hair dipping over his forehead and brushing against the tip of his nose anyway.

“Remember this place, love?” He asks, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“As if I’d ever forget,” you say, a laugh leaving your lips.

Of course you did, it was hard to forget the one and only place you’d met Sirius black in a few years back.

It was a hectic afternoon, customer after customer flooding into the coffee shop especially now that the fall season was sweeping in at last. Things were always busy around this time of year, things were always busy around this time of day, so you’d come to expect the rush hour by now after all this time you’ve worked there.

Things were fairly simple once you got the hang of it, once you were able to do things with a practiced ease and it made the line of customers a little bit easier to move along. Most of them you knew by name, most of them you knew their orders because they never failed to get the very same thing each and every day that they came in. Some of them came in every day, some of them came in every week, some of them even had a select day of the week that they stopped in for their usual order.

It was one of the things you liked about working there. The regular customers were friendly as ever and made the workload a little easier given the prior knowledge of just what they get and how they like it, and it makes the time fly just a little bit faster.

The day hadn’t been your finest, you’d gone and spilled half a cup of hot chocolate on your apron, one you didn’t have the time to swap out and you’re quite sure you’d still had a smear of flour on your face from catching up on baking that morning before opening time. But that clumsiness was only in your nature and it was everything you expected from yourself.

“Y/n, can you cover up front? There’s someone waiting.”

That clumsiness only heightened at the sight of a new face, one you don’t believe you’ve seen frequent the shop before. He’s got a mess of black hair he keeps tucking behind his ear, yellow sunglasses dangling from the collar of a Queen t-shirt as his gaze focuses out of the window to his left. He’s got a pack of cigarettes tucked in the front pocket of his jean jacket and pin on the other.

You quit your staring, you quit while you were ahead as you smoothed your coffee stained apron.

“What can I get for you today?” You ask, capturing his attention as he looks at you.

You swallow thickly as your gaze meets gray eyes, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You take notice of the dimple in his chin and the strands of dark hair that dip down over his forehead as he leans against the counter.

“Just a black coffee with two creams, please,” he says.

“Your name?”

“Sirius.”

You nod with a smile as you snag a cup and the marker from your pocket, turning on your heel to head towards the coffee as you uncapped your marker before you very quickly made that realization and spun back around. In the process, you nearly tripped over your own two feet and you can feel the heat blossoming in your cheeks.

“Sorry, how do you spell that?” You ask, biting the inside of your cheek.

You hear the softness of chuckle as he looks at you, surprisingly not out of mocking even with the way you just made a fool of yourself in front of him. He spelled it out for you with a smile, and you turned away without tripping this time. You made his drink just how he’d asked, your heart racing in your chest the entirety of the two minutes it took to make it as you thought about his smile.

You tried your best to stall, to steal a little bit more time before you had to go back to the counter to face him once more. To give yourself a little more time to let the heat in your cheeks cool off.

You pressed on the lid to his cup and took a breath, turning around and heading back to the counter where he stood leaning against it still.

“One coffee with two creams for Sirius,” you say, setting the to-go cup on the counter as he dug around his pocket for some money.

He counted it out in his palm as his hair fell in his eyes, quickly brushed away as he ran his hand through his hair and set the money down in exchange for his drink, and a little extra for a tip.

You notice the way his gaze lingers on you for a little bit longer, you notice it as the seconds pass and your heart races. It lingers on you and you can see the way the corner of his mouth quirks up as he does, spinning the cup in his hand out of an absentminded habit as his gray gaze finally meets yours.

“You’ve got a little something on your face, love,” he says, pointing to his own cheek as a signal for your own face.

Your hand shoots up immediately to swipe across your cheek, the heat in your face flooding back once more as you swipe your fingers across your skin, pulling back to see that dreaded flour on your face that you knew was bound to be there from that morning.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” you say with a laugh and a smile, his following soon after as he nods.

There’s a sort of tension that simmers as you meet his gaze once more, as it bounces to his smile and you’re not quite sure if time actually stopped or if this is some cliche moving moment happening to you in the middle of your shift, or neither and you’re just being ridiculous. That, it’s probably that one.

Either way, you find yourself interrupted by the ding of the bell to your side on the counter from a customer growing impatient, a call of your name sounding over your shoulder just behind you. It all brings you back to reality.

“Have a nice day, Sirius,” you say, watching as he nods.

“I’ll see you around.”

With that, he offers you that same smile that had your mind on it for a ridiculous amount of time, that smile that made your heart race, and he turned away and headed out that door with a little ding of the bell over the door. He headed down the sidewalk as he snagged a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it before he disappeared around the corner.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Sirius asks, grabbing your attention as he gazes at you over the rim of his cup, gray eyes full of amusement.

“About what?” You ask, playing into it with a half smile even though you know you’re bound to be met with a tease.

“That time you tripped over your own two feet. I mean, do I really have that effect on people, love?” He jest, feeling you kick his foot just under the table.

There it is.

“Must you be so cocky, Pads?” You ask, your gaze glimmering with amusement as you purse your lips.

“I’m afraid I must,” he says.

You roll your eyes as you sip on your drink, eyeing the smile forming on his lips. “What?”

He chuckles as he shakes his head, his gaze dropping down as he swirls his drink in his hands and bites the inside of his cheek. His stare is more amused than ever as he looks at you again, that same lingering gaze set on you in the very same way it had been all those years ago and you knew it couldn’t have meant anything good. If it was anything like that very first time, you were bound to feel your cheeks grow hot even though you’ve known the troublemaker for years.

He doesn’t say anything at first, quiet as he lifts his hand and swipes it across the top of your lip and all the way to the corner of your mouth. He’s just as amused as he wipes away some hot chocolate that’s been left behind from your sip, his chuckle immediate.

“You’ve got a little something on your face, love,” he says, and you hear that teasing tone in his voice that he’s always got, that mischief dancing in his eyes.

“I truly think it’s you that’s the pain,” you huff, biting back your smile.

He chuckles. “‘S that so?”

You nod as you smile at him. “Very much so.”

He bites his lip momentarily as he looks at you, that pesky chunk of his hair falling back down in his face. “I take that as a compliment.”

He used your earlier words, of course he did, that’s just how Sirius Black is. Taunting and teasing in the most lighthearted of ways and that’s something that’s always been so, that’s something that always will be so forever and ever.

He’s got the tip of the arm of his sunglasses between his teeth, having given up on using them to hold back his hair as he looks around the little coffee shop where it all began, as he looks out the window at passers by, the corner of his mouth quirking up when he feels your gaze on him. It widens a fraction as he feels you get up, feels you swing around the edge of the table to take a seat in the booth bench next to him rather than sit across from him.

You’re quiet for a few moments as you rest your head on his shoulder. The foot traffic in the shop was dwindling as it neared closing time, growing less and less busy until it was starting to become just the two of you there. But you weren’t so focused on the details, not when you’ve been in your own little world with the one stealing your attention right next to you as you sat in your usual booth in the corner.

This was it, this was where it all began, this was where you’d met the chaos that is Sirius Black. The chaos that’s brought nothing but good into your life, nothing but a thrilling excitement that only he could bring.

You lift your head and look up at him, his gaze falling on you within a moment’s time. You see that smile, that smile that makes your heart race a mile a minute. You see it and you mirror it as you look at him. It’s only a matter of seconds before you lean up and press a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet and tasting of hot chocolate and coffee and a little bit of that smoke that never quite left his lips.

You kiss him before you wrap your hands around your cup, feeling his eyes on you. You take a sip as you stifle your smile, the arm of his glasses between his teeth once more as that smile he’s got remains as you look at him. You smile when you look away, head shaking as you nudge his foot with yours.

This is where it all began a handful of years ago. This is where you met Sirius Black for the very first time.

—

Tags: @nancybycrs @pogueslandia @hahee154hq @snitches-at-dawn @writeroutoftime @awritingtree @lilypad-55449 @medalloway-blog @vicouscirce @mon4907 @violetrainbow412-blog

[bluejayblueskies]

it will be this, always

Chapter Ten: week thirty-seven Words: 9.9k

Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood Tags: Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, (and here it is!), Domesticity, Therapy

Work Summary:

Jon coughed again, and blood stained his lips and blood stained Martin’s hands where they pressed against Jon’s back and blood stained the floor beneath them and help, they needed help.

Martin doesn’t remember shouting. He barely remembers the faces that had surrounded them, wide-eyed and terrified, all utterly unfamiliar.

.

Jon and Martin wake up somewhere else. Jon begins a slow path toward physical recovery, and several important, long-put-off conversations are had as they begin to navigate a new world that they hadn’t thought they’d be alive to see.

Chapter Summary:

Regarding healing, growth, and happy endings

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

Or read below:

(cw for mild arguing, self-deprecation, mention of spiders, brief mention of acephobia, mentions of apocalypse, brief mention of insects)

.

Their new flat smells like cedarwood and fresh paint. It’s infinitely nicer than any of Martin’s past flats, with a distinct living room and kitchen and a short corridor that leads to a bedroom and a modest-sized bathroom. There’s no mildew lingering in the corners, nor do the windows have cracks in them. The couch doesn’t sag in the middle, and there are no chips in the countertops.

When Martin sees it filled with the small collection of items they’ve accumulated over the past few months, he almost cries. It’s a strange feeling.

There’s the small wooden frame displaying the bent, slightly crumped picture of him and Jon standing next to one of the many Highland cows they used to see on their walks at the safehouse. (It’s one of the only items that remained with them from their old universe, tucked away safe and secure in Martin’s pocket.) A collection of mismatched mugs fills their cabinets, found at charity shops and the cheap local department store near them. Books sit on the squat coffee table they’d decided at the last minute to purchase, various bits of scrap paper shoved between their pages.

It’s a place that looks lived in. It’s a place that looks like a home.

It’s on the first floor of their building, carefully chosen so as to avoid stairs. Although Jon only requires the wheelchair now on his bad days, the walker he’s transitioned to still makes stairs cumbersome, and he had begrudgingly admitted when they were searching for a new place to live that he didn’t want to have to deal with them on a daily basis.

It had been a bit strange, leaving behind the house they’d lived in for just over half a year. It had also been more abrupt than Martin had expected. He’d come home from work to find Jon making a list of potential new flats and giving him the news that, apparently, the owners of this home would be returning to it at the beginning of the next month. Martin knew it would be temporary—had even felt awkward at first, living in a place that so clearly belonged to another. It still left him hollow inside, to clean up all evidence of themselves and pack their limited belongings into cardboard boxes and rehide the spare key after they locked the door for the last time.

But their new place is… well, it’s theirs. (At least, as much as one can claim ownership over a rented flat.) And signing his and Jon’s name on the rental agreement—putting their cohabitation down in writing—had been…

Well. It had been a lot of things. He’d decided to focus on the positive ones, rather than the nerves and anxiety hovering just beneath them.

His therapist had coaxed them out of him, of course. They’re good at that—convincing him to acknowledge the things he would rather not think about, encouraging him to embrace emotions that he would much rather ignore indefinitely. It’s why he’d settled with them in the end, after cycling through a few others who never seemed like a good fit for one reason or another. They’re gentle but firm, able to hear the things he isn’t saying and work with him even when he snaps or clams up or gets frustrated.

He remembers very clearly his third appointment with them. He stops in weekly—every Thursday after he gets off work, sitting in the small waiting room with unfamiliar green plants in the corners until he’s called back. Their office is well-lit by large bay windows that look out over a small green space, with a few large armchairs centered around a squat table in the center of the room. During his first appointment, Martin’s eyes had been drawn to the brightly-colored fidget toys on the table—thick, bendable silicon wires and connected rings and stress balls and other things Martin doesn’t have the name for—and he’d thought, Jon would like those.

His therapist is taller than him, and their cardigan has elbow patches on the sleeves. They’d introduced themself to him as Dr. Quine, and their handshake had been firm, the black ring on their middle finger hard against Martin’s skin. And when Martin walked into their office for the third time, a familiar thrum of anxiety in his stomach, they greeted him warmly once again and asked if he would like any tea.

He was still sipping on the floral green blend he’d been given when Dr. Quine tapped their pen against their notebook thoughtfully and said, “I was thinking that today, we could talk a bit more about the interpersonal relationships you’ve mentioned.”

Martin kept his mouth pressed against the rim of the mug, feeling the sharp heat of the ceramic against his lips. It helped ground him, even as his chest squeezed and he felt the sudden urge to call this whole thing off and retreat back home.

“That’s… fine,” Martin said after a moment, dropping the mug onto his thigh and wrapping his hands around it. The heat seeped into his palms, making them slightly clammy. Or maybe that was just the nerves.

If Dr. Quine picked up on his hesitation (which he was sure they did), they didn’t show it. They clicked their pen a few times, scribbled something down too quickly for Martin to see, and then said, “Why don’t you start by telling me about them? You’ve mentioned a… partner, in the past?”

Martin nodded. “Y-yeah. Jon. He’s my… boyfriend.”

He didn’t know why he hesitated. They were still together, despite everything, and things had been going…

Well. Not good, exactly, but better. Their arguments were quieter, less like a wildfire and more like a matchstick flame. Sometimes, the flame would still burn too close to the end of the wood and fingers would be singed and Martin would step out onto the back porch and stare up at the sky, blue and cloudy and full of sun, and allow himself to feel frustrated and irritated and upset. But he always went back inside, and Jon was always there, and they would sit and talk with clearer minds and try to figure out what went wrong. What to fix.

“We can’t fix everything, Jon,” he’d snapped a little less than a week after their decision to commit to rebuilding their fractured relationship. “Some things are just—broken. They just are.”

“Isn’t it worth it to at least try?” Jon had countered. “How do we know it can’t be fixed unless we try?”

It had felt naïve. Full of childish hope. Martin has spent his entire life surrounded by broken, fractured things, sweeping up shards of relationships and taping over cracks in façades and soothing displeased expressions with oolong tea. He knows when to let something go—to stop trying to repair the damage and just… deal with it. Cover it up, maybe. Pretend like it doesn’t exist. Apologize for it, even when it’s not his fault. So for a brief moment, he had been filled with the overflowing desire to tell Jon to just let it go.

Jon’s eyes had been wide and beseeching as they’d stared into his, his hand hovering halfway in the air between them like he’d reached out and then thought better of it. And Martin just… deflated.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “I just… have a hard time thinking like that.”

Jon’s face softened at that. He still looked a bit mournful when he said, “I suppose that’s always been part of the problem. That we have different ways of thinking, o-of communicating sometimes.”

Martin thought about all the things he loved about Jonathan Sims—the way he could talk for hours about something Martin knew nothing about but enjoyed hearing about regardless, his passion when they argued about little things like the best flavor of ice cream or which Austen novel is the most romantic, the things he said sometimes that Martin didn’t really understand but that he cherished because they were Jon’s—and said, “Well, I don’t want that to be part of the problem.”

Maybe that’s a good place to start, he thought as he stared at Dr. Quine’s hands where they rested on their lap. So, tentatively, he began to tell them about Jon.

It was complicated, thinking about every word he said and ensuring that it fit within the narrative he and Jon had established to explain the Fears. As far as Dr. Quine is aware, he and Jon have just managed to escape—quite difficultly and through dire circumstances—a religious cult that worships gods of fear. It’s an imperfect story, but it’s comprehensive and flexible enough that Martin can, for the most part, talk candidly about his past and the true sources of his problems.

He still chose his words carefully, avoiding too much detail and skipping over some sections of their relationship entirely when he thought they might sound too absurd. He talked about the good things—the beginnings of their relationship and the new life they’ve begun here and the moments of calm they’d stolen between the stress and horrors of their past. And, with his hands fidgeting nervously in his lap, he talked about the bad things.

This is why I’m here, he reminded himself. I’m here because Dr. Quine can help. They can’t help unless I tell them what’s wrong. It doesn’t make sense to hide things from them unless absolutely necessary.

He couldn’t help doing exactly that, though. There were too many things that were just… hard. Eventually, after what felt like hours but must have only been ten minutes or so, he lapsed into silence. Dr. Quine wrote a few more things on their notepad before starting to ask questions. Their voice was casual and mildly curious, like they were just having a conversation. They were, Martin supposed, even if it sometimes felt like an interrogation.

“So this is the impression I’m getting,” Dr. Quine said about halfway through their session, sitting back and balancing their notepad on their knee. “You and Jon have gone through something traumatic—and you don’t have to tell me the specific details if you’re not comfortable with that, now or ever—and it’s placed a strain on your relationship.”

Martin worried his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded.

Dr. Quine hummed. “And you feel as if he isn’t willing to communicate properly with you, or that attempts to communicate are stressful and unsuccessful.”

That was… a little more complicated, and maybe not entirely correct. Still, Martin nodded again. Nodding was easy and required little energy. If he said no or hesitated, then he would have to explain himself further, and the thought of it made him feel weary and drained.

“So would you say then that the central issue in your relationship is a lack of open and honest communication?”

Martin didn’t know if that was the… central issue, per se. It was an issue. But there were a lot of them, and honestly, Martin hadn’t been keeping score.

It felt dishonest, somehow, to nod again. But it was so much easier than supplying his own words.

“Right.” Dr. Quine wrote something down on their notepad, then looked back at Martin with a slightly more serious expression than before. “And do you think those communication difficulties may be affecting your ability to be honest and direct with me during your time here?”

Martin… didn’t know how to respond to that. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, found a loose thread at the bottom of his jumper and began to pick at it, and finally looked down at the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“There’s no need to apologize, Martin. I just want to make sure that I am as well-equipped to help you as possible, and it’s not uncommon that people have difficulties talking about the things that trouble them. Especially when they’ve grown used to ignoring their own problems or thinking that they’re not important.”

Martin scowled at the ground, more from discomfort than irritation. “I- I don’t—”

He cut off, feeling shame and embarrassment curl in his stomach. He didn’t like this one bit. Ugh, this was stupid. A stupid idea. Ridiculous.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Quine said softly. “This isn’t a space for me to judge you or to criticize you or to make you feel bad for processing your emotions in a way that has worked best for you in the past. This is a space for me to get to know you, to understand how you’re feeling, and to help unpack some of the things you may be struggling with. If you ever feel uncomfortable with something I’ve asked or if there’s something you don’t want to talk about, let me know and we can talk about something else.”

That didn’t feel… right. Martin had never been to a therapist before now, but he was pretty sure the point was to talk about the things you didn’t want to talk about. He must have looked sufficiently skeptical because Dr. Quine smiled and said, “I’m not an interrogator, Martin. While we’re together, talking, you’re the one who controls the direction of the conversation. I might ask difficult questions sometimes or try to guide you toward things that it seems like you’re avoiding, but you always have the right to stop the conversation. I won’t mind.”

Martin stared at Dr. Quine for a long while. Eventually, they asked him another question about Jon, and he slowly answered, and the conversation picked back up into a comfortable pace until their hour was up and Dr. Quine wished him farewell with the promise that they’d see him again next week.

Martin left in a strange haze. That night, he cried, and he didn’t really understand why. Jon tucked him silently against his chest, and when Martin’s tears finally ran dry, he asked tentatively if therapy had gone poorly.

“No,” Martin found himself saying, surprising himself with the honesty of it. “It… it went really well.”

“Oh,” Jon said with a frown. “That’s… good. I’m glad.”

“I didn’t think it would,” Martin said quietly. “I- I still feel sometimes like it’s… not something I should need? Like I’ve been doing fine enough by myself up until now, so why should I even bother?”

Jon didn’t chastise him, which Martin was grateful for. Instead, Jon held him a little bit tighter and said, “I… feel the same way. Though for me, it’s more the reluctance to believe that there’s anything therapy can do for me at this point. Th-that maybe I’m too far gone, or… they won’t take me seriously.”

Martin nodded and buried his nose in Jon’s hair. It had come up during their initial discussion, the morning after they’d decided to try to make things better. Martin had explained his own reservations with therapy—a belief he could never seem to shake that it was his responsibility to be better and that he shouldn’t burden anyone else with his problems—in an attempt to get Jon to understand why he was so hesitant about this. And, after a moment, Jon had explained his.

It’s not that Martin had ever thought that Jon’s arachnophobia was irrational. He supposes he’d just never understood why, of all the horrors they encountered, that was the thing that scared Jon the most. But after Jon had finished telling him about the black-and-white picture book and the terror that had gripped his waking and unconscious hours long after the book was gone and the patronizing child psychologist who took his story of spider’s legs and sticky webs as a metaphor and nothing more, Martin found himself recontextualizing every moment, every interaction, every Statement.

His first thought was, perhaps a bit selfishly, why didn’t you tell me sooner? His second was, you were just a child.

Eight. Jon was eight when he—

Martin swallowed his reflexive apology—he was sure Jon had had enough of those—and said instead, “Thank you. For… for telling me. Do you… need anything from me?”

Jon shook his head. “It was a- a long time ago. A lot has happened since then.” He hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe, once I- I find a therapist, you could… you could come with me? J-just to the first appointment. I don’t really want to…” He tapped his fingers together a few times. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” Martin said. “Of course, love.”

Martin sat in the waiting room for the entire hour-long appointment, and when Jon finally emerged looking wrung-out and agitated, they went to the park near their borrowed house and sat on a wooden bench underneath a willow tree.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Martin said softly.

Jon looked straight ahead, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. “No,” he said after a moment. “I… don’t think I ever will. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

A corner of Jon’s mouth twitched, like Martin had said something funny. All he said in the end, though, was: “Thank you anyway. For asking.”

They returned to the house that wasn’t theirs when the sun began to dip close to the horizon. Martin has already forgotten how it smelled and how the sun refracted off the little crystal glasses on the side table and how the dust motes settled on the countertops. He’d taken a moment to mourn it, the first morning he’d awoken in their new flat. Then, he’d inhaled the smell of cedarwood and fresh paint, gotten out of bed, and gone to prepare breakfast.

Their flat still smells like cedarwood (and of vanilla and cinnamon candles as well) when Martin opens the door now, stepping to the side and holding it so Jon can walk in behind him. It’s one of Jon’s better days, but the commute to the squat office building where they’ve been attending couple’s counseling had been long, and Jon leans heavily on the walker as he makes his way into the flat.

Sometimes when they return, it’s accompanied by light conversation and smiles. Today, though, they don’t speak. Martin locks the door in silence and takes his shoes off in silence and goes to make tea in silence. He picks the special blend with mango and Ceylon that Jon likes—loose leaf and a bit fancier than he’s used to—and something green and bitter for himself. It takes much less time to brew the tea than he’d like, and it’s no time at all before Martin is setting the mugs on their coffee table and sitting next to Jon on the couch.

Jon mumbles his thanks and cups his hands around his mug, his jumper sleeves covering his palms to stifle the heat. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and says, “Now or later?”

Martin sighs and stares at the wall. “There’s no use in putting it off, I guess.”

Jon hums and taps his finger against the rim of his mug a few times. “Right.” He pinches his lips together for a moment. “I know that today’s session didn’t go… well.”

Martin makes a dry, amused noise. “That’s a word for it.”

Not that any of their sessions go particularly well by any normal definition of the word. Martin wonders sometimes why their counselor doesn’t drop them as clients before remembering that this is likely par for the course for her. (She’d told him that herself after a particularly bad session, apparently sensing the guilt and shame bubbling under the surface of his skin.) Martin is infinitely grateful for her, particularly given that she’s the fifth counselor they’ve tried and the only one that they’ve both been able to agree upon.

The first two hadn’t sat quite right with Martin. (A fact that frustrated Jon, especially when Martin couldn’t offer a better reason than I just don’t like them.) The third had given them a look when they said that the issue probably didn’t lie in their sex life because they didn’t have one, and they’d ended up leaving the intake appointment early. The fourth had seemed promising, but by the third appointment, it became apparent that his method of therapy just wasn’t working for Jon.

After that, they’d almost quit. Maybe, Martin thought, there just wasn’t a therapist out there that would work for them. But a few nights later, Jon set his book down and said bluntly that if they quit searching for someone and left things as they were, things would just get bad again. That he didn’t want things to get bad again. That even if therapy wasn’t the answer for them, they would have to keep searching and find something else because this was too important to give up on.

Martin had never thought of Jon as a particularly optimistic person, nor had he viewed himself as a particularly pessimistic one. But it kept feeling like all the hope had lodged itself in Jon’s heart, leaving none left for Martin to hold onto.

He took Jon’s hand in his and said, “And what if there is nothing else? I’m not saying there won’t be, a-and I’ll keep trying, but… it is a possibility.”

Jon exhaled and squeezed Martin’s hand so tightly he thought his fingers might bruise. “If we run out of options, then… I suppose that’s that.” He looked at Martin with startling intensity. “But I don’t think we will.”

The next day, Jon suggested their current therapist, his tone of voice leaving no room for argument. Martin wonders sometimes if Jon Knew that she would be the right fit for them, or if he’d just used his still-sleepless nights to do research. Whatever the case, Dr. Ramakrishnan is patient enough to work them through long periods of silence and assertive enough to shut down any conversations that start to spiral and willing to take their frankly absurd backstory in stride.

She had been patient with them today too, even as Martin grew increasingly frustrated when he tried and failed to find a sufficient way to fit Jon’s godlike apocalypse powers into the narrative of their religious cult cover story. Even as Jon said that he didn’t view their relationship during that time as inherently unbalanced and that he never meant to make Martin feel that way. Even as Martin slipped and snapped that how could there not be a power imbalance when Jon was essentially a god and Martin was distinctly not. She picked through the minefield that was a good portion of their conversations, and while things hadn’t been resolved in the end… it was certainly better than it would have been without her.

That doesn’t mean that the conversation doesn’t still sting at Martin.

“Is it good for us to keep talking about it here?” Martin says. It’s the same question he asks every time they come home from one of their appointments with lingering tension. And every time, Jon’s answer is the same.

“The point is that we’re meant to get to a place where we can resolve our issues in a- a healthy way, right?”

Martin sighs and leans his head back on the couch. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Jon takes a tentative sip of his tea, wincing at the heat. “We already know each other’s opinions on the matter. Perhaps we should… do the exercise that Dr. Ramakrishnan gave us?”

It had surprised Martin at first that Jon seemed willing—keen, even—to do the exercises and activities that their therapist suggested. But maybe it shouldn’t have. Jon likes things with structure and clear instructions, things he can lay his hands on and see the results of immediately. Martin just wishes he could feel the same about them, rather than getting the overwhelming urge to crumple the paper up and throw it away.

He just can’t help but find them ridiculous and unnecessary, like the worksheets he used to get back in primary school. (Or maybe Dr. Quine is right and he’s just scared of the kind of vulnerability required to lay bare his feelings on a piece of eight-by-eleven computer paper.)

Martin’s expression must convey his distaste because Jon makes a face of his own—sympathetic and exasperated in equal measure—and says, “I know you’re not… fond of them, but they are meant to help.”

“I know,” Martin says defensively. “It doesn’t mean I have to like them.” Then, after a moment: “… Sorry.”

“Don’t- don’t apologize. You’re allowed to have opinions about this.”

Martin makes a noncommittal noise and reaches over, grabbing his newly purchased laptop from the side table. “Let me pull it up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees Jon purse his lips, but he doesn’t say anything. He just takes another long sip of his tea as Martin opens his email, finds the exercise, and angles his screen so Jon can see it.

The next half hour is long and leaves Martin feeling tired and exposed. The worst part about it, he thinks, is that the tasks outlined in the exercise aren’t even all that hard, so he should be able to do them. Instead, they end up abandoning the effort before they’re even halfway through the document when Jon gently closes the laptop and says, “It’s late. Let’s just… go to bed.”

Martin doesn’t put up much of an argument. It’s not until they’re in bed and Martin’s mind feels more settled that he finds himself able to say, “I don’t know why this is all so difficult for me.”

“I… think that’s rather the point,” Jon says softly.

“Yeah, I- I know that it’s going to be hard to talk about the really bad things, but I mean… all of it. The- the talking in general. Even just sitting there, in her office, on that—ridiculously plush sofa. It all just feels… exhausting. You know?”

Jon hums. “I do.” He pauses, pressing his lips together into a line. The moonlight casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the dark bags under his eyes that Martin is beginning to worry will become a permanent fixture. “I… I thought about it, you know—back in the Archives. F-finding a therapist. It wasn’t… it wasn’t that I didn’t care, or that I didn’t want help.”

“It was just hard,” Martin murmurs.

“… Yeah. And… I don’t know. Maybe I should have tried harder? But…” Jon picks at a loose thread on the blanket. “Well. I suppose it felt like there was nothing to be done. I couldn’t leave the Archives; I couldn’t stop being the- the Archivist. And I- I’m managing well enough right now, but back then… what would I have even said? ‘I’m distressed by these nightmares because I think there are actual people suffering due to my presence in them’? ‘I keep having flashbacks to the time I was kidnapped and held for a month by things that wanted to use my skin for a world-ending ritual and nobody came for me except another monster that also intended to kill me’? ‘I ate someone’s trauma and I feel guilty about it but I also want to do it again and I don’t want to want it’?”

Jon makes a frustrated noise. “It- it wouldn’t have worked. Probably.” Quieter: “Maybe I- I should have tried anyway, though.”

Martin really doesn’t think it would have made much of a difference. Not with Jonah hovering over Jon’s shoulder. Not with his path toward the apocalypse already set, paved with orchestrated traumas and intentional isolation. But still, he sighs and says, “Maybe. But regardless, you didn’t. We didn’t. A-and we’re trying now, which… that has to count for something, right?”

“I… I hope so.”

“It’s going to be better,” Martin says. He believes the words more than he did a few months ago, but they still feel like a heavy lie on his tongue. “I- I know that the Fears are still here and that we’re not… totally separated from all of it, but it’s… it’s better than it was. Right?”

Jon sighs. “Right.” He hesitates. “And… we’re still… okay? F-for now, that is.”

Of course, Martin almost says automatically, but he forces himself to actually stop and consider how he’s feeling. After a moment, he says, “I… am still a little bit angry about earlier. What happened at therapy. But it’s…” He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re okay. Not—great, but… yeah. Okay.”

That seems to be the answer Jon is expecting, and some of the tension that Martin hadn’t realized was there drains out of him. “Okay. That’s… good. I- I’m not angry, for the… for the record. Maybe a little… upset? Not at you, just… well, maybe a little bit at myself. Or at the situation as a whole. I just… don’t want you to feel like we’re anything other than equals.” Jon looks like he wants to say something more, but he swallows it down. “Sorry. It’s… late. Too late to discuss this in detail again.”

Martin takes a breath and reaches across the space between them, gathering Jon’s hand in his. He squeezes it once, then brings it to his chest and holds it palm-down there against the soft fabric of his sleep shirt. “Yeah. I don’t… I don’t think we should keep discussing it. Not now. And I know it was… complicated.” He bites down the instinct to keep pushing, to keep peeling away the newly formed scab on this particular conversation, and says instead, “I love you.”

Jon lets out a breath and offers Martin a faint smile. “I love you, too.” He pauses, then leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to Martin’s forehead. “Good night, Martin.”

“Night,” Martin murmurs, already feeling exhaustion weighing him down.

They don’t always have nights like this. Some are lighter, where Martin will read Jon poetry in his new quest to find something Jon likes and Jon will pick it apart with a smile on his face. Some are quiet, where they’ll lie in bed and Martin will trace patterns on Jon’s back and Jon will card his fingers through Martin’s hair. But many are still laden with heaviness, with unresolved tension from the day and lingering issues and the unspoken understanding that further arguments can wait until the light of the next day.

On those nights, Martin falls asleep just as easily as all the others (which is not all that easily at all, for reasons unrelated to any qualms he may have with Jon). Because even if they go to bed angry or upset or frustrated, when they wake up, they will be able to begin anew.

And that, at least, is something to look forward to.

.

.

.

A few days later, during the evening after Jon has returned from his weekly individual therapy appointment, he sets his book down with a sense of finality and says, “Martin, we… we need to talk.”

Martin, who had been having a relatively nice evening with a mug of hot cider next to him and his journal in his hands, finds that his heart is suddenly in his throat. It makes it a little bit hard to breathe until he clears his throat and says, “Um. O-okay?” Then, because he has actually been listening when Dr. Quine talks to him, thank you very much: “I-I’m not… really in the right headspace for a big, um. Discussion about… you know. Everything right now, though. Um. S-sorry.”

“What?” Jon’s forehead creases, then smooths quickly as his eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, n-no, it’s not… it’s not about that.”

It occurs to Martin that there is an infinite number of other ominous discussions that can result from we need to talk, but he doesn’t think to consider them before he says, “Oh. G-good. Um, then just… I’m listening.”

“Right.” Jon drums his fingers on the cover of his book a few times. “I wasn’t going to… bring it up, but Dr. Aronov seems to think that it’s important that I make it clear when things are bothering me sooner rather than later. Er, within reason. I think.” He clears his throat. “Anyway.”

Martin takes a breath and prepares for whatever new and uniquely awful problem in their relationship Jon is going to point out.

“It bothers me when you put the ceramic bowls on the top shelf of the dishwasher rather than the bottom one.”

What?

“What?” Martin says, feeling rather like he’s unknowingly reached the bottom of the stairs, stepped forward expecting another step, and met only solid ground.

“I- I know it’s silly,” Jon hastens to say, “but it’s just… the top shelf fills more quickly than the bottom one, w-what with you and I both bringing plastic containers of food to work now, a-and plastic can’t go on the bottom shelf because it will melt, so things that can go on the bottom—glass and ceramic and such—should be put there so that there’s more room, a-and I’m fine rearranging things, but it- it would just be easier if things got put in the right place from the start so I didn’t have to—Martin?”

Jon is staring at him, a confused look on his face. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s smiling, a bit too wide. A laugh escapes him, and he presses a palm to his mouth, shaking his head a few times. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles against his hand, still unable to wipe that giddy grin from his face. “I- I’m not laughing at you, I promise. I’ll, uh. I- I’ll be sure to put the bowls on the bottom shelf from now on.”

The sentence is punctuated with another laugh, and Martin takes a few deep breaths, trying to battle down the strange hysteria that’s settled in his chest. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Are you… quite all right?” Jon says, like he doesn’t know what to do with Martin’s helpless giggles. Martin doesn’t really know what to do with them himself.

“Yep. Yep, I’m… I’m great.” Martin takes another deep breath, drops his hand, and says, “I just… bowls?” Then, quickly: “Like I said, I- I’m not laughing at you,o-or making fun of you—it’s a, um, valid concern, and I- I’m glad you told me—but it’s just…”

He shrugs, a bit helplessly. “It’s so normal.”

Jon blinks a few times, as if coming around to the fact that it is, in fact, extremely tame compared to the many other things they’ve discussed in recent memory. “I… suppose it is.”

“Just… normal domestic stuff.” Martin laughs again, quieter. “Is this the part where I say that it bothers me when you leave the clothing in the dryer for hours before taking it out and putting it away?”

“I don’t mean to,” Jon says defensively. “I… forget.”

“You could set a timer on your phone. And I’ll put a note by the dishwasher so that I remember what’s supposed to go where.”

“Yes, that sounds reasonable.”

Martin exhales slowly. “Right. Uh, wow. That was… easy.”

“I… suppose it was.”

The night progresses after that rather unremarkably. They talk a bit, about nothing in particular, and then Jon goes back to his book and Martin to his poetry before it gets too late to avoid going to bed, even if neither of them will likely fall asleep until much later. Martin doesn’t really think about the brief, innocuous conversation so much as it… lingers in the back of his mind. He doesn’t realize just how much until the next week, when he’s sitting across from Dr. Quine and it just… slips out.

They’d been talking about boundaries, and Dr. Quine asked if he’d set any new ones lately. Martin thought about bowls, and then his mouth formed the words almost of its own accord. It wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he considered the fact that Dr. Quine probably meant something more in line with his… traumas, and less the finicky domesticity of his home life.

He feels a strange mix of fondness at the memory and embarrassment at speaking it aloud curl within him, along with another emotion he can’t quite place. Before he can wave the words away, however, Dr. Quine makes an inquisitive noise and says, “Is this sort of discussion unusual between you and Jon?”

No, Martin almost says, because they’ve had plenty of disagreements and compromises over the past few months and it’s far from unusual for Martin to not quite understand where Jon is coming from but try to accommodate him anyway. (He’s trying to get better at accommodating him, at least. Or, when he can’t, listening and trying to understand Jon’s perspective. It’s… it’s a work in progress. As so many things are right now.) But the words stall on his tongue as he looks at Dr. Quine’s face—open and honest and genuinely curious—and he gets the feeling that that’s not what they meant.

“Kind of?” he settles on. “It’s not that all of our disagreements are… y’know. World-ending. But…”

He trails off, and Dr. Quine lets the silence blanket them. It was a bit strange at first—lingering in that silence, realizing that Dr. Quine wasn’t going to fill it and would patiently wait until Martin was ready to continue. But Martin finds that he doesn’t really mind. It’s nice, sometimes, to just… listen to the hum of the radiator and the buzz of the electric lights and his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

Martin listens, and then, between one heartbeat and the next, says, “It was just so… normal. I- I was expecting something serious when he brought it up, and then it was… bowls.”

“Bowls,” Dr. Quine echoes, as if in agreement. “Does the fact that it was normal bother you?”

“It’s not that it—bothers me,” Martin says, only a little bit untruthfully. “It’s just… strange. I don’t know.”

Again, that blanketing quiet. This time, though, it feels a little bit suffocating. Like there are too many expectations held within it.

“I don’t…” he says quietly, then stops again. Fiddles with the hem of his jumper. Stares at the wall, at the picture of what he thinks are cornflowers there, bright purple and shining in painted sunlight. “I don’t think I… know what to do with it. H-how to be… normal. The whole time we’ve been together, things have been… well, you know. Strange. A-a bit awful, honestly. It was awful, but I was… I was used to it. At least I knew what to do with it, you know? But… god. Bowls. What do I do with that?”

Martin takes a long, deep breath and says, “What is our relationship going to look like when it’s just… normal?”

Martin isn’t stupid. He doesn’t have any illusions about the fact that the Fears are very much a part of this world and that Jon (and him too, at least a little bit) are still very much tied to them. He knows that they’ll never really achieve ‘normalcy,’ at least by the typical definition of the word. But in comparison to all that has come before—the Archives, the apocalypse, even the brief period of time they spent in Scotland hiding away from it all—what they have now is probably as close as they’ll come. And after everything, it feels a whole hell of a lot like mundanity.

“That’s something that you’ll have to discover for yourself,” Dr. Quine says with a small smile. “It’s completely understandable to be apprehensive about things like this, given the circumstances surrounding your relationship with Jon in the past. It’s important that you allow yourself to feel nervous and to acknowledge that this isn’t something that you’re used to. But it’s also important to remember that this is progress, and even if it’s strange at first, it is a step in the right direction.”

Martin sighs and, after a moment, nods. “Yeah. You’re… you’re right.” He lets out a soft, dry laugh. “I still don’t know what to do in the meantime, though. How to adjust, h-how to…”

He trails off, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Dr. Quine gives him a few moments to continue before saying softly, “How to what?”

Martin looks at the ground. “… How to not ruin this too.” His fingers tense atop his thighs. “You said this is progress, a-and that’s great, but… how do I know it isn’t just going to get worse again? How do I know I’m not going to say something, or- or Jon isn’t going to say something, and we’ll just be back where we started? One moment we’ll be talking about kitchenware, and the next it’ll just be… you know.”

Dr. Quine makes a soft, understanding noise. “The future’s never certain, and it would be irresponsible of me to say that those things won’t happen. But…” They tap their pen on their clipboard a few times. “You care about Jon, yes?”

Mutely, Martin nods.

“And you care about your relationship with Jon?”

Again, Martin nods.

“Right.” Dr. Quine looks at him kindly. “And you’re here. You’ve made the decision to be here, even if it’s hard, because you care about those things and because you want to make things better. For your relationship, but also for yourself. That’s a big step, and it’s something you should be proud of.”

Sitting in a plush armchair, fighting against the tightness in the back of his throat and the prickling at the corners of his eyes, Martin doesn’t feel very proud. Still, he forces himself to nod. “So, what—if I try, that’s… that’s all that matters?”

“You say that like it’s not something that takes a lot of effort, commitment, and patience.”

Martin exhales slowly. “Right.”

“And again, you’ve already put in a lot of that effort to get yourself here. Small steps are important.” Dr. Quine turns slightly in their chair, rifles through one of the cabinets behind them, and returns with a blank sheet of paper that they hand Martin. “It might be worthwhile for you to create a list of goals for yourself.”

“Goals?” Martin echoes.

Dr. Quine nods. “It could be anything. It could be changes you want to see in yourself or changes you want to see in your relationship. The main thing is to keep them small and achievable so that you can easily see progress when it happens.”

Martin nods. “Right, that… that makes sense.” He stares down at the sheet of paper for a long moment before saying quietly, “I’m… I’m not really sure where to start.” He laughs humorlessly. “I assume ‘get better’ isn’t what you’re looking for?”

Dr. Quine offers a chuckle in return. “Not quite, no.” After a few moments of silence, they continue, “You might start with goals that will help you adjust to normalcy within your relationship or ones that will help introduce more normalcy into your lives. Things you wanted to do in the past but couldn’t, or milestones that passed you by due to circumstances.”

Martin worries the edge of the paper with his thumb. There’s a mug of pens and pencils in the center of the table, and when it becomes apparent that Dr. Quine is waiting for him to start writing something, he picks one. It’s bright green, and Martin’s pretty sure it has glitter in the ink.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about all of this. He has, at great length—while sitting side-by-side in the safehouse, while walking from hellscape to hellscape in a ruined world, while lying on the couch in their borrowed house and staring at the ceiling with blurry eyes. He’d thought about the things he’d lost—that he hadn’t gotten the chance to do and now probably never would. It wasn’t even the bigger things—though Martin thought about those too, about houses and rings and getting wrinkles at the corners of their eyes together. It was mostly the little things, like finding shapes in the clouds and burning cookies and poorly painting each other’s nails. Sometimes, Martin wanted them so badly he ached with it, and it was all he could do to hold Jon’s hand and stare forward at the latest horror and not cry.

So yeah, he’d thought about it. But it had always been something just out of reach—an idle fantasy. It hurt, and Martin hated it, but… well, it had been true, hadn’t it? There was no rewind button, no way to turn back time or erase the things that had been done. And even if he could, he never could quite shake the conviction that he wouldn’t even be with Jon in the first place if they hadn’t gone through it all and ended up here.

But… this is part of healing, right? Putting all those idle fantasies and deep wants and desperate longings into words and convincing himself that they’re possible.

Dr. Quine is looking at him, clearly waiting for him to begin. So Martin takes a breath, lets it out, and tries to summon up the words he needs.

It’s… surprisingly easy. Once he writes down the first one—go on holiday together—the rest come quickly until his page is full of sparkling green hopes and dreams. He stares down at it a bit blankly, unsure what comes next.

“How did that feel?” Dr. Quine says after a moment.

Martin resists the urge to crumple the paper into a ball. “I… I don’t know.” He swallows. “Strange? But also…” He hesitates, tracing the words with his eyes without really reading them. “I… I think it was nice.”

It scares me, he doesn’t say. I feel like I’m going to lose it all again, and I won’t get to do any of this, he doesn’t say. I feel like I don’t deserve to have any of this, he doesn’t say.

Dr. Quine can probably see all of it written on his face—they’ve always been good at that. But they don’t mention it. Instead, they nod. “I’m glad.” Their eyes flick over to the clock on the wall—bright yellow, with pictures of sunflowers on the face. “We’re almost out of time, but I want to ask you before we part ways to pick something from that list—just one, though if you feel comfortable doing more, you can—and do it. If you can’t, that’s fine, but I encourage you to try. Do you think that’s something you can do?”

Martin nods slowly. He skims the items on the list, and he’s about halfway through when one of them catches his eye. Ridiculous, he thinks and moves on to things that are less ambitious. But the thought has already stuck in his mind and refuses to let him go.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Dr. Quine asks.

Martin reads the words once more before looking up at them. “Yeah, actually,” he says with tentative confidence. “I… I think I do.”

.

.

.

Martin gets back to the flat before Jon does. He has the text on his phone telling him that Jon is staying late at the office to finish the article he’s writing that’s going into print in a few days, and there’s a sticky note on the fridge proclaiming the same thing. He still feels a little thrill of anxiety when he comes home to a dark, shadowed flat and begins to make dinner in silence.

Somewhere in between beginning the broth and retrieving the pre-cut peppers from the fridge, Martin turns on the old radio they have sitting on the counter and adjusts it to a frequency that plays a genre of music he’s never heard before but that he finds he rather likes. Things become a little bit more bearable after that.

Everything is bubbling in a pot on the stove by the time the doorknob rattles. Martin quickly stuffs the list from earlier back in his pocket, like he hasn’t been staring at it for the past ten minutes and resisting the urge to cross out ninety percent of the items there as ‘absurd’ or ‘unreasonable.’ It’s just in time for the door to swing open and Jon to come through, balancing his satchel on his lap as he wheels himself with one hand and props the door open with the other.

“Hey,” Martin says, trying not to let his nerves bleed into his voice.

Jon hums, pushing the door shut behind him and depositing his satchel rather unceremoniously on the floor by the door. (“We’ve got hooks by the door for a reason,” Martin will say later, and Jon will grumble something unintelligible before retrieving his bag and pointedly hanging it on the closest hook to the door.) “Hello,” he says absently, in that way he sometimes does after he’s had a long day at work and his mind hasn’t quite let go of the most recent story he’s been investigating.

“How was work?” Martin says, because Jon will likely talk about it anyway at length if Martin is willing to indulge him (which he almost always is).

Jon sighs and rubs at his temples for a moment before making his way to the kitchen. “Long. It took me longer to transcribe the interviews than I thought it would, and the Eye was feeling particularly… unhelpful today.” He makes a frustrated noise. “Decided to enlighten me on the life cycle of one of the beetles native to this area rather than on the circumstances of Mr. Brenner’s death involving those particular beetles.”

“You say that like you don’t enjoy investigating these things yourself.”

Jon makes a discontented noise. “Yes, well. I’ve been trying to get home at a reasonable time, and this isn’t helping.” He looks past Martin at the stove. “You made dinner?”

“Mm. Hot and sour soup.”

Some of the stress slips away from Jon’s face, replaced by a smile. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Martin.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Jon, now in front of him, reaches up and taps a single finger on Martin’s chin. Martin smiles, leans down, and presses a chaste kiss to Jon’s lips. Of the several gestures they’ve established to accommodate Jon when he uses the wheelchair, this is the one he uses the most often, and Martin can’t say that he minds much at all.

A soft, fuzzy feeling fills Martin that lasts nearly until they’re finished eating. Martin can see the bottom of his bowl by the time the nerves begin to set in again, and he can’t quite resist the urge to slip his hand into his pocket, feeling the dull edges of the paper against the pads of his fingers.

He doesn’t mean to get stuck inside his own head. But an indeterminate amount of time later, he hears the clink of metal on ceramic and Jon says, “Martin? Is… everything all right?”

Martin blinks and quickly removes his hand from his pocket. “Yeah. E-everything’s fine.”

Jon’s lips press together and his forehead creases. “Are you… sure?” he asks tentatively.

“I’m sure.” Martin takes a breath in and lets it out, trying to settle his nerves. “I’ve just been… thinking about something. S-something I want to… ask you.”

“… Okay?” Jon looks nervous now, which… yeah, Martin hasn’t made the most promising start. “Did… did everything go all right in therapy? I-is something…”

He trails off, but Martin is already shaking his head. “No, no, it’s—everything went… fine.” At Jon’s skeptical look: “Really, it did. This isn’t about—well, it is a… little bit about that, but- but not in the way you’re thinking. Probably.”

“Okay,” Jon says again. There are still some lines of tension on his face, but his expression transitions into something curious and encouraging. The sight—a reminder that Jon trusts him to tell him when things are bad and when they’re not, that Jon isn’t just humoring him and does genuinely want to hear what he has to say—makes something warm and tight cluster in Martin’s chest.

“Right,” Martin says, the word only a little bit choked. Then, again: “Right.”

He’d asked Dr. Quine, in the minute or so they had before their session was over, if he should start with something smaller. If it was… too much for his first foray into his idyllic bucket list of mundane fantasies. They told him that he should do what feels right for him—what he feels ready for, regardless of any perceived magnitude or ‘too much’-ness. Which was an exceedingly unhelpful answer for his decision-making process, but probably an entirely helpful answer for his own self-confidence and personal growth.

Ugh.

So here he is—doing what feels right for him. He just hopes that what feels right and what is right happen to line up in this particular instance. Because he really, really doesn’t want to mess this up.

Jon is still looking at Martin expectantly. So Martin makes himself look back instead of glancing away, takes a breath, and says, “Do you want to get a cat?”

Jon blinks a few times, clearly taking a moment to adjust to a much different conversation than he’d been preparing himself for. “Like… right now?”

“I- I mean, not right this instant—I think all of the shelters are closed, and there’s probably some research we should do beforehand—but… well, I- I was thinking soon-ish, but if you want to wait, o-or if you don’t want to get one at all, we… we can do that instead.”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “And you’re… you’re sure?”

Martin thinks, in any other circumstance, he would find a sort of humor in the gravity Jon’s words carry—like this decision carries the weight of the world, and a misstep would end in disaster. But… well. Doesn’t it? It’s certainly not to the scale of decisions they’ve made in the past—actual, ‘world on our shoulders,’ ‘for the greater good’ decisions—but it still feels heavy in its own right.

Maybe it’s because it’s the kind of decision a couple makes when they’re committed to staying together, in the same house, co-owning an animal and promising it that it will have a safe and loving home to live in. Because if things fall apart again and they can’t put them back together and they leave one another, they will have to decide who gets the cat, and the longer they both live with it, the more complicated and messy that decision becomes. Because they own mugs and furniture and books and pictures together, but this is a living, breathing creature that will (hopefully) learn to love them, and they will love it in return, and…

And in a way, they’ll be starting a family. Which is a bit of a terrifying thought, if Martin’s being honest. But the question is already out there in the open, and Martin finds that he doesn’t particularly want to take it back.

Because he wants this. He wants it so badly he aches with it. And all he can hope is that Jon wants it too.

“Yeah,” Martin says with a surprising amount of confidence. “I’m sure.”

“Oh,” Jon says again, and the word would probably make Martin more nervous if it weren’t filled with such wonderment. For a moment, he just looks at Martin, as if searching for any lingering bit of hesitance on Martin’s face. Then, softly: “If you’re sure, then… yes.”

“Yes?” Martin repeats, a little bit breathlessly.

Jon nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips that he’s clearly trying and failing to keep contained. “And to be clear, I- I would also be partial to soon-ish.” His eyes light up, and he makes a hold on gesture before pushing away from the table and retrieving his laptop from his satchel. He pushes his bowl to the side, opens the computer, and angles it so Martin can see his screen. Martin is subjected to the truly horrific amount of tabs and windows Jon has open before Jon minimizes them and opens a new browser window. “I did a story a few weeks ago where I interviewed someone at one of the animal shelters near here—nothing Fears-related, I promise—and it seems like it might be a good place to start.” He pulls up the website for the shelter and begins scrolling through a page filled with pictures of cats of all shapes, sizes, and colors. “And we’ll have to think about what supplies we’ll need, of course, though I- I suppose that can come after we’ve thought more about what cat we’d like to get, since—well, some of them have specific dietary preferences. We’ll have to find a vet too, of course, and it might also be prudent to…”

Jon keeps rambling on, pressing his finger to the screen and leaving smudges on it when he sees a cat that particularly excites him and opening the page for it in a new tab so they can look later. And Martin will have to take a more active role in a bit—talk Jon down from twenty toys to just ten, probably, and convince him that they don’t need fancy glass bowls and that plastic will do just fine—but for now, he just watches Jon talk with something light and fluttering blooming in his chest. It spreads to his stomach and crawls up his throat and makes him feel a little bit like he’s floating, or like the gravity around him has suddenly lessened and his body carries much less weight than he’s used to.

It feels an awful lot like hope. It’s an emotion that tends to scare Martin, for fear that it will be snatched away and he will be punished for daring to feel it in the first place. But he takes a breath, then another, and allows himself to feel it.

Because even though things aren’t fixed yet, and even though there are some things that probably never will be, and even though they will continue to heal and break in a constant cycle of pushing and pulling, he’s still here. He’s still trying, and he’s still choosing this path—together, with Jon, loving him for all he’s worth—and he’s doing all he can to live the kind of life that he’s never allowed himself to truly believe he could have. But they’re going to get a cat, and then maybe they’ll go on holiday, and then maybe they’ll celebrate anniversaries together and birthdays with friends, and then maybe Martin will buy a ring, and maybe… maybe things will be all right.

Jon’s hand covers Martin’s, and Jon squeezes once, giving Martin a soft smile. And when smiling back doesn’t feel quite enough, Martin gives in to the urge to turn and wrap Jon in a tight hug. Jon makes a surprised noise but, after a moment, buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin presses his nose against the top of Jon’s head and closes his eyes and thinks, I love him, I love him, I love him.

Even when things are hard. Even when they fight, over something small or something much less so, and frustration and hurt cluster once again in Martin’s chest. Even when Martin has a particularly bad dream or a particularly bad day and has to fight off the memory of blood on his fingers or fog on a beach or hospital wings or canned peaches.

Even then, Martin loves him. It’s a choice that he has made, and it is a choice that he will continue to make, because… it’s worth it. Jon is worth it. And of all the things that Martin is uncertain about, this isn’t one of them. Not anymore.

He will love Jon for as long as Jon will let him. And if it will be this, always—loving Jon…

Well. Martin doesn’t think that would be quite so bad.