#poor jon he just wanted his little black coffee

[batmanie]

One bloody Sunday

The door to Doctor Quinzel’s apartment was unlocked which worried Jonathan a little. In this shady neighborhood, a girl might need more than just a baseball bat and two hungry hyenas to defend herself, he thought as he entered without invitation. He was not big on knocking – one of his many quirks, along with fear-gassing people – it was always more fun to spook someone by suddenly appearing behind their back than to announce his presence like a decent person.

He didn’t mean any harm, not to a sweet, innocent child like Harleen. He just wanted to see a surprised look on her face.

He certainly did not expect to see a horror movie scene!

Everything in Harleen’s single bedroom apartment seemed to be smeared with blood. Scarecrow had seen his fair share of crime scene footage during his studies in hematophobia, but even he was a bit grossed out by the disturbing sight.

There were red stains on the carpet, long smudges on the countertop, and a small pool of blood in the kitchen sink. Even Harley’s favorite yellow couch looked like a prop straight from a slasher movie.

Harleen herself was nowhere to be seen but the bloody handprints on the wall seemed to be leading to the half-open bedroom door.

“What in the seven hells happened in here?”

As soon as he voiced his concern, a shadowy female figure emerged from the darkness of Harleen’s bedroom, and leaned against the doorway, staring at him judgmentally.

“Would you look at that? The infamous Scarecrow has decided to pay a visit…,” a familiar voice greeted him with undeserved mockery and poorly hidden hostility. “Is it Halloween already?”

“Doctor Isley…” Jonathan’s facial expression turned sour, he was not on good terms with Poison Ivy after causing a panicked human stampede that had destroyed the flower beds in Robinson Park last month. “What a pleasant surprise....”

“I wish I could say the same,” the plant-lady crossed her arms, her green, angry eyes focused on his mask-less face, examining his intentions. “What do you want with Harley, Straw-man?”

“Where is Doctor Quinzel?” Jon ignored Ivy’s previous question.

He was not an easy to read type, but the woman must have noticed he was gazing at the bloody couch with suspicion.

“Oh, please!” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I’m not falling for your ‘concerned work colleague’ act, Crane! You think I don’t know what you really are?” She took a few steps toward Scarecrow, confidence and inner strength in her every move. “You may act like you’re a big, scary monster but it won’t work on me, ‘cause I know, deep down, you’re just a scared little weirdo who...”

“Red? Who are you talking to?”

It was Harleen’s voice coming from inside the bedroom. It cut Ivy off halfway through, making her take a step back from Crane and forget that she was in the middle of threatening him.

“It’s just me, child,” Jonathan called out, taking the opportunity. “Are you alright in there?”

“Professor?” Harley sounded surprised, but not as if she was in pain, nor stressed, or otherwise injured. She sounded normal, and Jonathan was confused. “Yeah, I’m fine now. Why?”

“Your room…”

“Oh, thaat... Please ignore the mess. I had a little ...accident… fell asleep on the couch, forgot to put on my pads… ”

“Your ...pads?” Crane repeated, slowly beginning to understand, and oh boy, did he really regret having been given that last bit of information! It suddenly made the whole situation extremely uncomfortable, and quite frankly, on the verge of being disgusting. He could handle a gruesome murder but... “All that blood is…?”

“Yeah, menstrual blood,” Ivy finished for him and shrugged, completely unfazed. “Women bleed regularly, you genius. Now, if you excuse me…”

She walked past him and into the living room, searching for her purse. “I will get her something for her cramps. Poor thing is a little grumpy today.”

She fished a small plastic bag out of her black, leather purse and placed it on the coffee table, next to the empty glass. As she opened the bag, a familiar, strong and quite unpleasant smell filled the small room. Jonathan recognized it immediately, and he knew exactly what kind of ‘medicine’ it was.

“Your herbs are ready, Sweetheart! You will feel better in just a moment,” Pamela announced with a knowing grin, as she walked back into the bedroom – a joint in her hand.

Before she disappeared to the other side of the door, she turned to Crane one last time. “If you want to be useful, you could go get her some more pads, you know. And something to get those blood stains off the couch.”

Scarecrow sighed inwardly and said nothing as he left to find the nearest pharmacy he could rob.

“And don’t forget to bring me some chocolate cookies!” Harleen called after him.

[winterrose527]

not to be a little demon of a person but I just thought they deserved a little commentary sdfghjkl

Jon was quiet, sure, and not particularly forthcoming, but he was also caring in a way she’d never expected. For someone who didn’t ask her many questions, he seemed to just know things about her. Not in a creepy way, or anything, but like he was paying attention to even her most rambling thoughts.

One Wednesday morning, she went into the kitchen to say goodbye to him only to find that he’d set out a carton of oat milk next to the coffee machine. That Sunday morning she’d demurred coffee, because she didn’t like it black and dairy gave her a stomach ache. When she asked him about it he’d merely shrugged and said saw it at the store, no reason for you to pay $8 for a latte just because you slept here.

And he was protective in a way she’d never experienced with someone who wasn’t family or a friend. It wasn’t in a possessive way or even in a condescending way. It was as casual as him wrapping an arm around as though to say I’ve got you as they were walking by one of the seedier elements of King’s Landing and she knew that he did.

So maybe he didn’t talk about his feelings, but she wasn’t convinced that he didn’t have them. The way he looked at her sometimes or the way his laugh seemed to come easily now within mere moments in her company, or the way he seemed to know the names of the people in her life and their stories well enough to give her a wait, how did that happen when she mentioned some new development.

Oh my poor neglected Jonsa babies.

Okay so this passage, I actually love, because it goes so well with one of my head canons of Jon that his love language is Acts of Service. Particularly in this story he was not forthcoming (to his detriment), so it's really these things - getting her oat milk, protecting her as they walk around, taking note of the people in her life - that show how much attention he's paying her, and how much affection he has for her.

This is also a really important insight into the way that him and Sansa in this story are not necessarily inherently compatible, even though they are very very right. While Sansa notices these things, she is craving him to show his affection in another way - by words of affirmation, in this case. The fact that she is seeing these things, cataloguing them and appreciating him, yet still doubts him a little ways down the line ultimately shows how much she has to grow.

She really should know better because she's dated a lot of guys who say the right things and do the wrong ones, yet doesn't recognize the merit of a guy who is doing the opposite.

That isn't to let Jon off the hook at all, he really fucks up and a lot of that has to do with his own insecurities etc., but I really can't quite justify the way Sansa behaves knowing that this is all laid out like this. I wanted them to both really be in the wrong, and so this bit was really laying the groundwork for that.

Additionally, it's meant to show the audience even more than Sansa just how much he's falling for her, because we understand him in a way that she doesn't yet, which is always a fun bit of tension!

Also I chose $8 for a latte because earlier that day I had spent $8 on a latte.

[bizarreandjarring]

POV you ran into the employee that you’re repressing your feelings for at starbucks

POV u just ran into ur boss at sbucks

[mossy-rainfrog]

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Martin and Jon in season 1 of the Magnus Archives. Martin is seen out in the archives hallway, through the doorway to Jon’s office. Martin a fat Black man with short coily hair, round glasses, and snake bite lip piercings. He wears a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and carries a brown satchel with him. Martin is looking over his shoulder with interest as he walks into work, and in a smaller panel to the side, we see Jon watching him with wide eyes. Jon is a thin Persian person with long greying hair tied back in a low bun, and rectangular glasses. He wears a red button down underneath a brown jacket, and is seated at the desk in his office. He stares out at Martin, looking flustered. There are small lines by Martin’s mouth indicating the piercings, and there are exclamation marks by Jon’s head indicating his reaction. End ID.]

I found an old fic in my notes about Martin dressing alt/punk outside of work and accidentally leaving on a small indicator of his usual fashion when he comes into the archives and I just. had to bring it back. Also, because I am still fond of it, please enjoy the aforementioned fic🥰:

Jon is having a difficult morning, to say the least. He had believed that coming into work an entire hour early would provide him with ample time to get a head start on today’s organizing, but that has decidedly not been case. He’s already had to take the statements of two utterly ridiculous liars who could barely keep the grins off of their faces as they recounted their ludicrous tale, and then listen to Elias subsequently dress down his so-called ‘attitude towards patrons’ for nearly half an hour, and suffice it to say, he would really like to get started on something that is actually worth his time.

He dislikes settling down with the more... difficult statements before all of his colleagues arrive, an attempt to keep them from interrupting his recordings to greet him, so once he’s finished his other menial tasks, he finds himself simply sitting and waiting for the ensemble of his assistants to arrive.

Tim and Sasha are the first - entering together as usual after having stopped for coffee on the way in - but Martin is slow to follow, taking nearly another fifteen minutes to arrive. It’s nearly ten past seven at that point, and once Jon hears Martin’s steps coming towards his office, he has half a mind to give the man yet another lecture on punctuality and work ethic. He gets as far enough as bracing his hands on the table to stand up, and then Martin appears in the doorway to his office, and he realizes something strikingly different about his appearance.

That is to say, Jon’s whole world narrows down very suddenly to the little black studs decorating the space underneath his bottom lip.

He’s staring, he knows he is, but Martin is busy looking down the hall for the moment, so Jon doesn’t force himself to tear his eyes away just yet. How long has he had his lip pierced, Jon wonders? Has it been there the whole time he’s known him? Has he only recently gotten it done? How? Why?

It’s hard to imagine Martin - soft, unassuming Martin who is far too large for the amount of space he crams himself into, always slouching, always pulling himself inwards as if he can make himself disappear - dressing in any way other than soft sweaters and slacks, but if Jon’s honest, he’s never actually seen the man outside of work. He has no idea how Martin chooses to dress himself when out from under the Institute’s rigid dress code, and this tiny window he’s been provided with is making him maddeningly curious.

He’s not... he doesn’t have feelings for Martin, aside from a general annoyance, occasionally marked with curiosity. He’s a professional, for God’s sake, not to mention that Martin’s very existence as a given is like a grain of sand in his eye, rubbing and irritating. Now he cuts clean through without even noticing. Jon itches to know more.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice tears him from his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, shit. Jon can feel his gaze heat up as if he’s done something horribly wrong - how embarrassing that he can’t even keep a blush off of his face - but he still forces himself to open his mouth and stutter out an excuse. He means to remark on one of Martin’s missing reports, or the fact that he’s coming in nine minutes late, but what ends up leaving his mouth is; “Your lip is pierced.”

Just a sentence, not a question. He thinks he’s positively beet red. Martin freezes, the tips of his ears darkening visibly against his brown skin as his hand shoots to his mouth and his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I must have forgotten to take them out,” the poor man looks like he’s about to panic as he whips his gaze around as if to see if anyone else has noticed. “Don’t tell Elias, please, I’ve seen how he gets after Tim for the dress code, and there is no way, I mean no way—”

“Oh, n-no, it’s- I- it’s fine, really,” Jon raises his hands in defense as Martin rambles, for some reason inclined to reassure the man. “I won’t- I’m not- I’m not going to tell him.”

Martin hesitates, wringing his hands, apologies visible on every pore of his face. “I- Thank you. I’ll- I’ll go take it off. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Only if you want,” Jon shrugs, which is definitely not the correct thing for him to say as a boss, and it definitely comes out a little gentler than he intends it to, and Jon is three seconds from screaming if he can’t figure out how to make himself react normally to this. It’s a non-traditional piercing in an academic institute of research; it’s against the rules, however dated they may be, and further than that, there is no reason for it to completely undo his composure the way that it has. He tries to get a hold of himself. “I-I mean, that’s likely for the best.”

Martin is giving him a funny look - probably a response to seeing the whole spectrum of human emotions flash across Jon’s face in a millisecond - but he still nods and says: “Sorry again. Thank you,” and then disappears down the corridor.

Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and sighs.

What is wrong with him? For God’s sake, he’s just seen Martin with a lip piercing, it’s not like he’s witnessed the man undressed. Besides, he works in an archive where he has to read statements about the intricacies of monsters that rip off people’s skin and suchlike every day, he should know how to keep his composure better than this. He should just move on with his day and focus without a problem, just like he does every morning.

Except, his mind keeps wandering back to it; the way the little studs had followed the shape of his mouth, the way they had quirked up when he flashed one of his nervous smiles, the way Jon is still desperately curious about what brought him to get them done, and also what it might feel like to brush a thumb, or perhaps even his lips over them.

Jon sits up so fast his head actually smacks against an open filing cabinet behind him. His mind is too busy reeling to notice the ache that fills his head, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes and utterly scorching cheeks. Absolutely not. He absolutely did not just think about kissing Martin Blackwood. that was- that would be...

He blinks hard, clears his throat. It doesn’t matter what that was. He’s decidedly not interested in Martin Blackwood romantically, or in any other capacity given his truly ridiculous academic competence and his obnoxious habit of interrupting seemingly every stable thing Jon has in his life. He crushes the feeling down hard, locks it up in a box, stuffs it down under his lowest two ribs, and resolves himself never to open it again.

He is not going to keep thinking about this all day. He has work to do, and if something as simple as a pair of metal studs can distract him this badly, then he needs to make absolutely certain it doesn’t happen again.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed when he sees Martin without the piercings later that day.

[i-lovethatforme]

SPOILERS

Heyyy! Since we're all still looking for a tiny space to crawl into and bawl our eyes out after NWH, here's something positive that'll prolly help ease this excruciating, agonizing, torturous pain...I'm not being dramatic btw, it really hurts! My poor little baby i- GIVE HIM A FUCKING BREAK! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY TIMES I JUST WANTED TO RUN THROUGH THE SCREEN AND GIVE HIM A HUG AND TELL HIM EVERYTHING'S GONNA BE OKAY?! JON WATTS, HOW DARE THEE?! 😩😩😩😩😩

Anyway,

Personally am a 100000000% certain that Z/MJ and Jacob/Ned will be back for a college trilogy. I have no doubt whatsoever and here’s why,

1. Tom said that Z (and Jacob) will have to be given new contracts as well if he were to sign into one

2.They have all said that they are open for discussions for new contracts

3.They didn’t introduce Michelle as Michelle Jones-Watson/ MJ Watson for no reason. This is the last movie of the trilogy and they could’ve very easily kept her as just Michelle ‘MJ’ Jones but they didn’t. Instead they emphasized quite a bit in the movie that she was MJ Watson and they wouldn’t have done that unless they saw a clear future for this character, cause in the comics MJ Watson is Peter Parker ultimate love interest/true love and the girl he always ends up with one way or another.

4. They made Peter make a promise to her and Ned that he will come find them and explain everything

5.MJ stopped him from telling her he loved her and made him promise to say it when he sees her again. This is also a very important moment, cause again, they could’ve had him say “I love you” back and gotten it over with. This promise will most definitely come to play in the future movies to complete his character arc.

6.Ned was perfectly set up to be a future villain (The Hobgoblin). MJ figured out Peter was Spider-Man by herself without even knowing him as much as Ned did. Ned, as you know found out accidentally. MJ says that if Peter doesn’t tell her, she will figure it out like she did last time (yet another important line that will probably come to play in a college trilogy). And Ned will somehow turn into a villain (an experiment at MIT gone wrong?) and try to hurt Spider-Man not knowing he was once his best friend.

7.MJ is still wearing the Black Dahlia necklace around her neck, which is basically a physical piece of their relationship (over her heart). It's also symbolic that it lasted through everything they went through and is still holding on. Every physical record of Peter's existence was completely erased, but the necklace remained (excuse me while i go weep 🕳 🤸🏻‍♀️ )

8.There’s shot of MJ’s face as Peter is walking out of the coffee shop and it very clearly looks like she realizes something. Maybe a flashback, a deja vu moment or some familiarity with Peter. They obviously wanted the audience to see that and that’s why they focused completely on her face at that moment, like they did in HOCO

YOU'RE RIGHT!!! Tysm for this little bright spot in nwh depression 🥰🥰🥰🥰 everything is going to be FINE I JUST DONT KNOW WHEN?!?!? 💕💕💕💕💕

[catxsnow]

THE BEST DAMN PARENTS D.G.

Summary: Dick loved how you took care of Damian, maybe he would love it with his own kid too

Warning: fluff, Damian being adorable, nightmare. 

A/N: “I’m too young for a child” ~ me to myself everytime I’m ever writing about having a baby

GIF not mine

Word count: 1.7k

Everyone knew that Dick was Damian's favorite brother.

He was the only one that Damian could tolerate for long periods of time and the only other person besides his father that he would trust with his life. Dick was the person that he could confide in when he felt like he could turn to no other.

So, when he got a girlfriend, Damian had gotten jealous. He was jealous that their time was being taken away for you and that Dick was cancelling plans because he wanted to spend time with you. Damian didn't like you before he even met you, you were an inconvenience to his life without even being a part of it.

You and Dick started dating shortly after you met. It was an instant click between the two of you and you felt like you could be yourself around him. He treated you well, gave you affection, and he genuinely cared for you. He made you realize how shitty all of your exes were to you. Things were going great.

Damian met you after nearly eight months of dating Dick. You met the rest of his family at one point or another but he was the last one. He was spiteful towards you, unwilling to meet because of simply existing in his mentor's life. However, as soon as he saw you in person? Damian wished that he met you earlier.

You were so kind to him. Full of real smiles, heart-filled laughs, you made him feel happy without even meaning to. Damian could see why Dick was so smitten with you, you were truly a good human-being. You weren't fake like many of the other people that he had met, you showed a real concern for people.

Damian found himself wanting to spend time with the both of you, tagging along whenever he got the chance. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he truly liked you. Dick had brought it up to you many times, specifically saying that Damian liked very few people, for you to be on that list was an honor.

You had taken Damian out to do normal things that kids his age would do, and sometimes he would invite his friend - Jon. Go get ice cream at the park, go to the mall, you even took him to the arcade. Damian felt like a regular kid when he was with you, he enjoyed the feeling as much as he wouldn't tell you.

Dick was working late that night. Damian had come over, unaware that it was just you at home. He didn't mind that it was just the two of you, he enjoyed those times. You had made him dinner, which had been nothing compared to the meals that Alfred cooks for him everyday.

The two of you settled on a movie. You were sitting up on the couch with your feet propped up on the coffee table. Damian had been the same way until half way through the movie. The popcorn was long finished and you were getting tired. Damian must have been exhausted, before the movie could even finish he had dozed off.

You were shocked when Damian fell asleep against you. At first it was just against your shoulder until he had fully fallen asleep and rested his head against your lap. He truly looked like his age when he was sleeping. Eyes sealed shut and stress free. His mop of thick black hair was sticking up everywhere and he was tightly curled up with a blanket over his shoulders.

Dick came home after the movie ended, the door creaked opened and closed with a thud. You shushed him when he came into the room and directed his attention to a sleeping Damian. Dick stood there in shock - this was completely not like Damian.

Quietly, Dick walked over to you so he could give you a kiss. Work was long and he wanted nothing more than to just have you in his arms - unfortunately, Damian ruined that for him. However, seeing you taking care of Damian like he was your own child? That was something that was worth not being able to be with you.

It had been three years since the two of you were dating. Three years of your fights, arguments, loving affection, and living together. In those three years, Dick didn't realize how badly he wanted to have a future family with you until now. He wanted to have kids with you, to marry you one day.

"Hey," you whispered. "There's left overs in the fridge, how was work?"

"Long," Dick sighed. He sat town in the chair beside the couch. His arms tucked behind his head and he stretched out enough to lift up the bottom of his shirt. No matter how many times you've seen him shirtless, you were always wanting to see him. "Tuckered Damian out, I see"

"Poor kid passed out during the movie," you chuckled. Your hands carefully brushed through his hair. Damian shuffled in his sleep but didn't seem to wake. "I'm starting to think that he likes me more than he likes you."

"Starting?" Dick scoffed. "I think he's liked you more since the day he met you. He's always trying to see you. I think you remind him of the mother that he wished he had."

"He deserved better than Talia," you sighed. Dick told you about Damian's past shortly after he told you that he was Nightwing. As far as you were aware, Damian came to you for comfort, and you didn't mind him doing so. The motherly instinct in you had always shone through at a young age, even more so when you got older.

"Have you ever thought about kids?" Dick suddenly asked.

"Everyday," you simply answered. Getting into your late twenties made you want to settle down even more and have the opportunity for kids. You knew that kids wasn't in Dick's lifestyle at the moment, but that didn't change your desire to have them. "I've always wanted kids, I guess just taking care of Damian sometimes fills that void a little. Have you?"

"One day, I would like to," Dick nodded. "With you."

"You want me to have your babies?" You raised an eyebrow. It had been years since the two of you got together but not once did you talk about the future. You never wanted to pressure Dick into something that would jeopardize his life as a hero - you knew that meant the most to him.

"Of course," Dick smiled. He reached over to grab your free hand and intertwined your fingers. "One day I'm going to put a ring on your finger and a baby in you. That sounds like a perfect future to me."

"Sounds perfect to me too," you tugged his hand so that he would give you another kiss. Dick obliged. As much as you would have loved to keep the kiss going, you suddenly felt Damian begin to twitch and shake against your leg. You knew this action from him: he was having a nightmare.

"Damian," you tried to wake him. Dick watched as you carefully shook him. You hands rubbed up and down his back to soothe him until he awoke. Damian's eyes popped open and a fearful gasp passed his lips. He sat upward with a terrified look on his face. You pulled him into your chest as he tried to hold back tears. "It's okay, Damian. You're safe, you're with me. You're okay... you're okay."

As much as Damian continuously tried to prove that he was older than he really was, he was still just a kid. The things he had seen at such a young age shouldn't have been what any adult - much less a twelve year old - should ever see. Nightmares got to him worse than the others, he was still so young.

Damian gripped onto you, grounding himself in reality and no longer within his horrid dream. You held him in your arms, worried for the younger child. Glancing over at Dick, he had both concern and admiration on his face. Taking care of Damian like that? It just proved how badly he wanted to have kids with you.

Damian looked up at you with wet eyes. You dragged your thumbs across his cheeks to wipe away the tears. He truly looked like just a young child, not a lethal assassin. "You're gonna be just fine, Dami," you promised. "Would you like to stay here tonight?" Damian nodded his head. He felt safe with you - a different kind of safe than he felt with his father.

After Damian had calmed down, you brought him to your spare guest room. Damian smiled as you kissed his forehead and wished him goodnight. He never showed this young side to anyone else but you - and you truly felt honored for that. You also promised never to tell anyone that he could be vulnerable like this, it would break his trust.

Dick was just getting out of the shower when you returned to your room. A towel was wrapped around his waist. You strolled up behind him, not caring that his skin was still wet as you embraced him from behind. You peaked around his broad shoulders to meet his eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

"You're going to be a great mother," Dick praised you. "Seeing you with Damian, like that... I can't wait to have a child with you."

"You're not ready, Dick," you grazed over his healing bruises with your hands, enticing a chill over his body. "You're not ready to give up this life. I know you're going to be a great father but right now, Nightwing is first. You've still got a lot of this fire left in you, why waste it?"

"With you, I wouldn't be wasting anything," Dick spun you around. He hoisted you up to sit on the bathroom counter "I love you, (Y/N). There's never a moment that I'm with you that feels like its been wasted."

"I love you, too, Dick," you smiled. "When we're married, ready to settle down, then I'll have your babies. A whole farm of them - I'm not setting on just one or two," you raised your eyebrows at him. If he wanted kids he needed to know what he was going to get himself into.

"Good, I wasn't planning on that either," Dick assured you. His beautiful smile lingered in his lips. "We're going to be the best damn parents that any child has ever had."

"The best damn parents."

[sh1tbird-shantytown]

Hopper and Joyce end up on an accidental road trip with Billy and end up back in Hawkins.

billy gets nightmares. obviously. all of them do.

and billy hadn’t meant to go back with them. hopper wanted to go back to check on the rest of the kids. before they returned to wherever joyce had taken the el girl and her own kids. they mentioned cali and billy felt like rope was knotted around his intestines.

he’d meant to stay in the motel but then he’d gotten that nightmare. of black blood and steam and bright purple lights. so he’d taken a pillow and found a warm spot in the big van hopper had taken off some sketchy dude.

next thing he knew, he was still in the van and they were already somewhere in indiana.

joyce noticed him shuffling around from the passenger seat, “oh!” she voiced in surprise. “we thought you’d left for the buses. didn’t you say you didn’t want to come with us.”

billy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sighed, defeated, “too late now. i guess i’ll just stick with you guys.”

hopper chuckled to himself and took a gulp from his disposable coffee cup, “it’s for the best, kid.”

billy pulled himself to one of the back seats and buckled in, “i’m not a kid,” he grumbled. “not anymore, not after all that.”

hopper regarded him with an understanding that made him squirm. joyce gripped her bagel with lost interest as she stared out the windshield, “we know, buddy.” hopper looked like he wanted to say something, whether it was for joyce or billy to hear went unknown once he shut it. joyce stole hopper’s coffee cup and he only gave her a vague look of warning before she took a sip. “where should we start next? are we visiting all of them?”

hopper shook his head, “just steve.”

billy sat up straight, “harrington?”

hopper looked at him through the review mirror and then away, “he’ll know all we need. he’s got everything going on in that town.”

billy sat back, “steve harrington,” he mused to himself.

hopper’s bushy eyebrows bunched, “didn’t you see him that night? he must have been there to see you die.”

joyce set her bagel down as billy shrugged, “i was kinda preoccupied.”

“can we stop talking about that poor boy,” she whispered.

“why?” billy leaned forward again so his elbows were on his knees. “what’s wrong with him?”

joyce sighed and rubbed her temples, “we’ll need to figure out a different plan, jim.”

hopper pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine, “spit it out, joyce.” billy was a little taken aback by how gentle hopper spoke with the harsh wording.

joyce covered her face with her hands and then leaned back to look up at the sky through the windows, “steve isn’t in hawkins anymore.”

billy unbuckled and messily launched into the other seat to see joyce better, “what?”

hopper put a hand up to hush him, “was it something to do with john?”

joyce was crying. both the men were shocked to complete silence. she nodded and took a shaky breath.

“i didn’t want to be the one to tell you, i don’t know all the details,” she explained. “ but it’s awful.” hopper reached out to her but she opened the car door and he pulled back. “they sent him to a mental hospital, jim.”

“what—“

“nancy told jon—“ she covered her mouth until she was capable of speaking again, “john and helen came home. steve was having bad nightmares, he had all those scars, he kept sneaking out, he wouldn’t eat or sleep. he would yell out. they sent him away.” she looked back and forth between them, “you know that they won’t do anything for him. they’ll only make it worse. that poor boy—” she placed her hands on her knees, “i can’t speak of it anymore.”

hopper looked back at billy in the back seat.

billy sat back and buckled in again, “we’re getting him back.”

hopper turned the key, “close the door, joyce.”

anons and all welcome to send more!

[shelby-love]

KELLY SEVERIDE

Skeletons and Whatnot.

Requested: yes

Prompts: none

Warning(s): none

Author’s note: I feel like this is rubbish, but I also feel like it’s not. 50/50 (1.6K words - might come back to edit it tomorrow)

Also you can see how tired I am (it's 4:30AM) I mean what is this title??? GOOD NIGHT.

~

"That's not possible. Check again."

"But I already did! Like a million times!"

"Adam, I swear to God-"

"Alright, alright…" Your colleague mumbled, turning on his chair to run the data yet again.

While he sat on the chair, looking through files he didn't have a clue about, you were leaning against the wall and shaking in your boots. Your heart hammered and your palms felt clammy.

Not possible. I killed him.

"No look it says right there," Adam declared; proud of himself for being able to gather information like this on his own. "Some girl named Lucy Riggs pawned a gun she got off some guy named Jon Prescott.

You squinted your eyes at the information that made no sense. "Get to the point."

Adam visibly swallowed, "Turns out the guy's name isn't Jon. Shocker. It's actually Parker Torres."

Your blood ran cold at his words. A million thoughts raced through your head. You wondered where he was, what he was doing… The questions that evaded your mind are usually normal, but here, when you thought about the dark man of your past, the questions seemed to be anything but normal.

"What about the gun?"

Adam clicked away until a picture of a metallic gun popped out. "Smith & Wesson Model 64 revolver."

Next thing you knew, a chain of vulgar profanities escaped your mouth, and you couldn't stop them. Ruzek's eyes widened ever so slightly at your lack of composure. "Mind telling me what this all about?"

You took a deep breath. "My skeleton escaped the closet."

***

The lack of information you found within the last couple of days was mind blowing. The only lead you had was the gun that wasn't even in your possession, having gotten lost in a misfit of undocumented sales.

Lucy wasn't of help either. The poor girl just wanted to get rid of her husband's gun, saying everything but useful information along the way. "If he wants a gun, then he better get a good one… A new one too! I don't want that piece of garbage in my house. God only knows who used that gun!" Lucy told you, just 48 hours ago. Those exact same words.

She was right about one thing.

That dammed gun went through so many hands and took double more lives.

And you didn't even have a lead.

"You look like crap," Kevin Atwater teased, handing you a steaming cup of coffee.

You didn't even manage to smile, looking at him through your shades that were, so far, doing a great job at concealing the bags under your eyes from the world.

"Rough night?"

"Mhmm."

Kevin didn't know that you no longer lived with Kelly. The temporary solution to your problems turned out to be moving back to your own place. Putting Kelly in harm's way, no matter how much he thought otherwise, was something you didn't want to do. The comfort of his bed and body were replaced by a thin blanked and an uncomfortable dining chair.

Dozens of glass decorations were laid out all over your apartment. On every window still, next to every door… On every surface, really. You slept on the dining chair 5 yards from your front door with a pistol strapped to your back, a shotgun under the chair and a rifle wrapped around your two arms, acting as a teddy bear for every time you dozed off.

Friends from Interpol would call here and there, with nothing more than sad news.

Hank Voight was pulling out every contact from his little notebook, but not even they could solve your years long case.

You wanted to throw up.

"Hey Kev."

"What's up?"

"You still friends with that FBI agent?"

***

"Second floor clear," The grip on your radio loosened after the second you needed to inform your team about your situation had passed and you moved on upstairs. You could hear them respond in the same matter as you held your gun with both hands and carefully climbed up the stairs.

You didn't let a sound slip your lips as you trekked the stairs up to the very last floor, save for the attic. For a drug house, everything was eerily quiet. It didn't feel like someone left in a hasty hurry.

It felt like as though there was no one there in the first place.

Your need to report that to your Sergeant faded away quickly once you saw smoke. It seized your full attention within a few seconds.

Smoke grenade was your first guess. Nasty things but nothing new.

That was, until you took several steps closer and the smell of the source journeyed through your nostrils. It clicked in your head immediately. Three years of being a squad lieutenant's girlfriend can do that to you. The scent of fire is nauseating and sweet, putrid and steaky, or something like leather being tanned over a flame. The smell  of it can be so thick and rich that it's almost a taste. Kelly's words rung in your head, and  you pulled your radio to your mouth.

"Call CFD! There's a fire on the third floor!" You informed, shielding your eyes. "Stand down! I repeat –"

Things went black after those words.

***

"We have a detective trapped on the third floor," Voight informed the first responders. "That's where the fire started."

Wallace nodded, "Squad 3, take the third floor."

Unlike Wallace, who had found his source of information in Voight, Kelly Severide had found it in Jay, who stood on the street visibly stressed. "Jay where's Y/N?"

Jay frowned, "She went to scope ahead. She was on the third floor when the whole place just blew up…"

"She could be unconscious right now," Kelly muttered. "Squad 3 let's go!"

Kelly Severide was already in the burning building when Chief Boden found out just who was trapped upstairs. "Dammit."

***

"Y/N?!"

Kelly's patience was thinning by the second. Knowing that his time is limited and that the place could blow in a stronger matter at any moment, he paced toward your unconscious body expeditiously.

Noticing the angry streak of blood that came from your nose had his heart in his throat. You were twisted in a way not normal for a human body to be in, catching him off guard the moment he laid his eyes on you.

Despite all that, Kelly still swooped in to grasp your limp body in his arms.

The stress of the last few days he went through didn't come close to a match with this very moment. "I'm coming down chief!"

For a moment Wallace wanted to bark back, but he bit his tongue. Love makes people do crazy things.

He knew that better than anyone.

"Get the hoses ready!" Boden announced and turned to the Intelligence.

"She'll be okay."

***

You were okay.

Maybe even better than you thought possible.

"Kelly wake up."

You smiled cheekily at doctor Mannig, who stood by your hospital bed, waiting for Kelly to wake up with the same thin line of patience as you.

You woke him up with a slap to his shoulder.

Natalie was beaming, her eyes sparkled despite the fact that she was the doctor to the most heavily guarded patient in the whole city of Chicago. "I think congratulations are in order."

"What do you mean?"

She winked before handing you the tablet, "You're 11 weeks along Y/N. Congratulations you two."

You shook your head wildly and pressed a palm to your mouth, acting out what your defense mechanism wanted you to do. "Oh God…"

"Really?" Kelly asked next to you. He had already grabbed your hand and gripped it tightly, holding you to the ground of your new reality. "Are you for real?"

She nodded, "The tests don't lie. I'm so happy for you two."

Natalie hugged you both closely before disappearing back into the crowded ER.

"Hey," Kelly murmured, grasping your chin with his index finger and thumb. "What's wrong? You're not happy? I thought…"

You shook your head immediately, stopping him from saying something that was untrue. "No, Kelly… I'm really happy."

Two heartbeats within one body. Your body.

A child that was going to take after you and the man you loved most in this world…

You felt so incredibly lucky at that moment.

Yet so guilty.

"Our baby could've died today…"

Fresh onset of tears attacked your eyes, pushing through until the moisture was dripping down your face, and you tried to muffle the hiccups with your hands. Everything started to make sense.

"Baby you didn't know…" He tried to calm you.

You shook your head violently, dropping his attempts into the water. "I should've known better. We didn't use protection... Then I felt so sick last week."

"Y/N-"

"But I was so obsessed with Parker Torres that-" You couldn't even finish the sentence because the guilt turned into anger. "God I'm so stupid!"

"Babe, look at me," Kelly's voice hardened yet the hands with which he cupped your face were gentle and comforting. "You didn't know, so none of this is your fault. If you knowingly went in there that's when it would have been your fault."

He kissed your tears away and gave you the softest smile ever. "Do you want to have this baby with me? Because if you don't, we can…"

You stopped him with a kiss.

You were venerable in the moment of the kiss, yet you never felt more at home. In this kiss is the promise of years of love and the sweetness of life. No one mattered at that moment. Not Parker… Not anyone. Only you two and the vow you just shared.

The next few weeks will be hard, that much you knew. You were introduced to a new reality and priorities shifted. The hunt for your skeleton will continue in the hands of the people you trust most and as months go by the light will greet the darkness of your tunnel.

But the next few years, you see nothing but light and happiness.

No skeletons to torture your life, but a baby and a soulmate to make it better.

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MASTERLIST

[yellowocaballero]

Not Your Queer-Coded Disney Villain: Annabelle & Web!Jon Ficlet

Got bored again today and forced myself to write something that wasn’t gratuitously long. Set in the same universe (or, one of the universes) as The Convention on Chronographer Lane, but it’s completely unnecessary to have read that one before this. 

Content warning for (apparent and fake) predation of a student by a teacher, body horror, and spiders. REVERSE content warning for A PSYCH 101 LECTURE WRITTEN BY SOMEONE WHO WAS A TA FOR PSYCH 101. ACCURATE SCIENCE, BITCHES. 

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

Annabelle was sleeping through Psych again.

In her defense, she was really tired. The nightmares had been getting worse every day, and yesterday she hadn’t gotten more than forty minutes of sleep without jolting up in the middle of the night. She had flipped on the light five times during the night, hysterically convinced that bugs were crawling over her and earning the eternal ire of her roommate. Whatever - Irene would forgive her once she bought her an iced coffee from that campus shop she liked. If Annabelle gave it to her later at night, she’d stay up later and would be less likely to bitch when Annabelle inevitably made a stink at three am again.

It didn’t matter. Psych was tediously easy anyway. Not that everything wasn’t tedious, but there were few things more boring than listening to the drone of Mr. Sims’ voice. She had no idea how that guy had a fanclub. Emmanuela Odugawa had asked her if she thought that he recited Piaget’s developmental stages in bed. Barf. 

Thankfully, Annabelle had mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes open in class and barely aware enough to recognize when somebody called her name a decade ago, and she ruthlessly used this skill now. She dropped into a half-doze, and was only startled into awareness when she heard the word that had been running in a nonstop track loop through her mind for the past month. 

“Phobia: an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something.” Mr. Sims adjusted his glasses, pressing a button on his laptop that advanced the slides. “It’s an interesting definition, in my opinion. Like many things in Psychology, it is almost infuriatingly vague. How do you define ‘extreme’? How do you define ‘irrational’? Oftentimes, that label is determined by society, science, and our therapists. However, I believe you can argue that phobias are the most rational thing of all.”

Annabelle rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. These auditorium classrooms were always freezing. 

“The concept of aversion is heavily rooted in evolution and biology. Anyone here ever eat any bad shrimp?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The smell of seafood probably made you sick for weeks afterwards. Our bodies are primed to detect poison, just as they are to detect danger. Phobias rooted in modern, abstract concepts - clowns, elevators, airplanes - are easy to extinguish. But phobias rooted in real, present, perpetual dangers, the sort of dangers that threatened the lives of cavemen, are far more difficult to ignore.” 

Despite herself, Annabelle found herself awake. She found herself listening. 

“Snakes. Heights. The Dark. Dogs, bears, large animals. Storms, driving, insects.” Mr. Sims’ looked up at the auditorium, and Annabelle could have sworn that he was looking right at her, he was looking at her. Annabelle’s breath caught, her heart thumping in her chest - a little differently than it used to. “Spiders.” 

A horrible clicking echoed in Annabell’s ears. She was afraid that it was her. 

Then he looked away, and the spell was broken. “Phobias are one of the most powerful and motivational forces in human evolution. Like mental illnesses, pack bonds, and emotional needs, the perceived weaknesses of the human mind can frequently be some of the most powerful forces that allow the survival of the human species. It isn’t a bug, it’s a feature. I find that a useful way to think of humanity, and of ourselves: that our weaknesses can make us very strong indeed. Next slide…”

If Mr. Sims said anything after that, Annabelle didn’t hear it.

She didn’t pay any attention to anything he said until the end of class, when she shrugged on her cute little silver backpack and merged into the stream of students filtering out of the classroom. A few students had stayed behind to talk to Mr. Sims, and he appeared wrapped in conversation with the giggling girls, but somehow he picked her out of the thick crowd. 

“Annabelle?” Mr. Sims asked. “Stay after, please.”

So she leaned against the long sweep of desks, left with nothing to do but squint at Mr. Sims as he spoke with another student about the requirements for the upcoming paper, wondering why he looked so familiar. 

All of the other students had assumed he was in his late twenties - “total DILF”, they all inanely assured her - but Annabelle wasn’t so sure. Despite the already graying hair, small glasses, and severe expression, she really wouldn’t put him any older than 23.

Maybe his greying temples were hair dye. Or stress did that to you, right? Annabelle squinted. But when Annabelle looked closer, if she really focused, then she really wasn’t sure it was his hair color at all. 

So she looked closer. Her eyes had been itching for the past week. She had caught her skin flaking and peeling, and instead of pink raw skin underneath there was hard and scratchy black necrosis. Her eyes itched now, as if they were striving to split apart, and if Annabelle only let them then they would burst. And as her eyes itched in a horrible, visceral pain, she thought that maybe the white at Mr. Sims’ temples was the thin, sticky webs of spider-silk. 

“Annabelle? Are you alright?”

She snapped back to attention, fairly embarrassed. She had been zoning out more in the past month than she had her entire life. Her older siblings had said that college would be rough, but she hadn’t known it would be this rough. This wasn’t like her. None of this was like her. 

“I’m great,” Annabelle said reflexively. All of the other students were gone, and Mr. Sims was staring at her over his glasses. “Sorry. Is this about my test…?”

“No. You did quite well on your test. Best in the class, actually.” Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if this was a compliment or important. “Is that why you’ve been so bored in class?”

Ah. Busted. A rare thing for Annabelle. She affected a faux-abashed posture and expression. “Sorry, Mr. Sims. I’ve been staying up ‘til two every morning trying to get my homework done on time. If I’m ever going to go to med school…”

“I thought you were a poli sci major,” Mr. Sims said cheerfully. Annabelle fought a shudder - how did he know so much about her? This class had 200 students.

“Double major,” Annabelle said blithely. “I’m sorry about sleeping in class, I’ll manage my time better. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sims waved her apology away, as if that wasn’t what he had been looking for. Then what had he been looking for? “I’m afraid I had somewhat of an ulterior motive for speaking to you today.” He leaned in a little, pulling his glasses down, and his foggy grey eyes - same color as the grey at his temples - focused solely on her. Annabelle made her eyes bigger, and she leaned in too, adjusting her posture so she looked smaller. “You’ve been doing very well in class. I actually wanted to invite you to a meeting. About...oh, your potential for med school. I’m excited to see you succeed. I think you could do quite well in whatever field you choose, and I’d like to help. It would be just us, of course.”

Ding ding ding. Annabelle affected a giggle. “I could totally use the help! Like, in your office? Or, like...lunch, or…?”

“I was thinking dinner, actually,” Mr. Sims smiled. “How’s Bombay Bicycle Club?”

Restaurant and bar, with a casual yet dignified atmosphere. Not formal enough to put up anybody’s guard, but nice enough that a freshman girl could feel treated and be impressed. Most importantly, it was popular among the businessman crowd and almost nobody on campus visited it. Annabelle used it herself to meet up with her sugar daddies all the time. 

For a brief, strange moment, Annabelle felt as if he did - but of course he didn’t. But it wasn’t impossible. But if he knew, then why wasn’t he blackmailing her? Was the blackmail for later, once he got her alone? This was probably a power play, getting her off balance by insinuating that he knows but not being explicit about it. He’d probably pull out the blackmail, ‘I’ll ruin your reputation you slut etc’, once they actually got there. Not that he could - Annabelle had contingency plans - but she would have to be careful to actually record him propositioning her anyway. Worst case scenario they had a MAD situation, best case she could squeeze him. Probably not for very much money, since grad students were poor as dirt, and she didn’t exactly need him to boost her grades...get him to slip her the test key and sell the test key? That could work. She could probably get him to strategically cut grades, which was a service that Annabelle could probably sell to students with a grudge…

But then Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and Annabelle realized that she had been silent too long. She wanted to come off as panicked, maybe desperate, definitely flattered. 

“Sure!” Annabelle said, barely having to feign the anxious creak in her voice. “What time? I have night classes, so…”

“Next Friday at six,” Mr. Sims said instantly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Annabelle affected Smile #35 - shy virgin. Mr. Sims’ grin widened. Annabelle silently put aside the ‘Catholic schoolgirl’ outfit for Friday. “See you then!”

She turned around, gave him a shy smile, and bounced off. She had just opened the heavy door out of the room when she heard him speak again, freezing her in her tracks. 

“Oh, Annabelle - how is the study with Dr. Bates going?”

And his question panicked her so much, made her heart change rhythm and made her skin itch as if something was straining to come out of it, made her eyes itch and crawl and burst, that every calculated move went out the window. She didn’t answer his question, didn’t even give an excuse - she just ran out the door, bright purple vintage boots thumping against the linoleum, breath catching in a chest where she was no longer sure she even had ribs. 

Most of her was already calculating. She was already two months into uni, she had to start establishing her power base. The minute her sorority accepted her she’d have greater access to money, popularity, and influence, but she needed reach with the administration too.  Mr. Sims was her in. This was a good thing. 

But part of her was disappointed, because she had liked him, and she felt a little used. Feelings of disgust, as strong and vivid as in her nightmares, rose in her chest. She squished far down in her chest, familiar with the feeling and effortlessly repressing it.  

Annabelle was good with disgusting things. 

She had another session with the Arachnophobia study on Monday. Which went fine. It was fine! She didn’t wake up that morning so sick with nerves that she almost threw up. She didn’t stare at her email inbox for thirty minutes, begging herself to cancel and drop out of the study. Nope. 

She distracted herself by befriending all of her roommate’s friends and dropping faux-concerned gossip about how cranky and anxious Irene’s been lately, have you noticed she’s been blaming me for how badly she’s sleeping? It was really super sad, frowny face, how do you think I can help, frowny face frowny face frowny face? 

So Annabelle went to the Arachnophobia study (it was fine), had increasingly realistic and vivid nightmares about her chest caving in and a nest of spiders crawling out of her chest and eating her eyes, and slept through class. It was all fine. 

She should have gone to Oxford. It still made her a little bitter. She had been smart enough to get in, but she hadn’t been smart enough to get the full scholarship. She couldn’t afford it, so instead she was stuck in University of Surrey, where dreams went to die. Future politicians should go to Oxford. Yeah, Surrey had some peers and Parliament members, whatever. She needed better, Oxford and awards and money. From there, from some swotty school or another, it was easy street. Annabelle deserved easy street, and she deserved Oxford, and it just wasn’t fair -

After another three am nightmare, Annabelle blearily scrolled through her sibling groupchat. Barney was doing great in med school. Tricia had posted her maternity photos. Wow, look at that, Robin had gotten a commendation at his law firm. Whatever. 

No hope of distinguishing herself in the world. No hope of distinguishing herself in her stupid family. She was smarter than any of her siblings, brighter and better than those doctors and lawyers and accountants, but nobody cared. Mum and Dad were living their retirement in comfort and cooing over their grandchildren, finally rewarded in old age for all their hard work. 

If Annabelle dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would even notice. 

It should have been a depressing thought. The idea that nobody cared about her, not really, that nobody knew the real her. But somehow it just made her heart beat faster in excitement. 

The idea of disappearing from all of this, of cutting herself free from a thousand threads that brought her plummeting down to earth...in the cold hours of that dark morning, to an eighteen year old terrified and alone in uni, it was a siren song. 

It was a siren song that sounded, oddly, like the chittering and scuttling of a thousand tiny bodies, but Annabelle was learning to look beyond that. 

By the time next Friday rolled around, Annabelle was considering breaking her self-imposed rule against drugs and popping a Xanax. But that wouldn’t help her exhaustion, the persistent bone-deep frazzled sensation of going a week on almost no sleep whatsoever, so she settled for an espresso as she wriggled herself into a tight, slinky plaid dress paired with a puffy olive green windbreaker. She wasn’t sure if she owned any clothing that was made after 1990 - a habit born from a childhood of shopping from thirst stores, and continued voluntarily into high school when she started making her own money online fleecing suckers. It was her, so much as anything was. 

“Hot date?” Irene asked, bending over her Physics textbook without looking up. She glanced at her vibrating phone, scowling. Poor baby - her friends were staging an intervention. “New guy or old guy?”

“New guy,” Annabelle said vaguely, carefully picking out a bold red lipstick - or did that seem too forward? Should she go for a natural look? “If I’m not back by midnight call the police. I’ll text you a picture of his car.”

“Roger.” Irene flipped a page of her textbook, oblivious to the fact that she was one of the few people Annabelle genuinely liked. Not enough not to screw with her, but she liked her. “He’s not good enough for you, something something.”

“Darling,” Annabelle said, winking into the mirror, “nobody is.”

She hoped Irene believed it. She didn’t. 

It wasn’t a frequent occurrence that Annabelle wished she was stupid, but today she wished she was stupid enough to take a power nap during her ten minute Uber ride. Her mind felt frazzled and frayed, as if it had been taken out of her scalp and spread out with a rolling pin onto a floured countertop. She felt as if she was melting, her vision spiralling into fractals or blurring out. She wanted to sleep. God, she’d do anything for some sleep -

So she blared Bad Romance in her frayed earbuds instead, clutching her iPod Touch tightly, pulling herself together. Gaga, give her strength. 

By the time that she tipped her driver, effortlessly found Mr. Sims’ car in the parking lot of Bombay Bicycle Club and texted Irene the license plate (Volkswagen, obviously), she had dragged herself into focus. She stapled on her confident posture and walk - no, we’re going with ingenue today, make it shy and hesitant - and slipped inside the restaurant, making a show of holding her clutch tight to her chest and looking around with big eyes. 

She saw him instantly. He was sitting in a corner booth, head down and texting on his phone with a half-smile. The corner booth was poorly lit, light dampened by the wood panelling and soft leather seats, and half of his face was draped in shadow. 

Great. She had even arrived ten minutes early just so she could pick a brightly lit, intimate little table in the center of the room. This guy - he was almost like her. He was almost like her, but he was better. 

Annabelle fought the urge to grind her teeth. She smiled instead, waving cheerfully until he raised his head. He smiled back at her, wriggling his fingers, and Annabelle wove around the tables until she could slide into the seat across from him. 

“This is cozy!” She said brightly. “Thank you so much for inviting me out, Mr. Sims. It’s been ages since I got away from my books -”

“Oh, cut that shit out,” Mr. Sims said, bored. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Annabelle’s mind shut down. Error 404, blue screen of death. 

“I’m sorry,” she said pleasantly, smile frozen on her face. “What?”

But Mr. Sims just shrugged listlessly, slumping against the cushioned wall. His expression was no longer fond, indulgent, haughty. He just looked bored now, as if he was too tired and underpaid to deal with eighteen year olds. “I don’t want to sit through this entire dinner fending off flirting. We have actual business to talk about, and I am uninterested in beating around the bush when there’s no point. You aren’t even subtle.”

“Excuse me -” Annabelle started, enraged, but Mr. Sims put up a hand and cut her off. 

The change was instant. On a dime, Mr. Sims straightened his posture, swept a finger through his hair to transform it from slicked back professor type to windswept, adopted a friendly and casual expression, and leaned in as if he was happy and excited to be sitting with Annabelle. In a moment he dropped ten years. Barely a second after his transformation the waiter approached them, holding a notepad, and Annabelle realized with a start that he had noticed the waiter coming before she did. 

“How are you two doing tonight?” the waiter asked politely, smiling at the both of them in a rote routine that Annabelle remembered from her own days waitressing. 

“Doing great!” Mr. Sims said, and even his accent was different, closely matching her own. He glanced back at Annabelle, nothing but open and friendly. “Mum says get whatever you want, dork. It’s on her bill, so let’s run her out of house and home.”

Instinctually, Annabelle shot back, “Aren’t you old enough to take me out to eat with your own money, loser?”

“Not with your stomach!” Mr. Sims laughed, and the waiter chuckled along too. Mr. Sims effortlessly rapped out an order for the waiter, before Annabelle even got a chance to look at the menu, and when she floundered Mr. Sims just rolled his eyes and ordered for her too. It was, somehow, her favorite food. 

He waited for the waiter to move onto the next table, eyeing him carefully, before he let the persona drop. Mr. Sims sagged again, dropping the friendly act, sizing her up from half-lidded eyes. 

“How did he even believe that,” Annabelle said flatly. “We don’t look anything alike.”

“White people will believe anything,” Mr. Sims said, rolling his eyes. “I have the Belgian government convinced I’m an Iraqi scientist and most high profile Australian celebrities think I’m Egyptian royalty.”

“...does Egypt have -”

“Nope.”

Annabelle was beginning to feel a little like the star actress in the school play who got upstaged in every way by the villain’s performance. Nobody did what she did. Nobody did what she did, but better. 

“Don’t feel insecure,” Mr. Sims said, as if he could read her mind. “I’m a good actor, and I’m excellent at reading people. But I can’t plan or plot like you do. I’m shit at thinking three steps ahead, much less thirty. You can keep plots and schemes going for years - decades, even, if I were to guess. I’m not sure how someone as competent as you can have self-esteem issues.”

Annabelle bristled. “You try having nobody care about you for - how do you even know that shit about me?” Something terrible occurred to her. “Are you some kind of stalker, Mr. Sims?”

Mr. Sims shuddered in real disgust. “It’s Jon. And no, of course not. You just aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”

Yes, she was. She was subtle to everyone on the planet - everyone save, maybe, Jon. Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Jon said immediately. 

“Liar. Everybody wants something.”

“I’m here altruistically,” Jon said, the perfect picture of innocence. “Really. I’m here to help you, Annabelle.”

“You are stalking me.” Annabelle leaned forward, but Sims didn’t move. “Are you even a real graduate student?”

“Absolutely not. I’m twenty three, I got my Psych degree last year and I’ve been bouncing odd jobs since.” Jon shrugged, as Annabelle felt silently vindicated. Nothing about this man acted like a twenty three year old - she remembered her siblings at twenty-three, there was nothing adult about them - but it was probably just another persona. She wondered how far she’d have to scratch to get to the real Jon Sims. 

“So you were just at Surrey to spy on me,” Annabelle said slowly. “I don’t know what country you’re from, but in England that’s definitely stalking.”

“I’d call it scouting,” Jon said. The waiter dropped by to place their drinks on the table - Jon had gotten a mule for himself, and he had ordered water for Annabelle in a move uncharacteristic for a sketchy guy. He waited until the waiter left to continue. “Call me a recruiter.”

“For who? What kind of job recruiter teaches a class for two months just to get to me?”

“How’s your study with Dr. Blake going, Annabelle?” Jon said, almost randomly, and Annabelle shut up. He must have seen something in her eyes, because a sharp little grin stretched in the corner of his narrow and sharp face. “Thought so. What do you dream of, Annabelle? In the cold corners of night, what fears come to life in the dark recesses of your mind?”

Maybe, Annabelle thought inanely, this was a dream too. Just an extended nightmare, one she hadn’t woken up from. It felt like that: distant and strange, hyper-real and unreal. This strange man sitting in front of her, who swapped faces so easily even Annabelle couldn’t keep up, was far too out of place to truly exist. 

Or maybe he was the first real person she had met in a very long time. 

Jon continued talking, as if she had responded. Maybe she had. “I am not a hero in this story. If I was, I would have come earlier. I would have deleted your name from the pool of subjects, and I would have made it so that you never got that call.” Jon looked away from her for the first time, letting a little sadness show on his face. “I couldn’t. No - no, I could have, I simply chose not to. You’re important, Annabelle. And I didn’t want to rob you of something that you may grow to treasure. I’m afraid that the choice you make now may not be much of a choice at all - but, perhaps, there is still a chance. At the very least, I would like to make this transition a little easier for you. It is a terrible thing, to have to do it alone.”

That…

“That was so vague it was completely meaningless.”

Jon barked a laugh, strangely delighted. “It’s not fair to speak in circles to somebody who’s gone a week without sleep!”

“But you’re doing it on purpose,” Annabelle said, too dead inside to feel mad.

“Oh, absolutely. I am not taking the risk of taking you on at full power.” Jon smiled at her, as if they were friends sharing a joke. “I saw what you did to that Walker boy in secondary.”

Despite herself, Annabelle smiled. “Hear he gets out on parole in five.” Something else occurred to her, a bit belatedly. “You are stalking me!”

“Does a spider stalk the fly that strikes a string on its web?” Jon asked cheerfully. “Or is it simply investigating an encroachment into its territory?”

“Does that mean that you’re going to eat me?” Annabelle said archly. “Thought you said you didn’t want to fuck me. Rude, by the way.”

Almost hilariously, Jon wrinkled his nose. “Sex is a waste of time, resources, and my attention. Can’t imagine why people are so obsessed.”

“I know, right!” Annabelle burst out, before she could help herself. “Do you have any idea how much money I get a month from guys just to talk to me? It’s like they’re aliens! Why do people fuck or date if it’s not to manipulate someone?”

“Right! It’s ridiculous.”

It was the first time anybody had ever agreed with her on that. It was the first time she had even told anybody she felt that way. For a brief second, Annabelle felt connected to Jon. It was the first time that happened in...a very long time. 

Jon was the first person Annabelle had ever met who was like her. Everybody in Annabelle’s life had always been either useful or useless. Jon seemed above that, somehow. To be beyond utility, to exist on your own power...what did that look like? To be the powerful, instead of the powerless?

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many puppet strings Annabelle tied around her fingers, she was never powerful. Not really. She was eighteen, from a nothing family, and no matter how many molehills she made herself queen of she would never rule the mountain. She couldn’t get as far as she wanted with what she had. The only reason she had even volunteered for the stupid Arachnophobia experiment was because she needed to crush out weakness in herself, erase the hidden flaws in her mind.

But Jon said her flaws were strengths. What made her weak could be turned into power. 

Annabelle needed more, more, more. She needed everything, if she was to have anything. She needed what Jon had. 

Everything Annabelle said had a purpose. Every word she used was chosen carefully, every little gesture or body language was calculated. She said nothing without thinking, and she could do it so quickly nobody even noticed. Jon would notice, a con man as perfect as she was.

Let him. Give her two straight days to sleep, and they’d have a real battle of wits. In the meantime, she just had to pick her questions strategically.

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

All eight of Jon’s glittering black eyes shone in the darkness, straining her own and making her head thump. It was wrong, outside of humanity or reality, and it felt as if the very sight was straining the fabric of her delicately maintained life so tight it would tear. It felt as if it was tearing her, right in two, ruining her forever. Her eyes felt like they were going to burst out of her head. 

She didn’t want to know what would replace them. But she had the feeling that she already did. 

“Then what,” Annabelle gritted out, “are you?”

“I am the eldest and most treasured Son of the Mother of Spiders,” Jon said. He smiled at her, just a little, almost apologetic. “Sorry about that. I know you’ve always wanted to be an only child.”

Ah. Duh. Obviously. She should have known.

“...do I want to know who the Mother of Spiders is?”

“Your mother, should you choose to accept her,” Jon said cheerfully, leaning back into the light, and his face was normal again. Human as ever. Strange and foreign as ever - possibly everything, possibly nothing. “I know you aren’t strictly in the market for adoption, but you may not have much of a choice. You’ve felt her scratching beneath her skin. She’s going to tear out of you, and soon. Did you know some species of wasp lay their eggs in the body of spiders to provide food for the grubs?”

“During the next experiment,” Annabelle said dully, already filtering out Jon’s useless tidbits of information. That was a guy who spoke for the sake of hearing himself talk. “That’s when it’s happening. When I’ll...change.”

“Yes. It’s a painful process,” Jon said, and it was almost apologetic. “My own happened when I was fifteen - quite young, all things considered. I still remember the sound of my bones snapping as -”

“Don’t.”

“Of course! Anyway, I thought I’d make sure you had...to use the psych term, informed consent, before you entered the crucible. Our - my, sorry - Mother often foregoes true consent in our operations. The beauty of nature!” Jon laughed, as Annabelle felt sick. “Agnes wanted to put together a pamphlet, but then we let Gerry go wild on the clipart and...well, it’s better if I just explain. I can’t give you the full story now, but I’ll tell you as much as your mind can comprehend.”

Annabelle wasn’t sure she could even comprehend this. It was so much, and she was so tired. She had just heard that her body was going to rupture like a cocoon and give birth to a giant spider that may or may not also be her, and all she could think about was the fact that she wanted to go back to bed. Somehow, all she could ask was -

“Why?” She asked, so stupid and pointless, as if she was stupid, as if she wasn’t her at all. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s like I said.” In the dim yellow lighting, Jon’s eyes glittered pure black, and in that brief and stupid second Annabelle felt as if they were the same in that way. “Nobody should have to go through this alone and ignorant.” Then the moment was over, and his eyes were a human grey again, just left of normal. “Besides. Siblings stick together, right?”

“I hardly need more siblings,” Annabelle snapped. 

“You’re about to lose seven of them real soon,” Jon promised, extremely worryingly, “so I’d take what you can get right now, Annabelle.”

“Are you going to kill -”

“Unfortunately, you may have to fake your own death!”

Then their food came, and Annabelle received her first lesson in the class of hard knocks. 

They talked for hours. It took hours, to even just get a picture of the story. Jon was patient, answering every question, and Annabelle strained so hard trying to fight through her exhaustion, trying to understand the answer, Jon’s motivation in answering it or what he could be leaving out, that by the end of it she felt as if she had run a marathon. She had never felt so tired in her life, in the most dangerous situation in her life, with the most dangerous person she had ever met. 

By the end of it, Irene was texting her to ask if she was dead, and Annabelle was falling asleep at her chair. Jon cut an end to their conversation when he slid out his wallet, covered the bill with a black Amex card, and slid a business card against the table. Annabelle squinted down at it. 

The text in the center just said [FREELANCERS]. That was it. She stared at it.

Underneath the vague word, she saw a phone number [555-555] and an email [email@organization.gov]. Annabelle looked up to stare at Jon. “Are you for real?”

“Almost never,” Jon said cheerfully, “but the card will make sense when it needs to. Let me take you back to your dorm, alright? You can get some sleep in the car.”

If he was a creep, she was dead anyway. Annabelle didn’t bother arguing. She grabbed her jacket and got in the passenger seat of his car, and true to his word Annabelle drifted asleep almost immediately. She even felt as if the ride took longer than ten minutes, as if he drove in circles just waiting for her.

For the first time in a week, Annabelle slept uninterrupted, and had no dreams.

Annabelle wanted what Jon had. 

And a week later, she took it. 

Shivering in an alley, clothing ripped to shreds, her own skin hanging off her triple jointed limbs, she dug out a creased and torn business card. She had been worrying at it intensely over the weekend, staring and it and clenching it tightly as if it was her only lifeline. It was, of course. But Jon had known that.

The card looked different now. The text now looked handwritten, but with a beautiful and old-timey slanted handwriting. It now just read: 

‘To Annabelle, with love. From your new friends Gerry, Jon, and Agnes’. There was a number underneath, and Annabelle frantically dug in her tattered leather jacket pocket to draw out her cracked phone. 

Annabelle hated taking favors from people. Everything she had, she had fought for herself. She would scrape, borrow, beg, and steal whatever she had to. But, when it came to siblings...maybe, then, it was okay.

Dizzily, as Annabelle let the phone ring, she thought: this is my supervillain origin story. 

The thought sent a slow smile crawling across her inhuman and warped face. 

Sounds like fun. 

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 6

Chapters: 6/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

"Do you really hate Keats that much?" Martin asks Jon, sounding faintly betrayed. They're sitting on a pile of cushions in front of Gerry's big window, while the man himself stands painting nearby.

There has been no previous mention of Keats since they arrived several hours ago, nor in the entire course of Gerry knowing them together.

Granted, he had barely been awake when they had arrived, having rolled out of bed just seconds before the knock came, but Gerry thought he had been keeping fairly decent track of the overall conversation.

He had thought Sunday brunch was a great idea when Jon suggested it during the week. Only remembering half-way through his shift the previous night that he was normally dead asleep during that time on a Sunday. But needs must, and after coffee and food, he was feeling downright perky at having two cute boys in his apartment.

Jon and Martin had settled into the pillow pile to occupy themselves while Gerry wandered off to paint, and they had spent several hours each engaged in their own artistic endeavors, simply enjoying the energy of one another's company.

Jon had started out reading but kept getting distracted by the way the light in the studio catches in Gerry's dark red hair, tied up in a chaotic messy bun, and had idly been strumming Gerry's old acoustic guitar for a while instead. Martin had been writing in a notebook, tongue often caught between his teeth in contemplation, glasses pushed up onto the top of his hair.

Jon stops playing abruptly and Gerry winces at the discordant note the guitar lets out in protest.

"I think Keats is pretty cool," offers Gerry cheerfully.

"Thank you, Gerard, very helpful," grouses Jon in return, glaring at him. Gerry blows him a kiss and returns to his canvas.

"I don't hate Keats, Martin." Jon's voice is slow and soft in the way that indicates that he's actually trying to be sensitive, "I just think he's overrated. After spending so much time in uni pouring over his boring symbolism, I'm just sick of him."

Jon's English literature degree, which Gerry remembers with some humour does not qualify him for a job at a library, had been a pain to get, and he doesn't always remember that part of his life with any great fondness.

"I know, but-" Martin cuts off abruptly and there's unexpected silence for a moment.

"Gerry, do you have a cat?" Jon's voice is incredulous and somewhat delighted at the new development.

"Yes," Gerry replies, very casually. He looks around to find that the cat has indeed wandered in and is sitting in a shaft of sunlight, black fur shining. "Jon, Martin, meet Saturn. Saturn, this is Jon and Martin."

Saturn blinks at them, before abruptly standing, showing them his butt, and then walking over to twine between Gerry's legs. Gerry deposits his painting supplies nearby and reaches down to scoop Saturn up, before carrying him over to sit with the others.

"He's not always great with new people, but hopefully he'll warm up to you. He can be a great cuddler when he wants to be." Saturn eyes them all speculatively before sitting on his own cushion and curling up in a fluffy ball.

"So he's like the Jon cat?" Martin asks, sneaking out a finger to scratch Saturn's fluffy little ears. He purrs lightly and Gerry grins to see them getting along.

"Well-" Jon splutters indignantly, face warming beneath his tan.

They both laugh and Gerry leans towards Martin to whisper conspiratorially, "He's not even embarrassed about being bad with new people. He's shy that we know how good of a cuddler he is."

Jon presses his lips together with a long-suffering expression, also reaching out a hand to pet the purring feline. Saturn rolls over towards him and gets a belly rub for his efforts.

"There we go," Gerry mutters happily. "All my favorite boys, getting along so well."

There's more sputtering from both Jon and Martin at that, but Gerry only laughs and leans over to kiss the tops of their heads.

***

Jon sighs and rubs the back of his neck, trying to release the burning tension sitting in all the joints of his spine.

It's 1 A.M. and the library is long, long closed, doors locked and lights turned out. He doesn't know how he gets here sometimes. Elias has certainly never overtly demanded he work overtime, and yet Jon always feels the need to push a little harder, do more than anyone would consider even remotely reasonable.

He accepted a while ago, that his irrational drive for perfection in this job stems from his self-doubt and fear of inadequacy.

And yet, that understanding does nothing to get him home at a reasonable hour, even when he remembers the two men who always seem to be around when he needs them.

It's unfathomable to Jon how he managed to find himself in a relationship with not one but two incredibly understanding and supportive men who love him. He considers it a downright miracle that they also seemed to be finding their way towards loving one another. Although, who wouldn't love Martin and Gerry?

He checks his watch again. Martin is definitely asleep, and even just stumbling in to lie in bed with him would disturb him. He knows the sweet man would say he doesn't mind, but he feels like if he can't get back at a reasonable hour, he doesn't deserve to sleep next to him at all.

Gerry, on the other hand, is mostly nocturnal. A quick check of his phone shows that it's actually Friday, and he is working at the bar for another hour or so.

While Jon has his phone in his hand, he opens up their text chain.

Gerry: Don't work too late. Martin and I want you functional so that we can drag you out to that street market this weekend.

Jon: I won't.

Gerry: Yes, you will. But try to keep it pre-midnight ;)

'He's awake,' Jon tells himself firmly. 'He'll be happy to see you, even if you did work even later than he predicted.'

So Jon packs up his stuff and leaves the library. He considers a cab, but it's only a few blocks and he thinks the fresh air and exercise will unlock the tension in his poor abused spine.

He arrives at the bar just before closing. Gerry is busy charming a few drunk regulars out the door with promises of undying love and that the bar will be back tomorrow afternoon. After they stumble off, he turns to find Jon walking slowly towards him. Gerry is wearing combat boots, dark jeans, and a loose leather tank top, over a lace undershirt. He has his favorite hoop in his nose, and the light glints off the many piercings in his ears.

"Why, Gerry Delano, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." Gerry grins at Jon's teasing tone and echoed words, no sign of recrimination about him.

"I always am." Jon reaches Gerry at that, and they draw together, pressing tired lips against each other gently.

Gerry's hair has faded out a bit from the moody red, and Jon slips his hands into his hair to hold him close for a moment longer. They rock together on the street for a long, frozen moment.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Gerry asks, pulling away and sliding his hands down Jon's arms to connect their fingers.

"I missed you," Jon confesses shakily, emotion spilling out of his voice.

"Good, I missed you too." Gerry drags him into the bar and fills the air with stories from his shift while he and his colleagues clean for the evening, closing up the bar.

They walk home arm in arm, Gerry flirting with him mercilessly. Jon sheds the day's tension as they go, and by the time they arrive at Gerry's loft, he's warm and relaxed.

He supposes he should probably go back to his own flat, but it's not a place he spends the night very often anymore, and he fears the creeping insomnia that will take him without Martin and Gerry around to soothe him into sleep. Besides, Gerry is right here with him, and he seems so pleased to have him around.

"Are you going to paint now?" Jon asks as they shed their work clothes. Jon is sorry to see the lace shirt go, but Gerry makes up for it by simply throwing a kimono over his bare chest. He throws him a T-shirt, so Jon wears that and his boxers as they settle on the couch. Gerry is still wearing his jeans, but both their feet are bare as they tangle on the coffee table.

"I'm not sure, do you want to?" Gerry asks as he lights a cigarette and offers Jon one.

"What? Do I want to paint?" Jon's voice is taken aback. He takes the cigarette and lights it.

Gerry shrugs as if it's obvious. "Sure, you used to draw with me when we were younger."

"Yes, but…"

"But what, Jonathon? You're too old to paint now? Too proper and straight-laced to get charcoal under your nails? No more piercings, no more creativity?" Gerry sways into his shoulder, drawing smoke into his lungs and letting it out as he speaks.

"No, it's not that." Jon grouses back. Gerry hums derisively in return. "I just don't see the point of wasting your drawing paper when you can do that." Jon gestures wildly towards Gerry's most recently completed painting.

Gerry eyes it critically. It's the commission that he's been slogging over petulantly. It's large and impressively done, he can accept that, but he doesn't like it very much. He hates the subject and composition Peter Lukas has demanded and compensated by pouring all his best technique into it. It makes him sad and sullen to look at, and Gerry will be relieved when it's finally gone.

"For every painting like that I've ever done, Jon," Gerry spills all his affection into the name, and Jon can feel it, "I've done a thousand ridiculous sketches and colour studies. Art is time, and diligence and joy as much as it ever is masterpieces. You don't sit down one day and magically just know how to be a maestro."

Jon looks over and up at him with big green eyes. Gerry can't help but lean over and slide his hand into Jon's hair, pressing their lips together for a moment. "So Mr. Sims. Can I tempt you to make some art with me?"

***

What they create in those soft early morning hours can only generously be called art, even Gerry's efforts. But they laugh and kiss and somehow get covered in charcoal and acrylic paint. Gerry even allows Jon to choose the Spotify playlist. Slow piano music with nature sounds play softly in the background of their impromptu art party, reminding Gerry of nothing so much as Jon himself.

The dawn is just breaking through Gerry's massive bank of windows when he allows Jon to drag him off to bed, and they collapse together in the soft morning light.

***

Late the next morning, Martin lets himself into the flat and bounces down onto the bed between them, sending Saturn flying off in a huff.

"So, I heard there was a slumber party. I brought breakfast."

"Fuck off," Gerry slurs, but rather undermines his own point when he pulls Martin down and tucks himself around him. Jon does the same from the other side, and Martin finds himself in the middle of a very sleepy man sandwich.

Gerry seems to instantly fall back asleep, but Jon eventually drags himself to consciousness, even buried in Martin's neck. "What's time?"

"Almost ten," he responds, very cheerfully.

"WHAT-" Jon flies out of bed in a blind panic, desperately looking for his phone, which is dead when he finds it anyway. "I'm already so fucking late!"

Gerry groans.

"Relax Jon." Martin tries to soothe him but is hindered by the fact that Gerry is still clinging to him in a very enjoyable way. "Gerry, love, let me go. Jon is having a meltdown."

"How unusual," Gerry mutters very unsupportively, Jon manages to notice. He flops over onto his other side and attempts to bury himself in pillows instead of Martin.

"Jon, breathe." Swinging up to sit on the edge of the bed, Martin uses his best man-disaster steadying tone. Gerry has come to realize what that tone is, but he doesn't mention it to anyone. "It's Saturday."

Jon slumps and drops the pants he was desperately trying to wrangle himself into.

"It's Saturday?" He asks.

"It's Saturday," Gerry confirms from the pillow fort.

Jon glares at Martin in a very put upon way. Martin smiles at him brightly.

He turns and wanders off to the bathroom in an effort to collect himself. Martin resumes his spot in the middle of the bed, and drags Gerry towards him, tucking himself into his back.

"Hmmm. So much noise on a weekend." The goth mutters as he attempts to resettle himself in Martin's arms.

"I'll make it up to you later," Martin promises, pressing a kiss behind his ear.

"You let that happen on purpose, didn't you." It's not a question. "Just to see that look on his face."

"Yes," Martin says, chuckling into Gerry's pillow.

"Very good, sir."

[thatsbucknasty]

she used to be mine (iii) waitress au

summary: Inspired by the broadway musical. Y/N Beck is a pie baking force to be reckoned with. She’s pregnant with her lazy ass husband, Quentin Beck’s baby. As everything around her turns upside down, Doctor James Buchanan Barnes charms his way into her life.

pairing: Y/N x Bucky

tags are open c:

chapter 3: when he sees me

“I read on the internet that if you boil the cutlery every night, you get rid of the germs that the soap alone couldn’t kill, plus it makes them extra shiny”. I enter the diner and meet Wanda’s voice, while she explains her late night research to Sam, he completely ignores her, but that’s good. Keeps him distracted from the fact that I’m-

“You’re late. You’re never late. What happened? Did Quentin pull an all nighter? I saw him at Phil’s Bar, you know? If you need me to talk to that piece of sh-” Sam has always been a little over protective of us girls.

“I’m fine, Sam. Sorry I’m late, the bus driver was falling asleep, and don’t worry, Quentin didn’t come home too late. There’s no need for you to talk to him cause he won’t listen anyway”.

“That’s right, he can’t hear a word I say cause his head has been stuck in his ass ever since that one hit wonder he wrote ten years ago played in the local radio station”. Sam says bitterly before he sips an equally bitter cup of black coffee.

“Hey! For your information, I helped write that song”. I smirk.

“Good morning to my ladies, and my ladies only”. Nat walks through the door, thirty minutes late. She must wanna get Sam angry on purpose at this point. She hugs Wanda and then me.

“No love for me?” Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Yelling and cursing maybe, but not this.

“What is going on?” I ask Wanda but she shrugs, clueless.

Nat stops whatever truce she has with Sam, rolls her eyes at him and says something I can’t quite catch and asks.

“Sooo, Wands, did you do it?” 

“Do what?�� I say.

“Call that mystery Jon Snow she met at the comic con last weekend! Come on! You said he was cute”.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe he’s not into me and he was just being polite giving me his number. He was cute indeed, but his costume was really bad, I think maybe I should call him and ask who made it for him, since I made my own and he liked it so much, maybe I could help him out next year”.

“Already planning your one year anniversary? Ambitious. But sure! That’s a great excuse to start a conversation. What’s his name again?” I beg for information, since I’ve been left out of the weekend catch up, apparently.

“No, no. I don’t know girls. He might not like me. His name is Steve, by the way. But enough about me. How did it go with doctor Perkins?”

“It didn’t. She’s retired”.

“God bless her, we went to see her last year. Remember when Clint had the flu and he wouldn’t even eat? Doctor Perkins was there to see him cry when he got a shot on his bum. Poor woman”. Now that I see it, Nat never talks about her husband anymore. 

“And how’s Clint? I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever. Remind me to send some of my Couch Potato Pie to him, he always devoured it”.

“He’s busy all the time. I feel like I don’t see him that much either and we sleep in the same bed every night, isn’t that funny? But if Doctor Perkins is retired, then who saw you?” Nice deflect from the subject. Nat’s good at that.

“It’s a man, he’s new in town. A bit weird and awkward but he was nice”.

“Ooh a man, is he single? Might be good for Wanda”.

“Hehehe, no, no. I’m good, thanks”. The giggling mess of a girl leaves to get some more bottles of ketchup to clean.

“I think he mentioned a wife”.

“That’s too bad. Is he handsome though?”

“Nat, I just told you he has a wife”.

“Is he though? I’m just asking cause nothing happens in this town. If there’s a pretty new face out there I wanna look… respectfully”.

“Okay then”.

“Well? Is he pretty?”

“He is. Very. It’s distracting, I think I should look for another doctor”.

“Oh my god, Y/N don’t be dramatic, besides? What other doctor in town is gonna see you? Doctor Roberts? We all know he’s a perv. Take it easy, you’ve only been to one appointment. And you know, a little distraction is nice once in a while. If a nice looking doctor would want to do me a check-up I certainly wouldn’t mind!”

Well, she has a point.

-

I’m leaving late again tonight. It’s just that, ever since I got the official news of my pregnancy, I can’t seem to tolerate Quentin’s cologne mixed with his usual beer and peanuts scent. Just thinking about it makes me sick, and I can’t risk it. If he suspects something’s up I’ll have to tell him the truth, he always calls me out on my bullshit when I try to lie.

I like having this for myself for now. I’m starting to like the idea of having this baby. I know I wasn’t the most thrilled mother at the beginning but, a piece of myself is growing inside of me. I really hope they like to bake when they grow up, I could teach them all I know. It could be our thing.

-

“Guys!!! Guys, guys guys, guys. I texted Steve!” Wanda comes into the diner yelling and almost trips over the counter.

“Jesus, woman, breathe. Who is Steve?” Sam’s intrigued, but also annoyed.

“Oh I think you actually know him Sammy, it’s Steve!!! The blonde cutie with gorgeous eyes who owns the video store”.

“Oh yeah! We used to play videogames at his house back in High School cause he had all the good ones”.

“So? Did he respond? Do tell!!” I’m excited for Wanda, she’s only a couple years younger than me and Nat but she’s like our little sister. She started working at the diner four years ago and I’ve never seen her date anyone.

“Yes, yes! He said he wants to take me out. Oh my god, I think I might have a panic attack. I don’t think I should go, should I? What if he doesn’t like me? What if he gets to know me and he’s disappointed? I know I looked amazing at the Con last weekend but that’s because I was wearing that wig, you know, the pretty one with the celtic braids? But without my gorgeous Ygritte costume I’m just- me. What if when he sees me, he runs the other way?” She deflates on the booth she was cleaning and Nat and I silently decide it’s time to talk some sense into her. My turn first.

“Listen, sweetie. You’re a gorgeous woman, with and without those beautiful outfits you create and wigs, or even with this dirty apron, he would be stunned by your beauty. Plus, once he gets to know you, he won’t be disappointed!” 

“How do you know?! I don’t even know what I would say to him, you guys, should I make some flashcards?” She lives for the drama, but this time she really needs some reassurance. Nat goes now.

“You have an extensive knowledge of Game of Thrones, you can share that with him. He owns a video store and you love movies and videogames, you’ll never run out of things to say, and you are so funny and charming he’ll fall for you instantly!”

“Hear me out, Wanda. I’ll bake you a pie to bring him on your date. Nat will help you get all dolled up and you and Steve are gonna have a great time together, alright?” I say to her, getting up and already planning a recipe in my head.

“Oh Y/N, that’s very sweet of you, thank you! Whatchu gonna put in that pie, can I help?” 

“I’ll make it extra special with some spices that will enchant his belly and his heart! I’ll call it Falling in love chocolate mousse pie!”

If I can’t have my fairytale romance with the happy family and the white picket fence, I might as well make damn sure that Wanda gets hers.

And while I try to sort out whether I’m staying in my messy marriage and how I’m gonna cope with this unexpected pregnancy, I’ll just bake, bake, bake. It’s all I can do to keep myself and this little nugget inside of me afloat. In the meantime, staring at my cute obgyn won’t hurt anybody, will it?

-

chapter 4: it only takes a taste

-

pls reblog if you liked it c:

[batmanie]

Worth it - Batman TAS

Out of the few books available at the Arkham rec room’s otherwise empty bookshelf Professor Crane had chosen to read “Pride and Prejudice” today. He had read it about ten times already but the small book collection was not getting any bigger and it was still better than reading the Bible.

“Alice’s adventures in Wonderland” had been banned from Arkham’s library quite some time ago for triggering a certain inmate, and “Christmas Carol” had lately been decorated with obscene doodles by the Joker which Jonathan did not wish to see ever again. The nursery rhymes book was always an option but currently, Harley had her fun with that, giggling each time she read a funny one.

Crane was sitting on the couch with his nose in the book, not bothering anyone with his presence. Next to him, Tetch was staring at the TV. The poor man looked so bored, mindlessly channel surfing, probably too high on medication to be able to entertain himself with any Wonderland plots.

With Joker not around, the rec room seemed calm, almost as calm as the sky before a heavy storm. And said storm came unexpectedly in the form of Jervis Tetch.

The bored man on the couch had switched to the Gotham’s evening news channel, listening in to the street interview with one of the new candidates for the city council, and then, out of nowhere, he threw a massive tantrum – his outburst included flipping the coffee-table and accidentally hitting Harley’s head with it. That, of course, resulted in Doctor Quinzel’s aggressive response. Not much remained left from the unfortunate table after Harley had finished with it.

Professor Crane watched in delight how Mad Hatter fought against a guard twice as big as himself, while Harley attempted to smash both of their heads with a table leg before two other guards managed to tranquilize her.

After a few more minutes, the rec room was calm again and Jonathan got back to his book. But as much as he tried to ignore the incident and focus on the plot, a little voice in his head, the voice of the psychologist who he’d never truly ceased to be, kept whispering a very important question. “What exactly has just happened here?” The voice asked, teasing Jon’s professional curiosity. He cast another glance at the tv. The candidate from the evening news smiled at the camera, still explaining how much he was helping the community.

Professor Crane had his suspicions. And who would have guessed? Mad Hatter broke out of Arkham no longer than three days after that event.

David Colton was in his mid-thirties and he was a man in his prime, looking exceptionally professional today in his expensive dark-blue suit, white shirt, and striped blue tie.

“Smoother than Bruce Wayne,” he thought with a pleasant smile, checking himself in the mirror.

Oh, yeah, he still got it! Still looking as youthful and handsome as the prom king he had been back in his high-school days.

“Almost ready Mr. Colton,” the make-up lady told him, and put some more powder onto his already fluid-heavy forehead. “No glossy faces on TV, that’s my rule. Those spotlights know no mercy,” she joked.

David chuckled. “The only thing that is allowed to shine tonight, is my charisma.”

They would have laughed some more, if not for a sudden knocking on the door to his private dressing room.

“Come in,” David called and took a deep, calming breath mentally preparing himself for showtime.

He was ready to present his best self to Gotham again, and at this rate of him constantly being invited to interviews, the seat in the council was practically his already.

His father was right, the ability to make a good impression and a thing for charity was everything that mattered in this town after all.

The door opened and a short man in a trench coat walked in, not a staff member judging simply by the lack of an ID. Yet, the man seemed familiar – Colton just couldn’t quite place him.

“Can I help you, pal?” He asked the newcomer, hiding his irritation behind a polite smile.

The man smiled brightly and took a few steps into the room. “Oh, yes, yes. I think you can,” he spoke with a quiet yet excited voice.

Colton caught his fake British accent right away – and again, it felt like he had heard it before.

“However, I wouldn’t call you my pal.” The man continued grinning. “Would I? Won’t I? Would I? Won’t I?”.

“Listen, pal,” Colton cut him off, not bothering anymore to be that polite. “My interview is starting in a few minutes. Can we get back to this conversation later?”

“I’m afraid that later will be too late,” the strange man shook his head and took out a silver pocket-watch. “It will take only a moment…”

David sighed, the intruder was really hard to get rid of – he hated those nosy people who worked for the press.

“Very well then.” He stood up from his seat and turned to his guest to shake his hand and introduce himself properly. “David Colton,” he offered his hand to the shorter man.

The man didn’t take it, which led to a very awkward moment.

“Oh, but we know each other,” he explained, staring at David with an intense glare.

Colton, confused as he was, took a closer look at the stranger – his blonde, messy hair, big nose, and even bigger front teeth. Suddenly it clicked. “Gotham High! Jervis, was it? Jervis the Jerkface,” he laughed at the old memories of those past, glorious days of his youth. “How have you been, Jerv?”.

“Surely not as good as you.” There was a hint of fake sadness in Jervis’ voice as he put on the black, old-school top hat that he had held in his hand behind his back the entire time.

That single move made Colton recall some very disturbing stories straight from Gotham’s underworld. He cast a worried look at the make-up lady – she looked terrified and about to scream.

Slowly, he gazed back at the small man before him – the man who used to be just a nerdy kid from his high school, a weird boy that everybody had laughed at – Jervis the Jerkface, Beaver-man, Ratter.

“They don’t call me names that often anymore,” Jervis said calmly, as if he had just read his mind, a nasty grin creeping back on his face. He held a card in his gloved hand. “They simply call me the Mad Hatter.”

-#-

Like every other Saturday, the rec room was hosting the four lucky high-profile inmates who had earned their right to be in here, thanks to their good behavior. This time it was Doctor Isley, surprisingly enough, Nygma and, even more surprisingly, Croc who accompanied Professor Crane during his well-deserved book-time.

Everyone was minding their own business, Ivy was occupied taking care of a small flowerpot of violets, Edward played chess with himself and Croc, well, Croc was currently using his claw as a toothpick to get rid of the remains of his dinner.

Jonathan relaxed on the couch that he had the luxury of having only for himself for once. He had tried to bury himself in a book but couldn’t concentrate on reading – something was on his mind ever since Mad Hatter had disappeared half a week ago. It was this tiny, little voice again, telling him to put the book aside and turn on the TV instead.

Slightly irritated by his own decision, he did as his intuition had told him to. The evening news was about to end and an interview with some philanthropist politician was about to start right after commercials.

When the show began, the fat, jovial host greeted his enthusiastic audience, gaining some applause in return, then he introduced the main guest of the evening, David Colton – Jonathan recognized the guy – it was the same politician who had been talking about the importance of charity just a week ago on the news.

Colton looked a bit stiff, smiling unnaturally wide. As the applause died out and the first question was asked, he didn’t move for a good few seconds, as if he didn’t even hear it. Jonathan couldn’t shake off the impression that the man was either on some medications or very, very stressed.

“David?” The host tried again as the uncomfortable silence dragged for too long. “Will you tell us about your foundation? We are all dying to know more.”

“No, Sam,” said Colton with a strangled voice, his face still kind of strange – more like a mask with a very fake smile and a dead look in his eyes. “First, I want to talk about my teenage years.”

“OK, let’s hear your story,” the host agreed, happily, probably determined to get anything at all from his non-cooperative guest. “I’ve heard you were an overachiever. A football player, a class president and even a prom king. Isn’t that right, David?”

“No. I was a selfish bastard who tormented less popular kids. I called them unfair names, put them in a locker, and made other boys beat them up just for a sake of it.”

The audience gasped at this confession. The host’s jaw dropped for a good five seconds.

Jonathan smiled to himself, satisfied that his intuition had not failed him.

“I was a popular kid so I never took the blame for my misbehavior,” Colton continued with a very calm and steady voice, his face showing no emotion. When the camera took a closeup on him, Jonathan noticed a tiny little detail – a 10/6 card sticking out of his boutonnière.

“I never cared for others' wellbeing either, this charity-thing is just for show. I only care for the fame and attention. In fact, you may say I’m not even a human being. I’m an ugly, stinking, lying chimpanzee.”

As soon as Colton finished his last line, an inhuman howl escaped his mouth. The audience screamed in terror. Colton suddenly jumped onto a couch he previously sat on, and he started to act like a real monkey.

Sam – the host – went utterly speechless, he jumped up from his own seat and just stood there, stunned.

Colton, screeching and howling like a mad chimpanzee, grabbed a glass of water from the tabletop and threw it at the host.

“Help, somebody help!” the poor host started screaming.

Meanwhile, Colton was jumping up and down on a couch, making “Ooh, aah!” sounds.

Before the security managed to catch him, Colton already had taken off his pants and his white, hairy ass was revealed for all of Gotham to see.

After that, the show was hurriedly cut off and the weather forecast started.

Professor Crane didn’t even notice that all the other rogues had joined him on the couch, and were now staring at the TV like a bunch of little kids watching their favorite cartoon.

“Well, that was definitely one way to destroy someone’s political career,” Nygma commented with a hint of amusement.

“A few more minutes and he would have started throwing his own poo,” Ivy added with a disgusted frown.

“Poo,” Crock giggled like a five-year-old and everyone else had to roll their eyes. “I like monkeys, monkeys are so stupid.”

“Well, actually, chimpanzees are…”

“Oh, shut up, Nygma!” Both Ivy and Crane growled as one and Edward went quiet.

“Anyway, Tetch should be back with us any minute now,” Pamela concluded with all certainty. “I hope his little revenge was worth a punch in the teeth from the Bat and getting dragged back to Arkham.”

Professor Crane didn’t say a word but he knew from an experience that yes, it was totally worth it.

[literatehiss]

Severed Shadows

Day 3 of JonPeter Week - Power swap & Hiding Peter hides from a fearsome creature Jon hunts down his dumbass partner Read on AO3 here Pitch black mist swirled around the figure’s boots and up around his body, shrouding him in a deep shadow just in time for the Hunter to stalk past. He watched as his pursuer pried open a door, moving to go inside and he couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped past his hand. The Hunter went still, turning slowly as it's cat-like yellow eyes traced over the shadows where Peter was hiding.

Peter had always felt safe in the dark, even as far back as his early childhood, hiding from his family in the shadowy, unused rooms of Moorland House. He could always depend on the darkness to shroud his form and keep him away from others. But this Hunter knew he was here, not able to see him exactly but that was only a matter of time. He watched a grin slip over the face of his Hunter as the other man slowly slinked forward to where Peter had plastered himself against the wall. His Hunter's eyes searching the deep shadows for a hint of his prey. Peter held his breath as those yellow eyes settled right onto him. A clawed hand reached into the shadows and as soon as it made contact with him, Peter felt the dark mist fade away from his form. The claws pricked at his arm through his coat as his Hunter moved forward to pin him against the wall. 

Sharp eyes and sharper teeth looked at him in glee.

"Got you"

Jon, similarly, had found his own calling in childhood. Used to being the prey of larger, meaner bullies, Jon was quite eager to pick up the self defense book that his grandmother had found in her search to keep him occupied. He flicked past the bookplate and began reading. What began as a subtle urge to stand up for himself, twisted and turned and grew into an obsession with hunting down those same bullies. As a child, his bullies had hurt him but done no real damage, unfortunately Jon did not extend to them the same courtesy, news reports of wild animal attacks that made a warm bloom of pride each time he heard of it.

He had met Peter two years before, hunting down the man's ex-husband of all things. Peter had warned him that Elias was a little out of Jon's league but had, for a reason unknown to Jon, asked him out for coffee. A friendship that grew as Peter pointed out the less dangerous of the avatars he knew (and didn't particularly like) and Jon mauled whoever had made the poor decision to irritate Peter. 

Jon stared up at the man he had pinned to a wall, Peter a little flushed from fear but still smirking at his Hunter. Jon stretched up, snapping playfully at Peter's wandering hands before pressing in for a kiss. This was one of Jon's favourite games, Peter could be so hard to find when he didn't want to be, Jon supposed he was lucky that there was nothing Peter loved more than to be found by Jon. So invested in the kiss, Jon overbalanced slightly, Peter's arms reaching out to stabilise him, the only thing stopping Jon from falling over completely. Peter chuckled, pulling his Hunter to him more securely.

"Don't worry, I've got you."

[ash-rabbit]

Abitc: Chapter 9 cuts

Before I go into why what's below was cut, I'm going to preface this by saying that due to how I write:

This is not beta read, I send the chapter their way when it's done. And I haven't given this my own layer of gratuitous edits. I edit as I write, usually tweaking lines and moments to better flow to where I want to go, sometimes this includes gouging out 2.5 pages of writing.

Anyway here's why I cut 2.5 pages.

It simply took too long, chapter 9 is already 15 pages (7650 words). This would come in around pg 9, and I don't think I could have concluded it in any satisfying or timely way. I'm not going to have a 10,000 word chapter unless it's the ending of an Arc, ala ch 6&7 which was split into something more easily digestible. And my intentions went off the rails by Elias electing to make an especially stupid decision. It halts the progression of events, and doesn't tell us anything that's pertinent. It feels like filler, especially if I followed this thread to it's end.

And most important of all I don't like it.

He skulks into his dark office, slips his throw over his head and tosses his blazer to his right. No use putting this off, but a harmless Leitner was a rarity in itself. Though, there was a copy of ‘Goodnight Moon’ that was liable to be harmless. So long as it didn’t blow up the moon it should be fine.

He walks back out and ignores their raised eyebrows as he tugs the blanket tighter. “A copy of ‘Goodnight Moon’ will be our choice of reading, I’d recommend that three of us should hold an artefact that can counter a theorised side effect of the book.” He pauses, waiting for any sort of reply.

“The children’s book?” Sarah exclaims, followed shortly by a yelp as someone, likely Rosie jabs her. Michael’s much too polite for assault.

“I don’t- I can handle a proper demonstration.” He can hear Michael’s frown, but Elias doesn’t care for any larger risks then necessary.

“It was at the top of my list for Rosie’s training.” Elias scans the shelf for the slim volume, it sits beside Jon’s ‘Mr. Spider’ which is as poor an omen as any. “Leitner’s are something of a different animal, and if any of you would like to guess what wild effects the book can have, please go ahead.”

“What is the Moon’s destruction?” Sarah’s amusement sits thick in her voice, coating her words in a playful lilt.

“We don’t have an artefact for that.” Elias laughs. Saying goodnight was a form of goodbye, that would be loneliness? Or maybe he was overthinking it and it would simply turn off all the lights. It’s been awhile, and he can’t just run off to a bookstore to check. “I’ll mark you down for the removal of light sources.” A ‘Hand of Glory’ or other objects that dealt with sight, Beholding as Mikaele and Jon preferred to call it, seemed an easy counter. Though would any fire starter suffice? Hm, best to pull one of those down as well in case they needed to dispose of the book. Reality warping was a possibility, the pseudo erasure of things could be untwisted? If anything it would act as an interesting third control, though perhaps, the reader would be a separate subject, and they’d need a pure control for the best observable results.

He grabs the book and doubles back to the table, scratching out his theories on a scrap of paper.

“Fine- um- it’s a children's book, and those are uh fantasies.” Michael starts, and while he’s on the right track, ‘Goodnight Moon’ is hardly a fantasy. “So I guess that if it does do something it would be drawing the fantasy out here?”

“Reality warping.” Elias nods, seems there’s a general consensus on this at least.

“There’s no guarantee that it’ll be anything like the original, we’ve had cases where whole sections were rewritten in a gruesome parody.” Rosie says, and that’s a fair point as well. “For all we know it could be a- I don’t know a way of disappearing someone.”

“I’ll mark that down as carnivorous literature.” Elias sighs, before holding the page out towards Rosie. “Do you think there are other types of artefacts that could counteract any of our theories?”

“What if the reader is stuck? Do we have a magical bucket of water, or do we just slap them in hopes of breaking the effect?” Rosie asks, though she knows the standard protocol, passing the paper to Sarah. Right of course, the Archives crew wouldn’t know.

“We remove the book while wearing gloves, or set it on fire.” Arson tended to solve most problems, not all of them unfortunately, but enough to be an easy fallback.

“And in the worst case scenario?” Rosie presses, slipping between the shelves, her movements are purposeful, her two weeks alone must have been productive.

“I suppose we can give Gertrude a warning, just a ‘If you don’t hear anything from us in, say twenty minutes, assume the worst.’” He shrugs, before frowning, right then. “Not it.” He’s had enough of management for one day, and if he’s lucky a large enough mess can be a tidy excuse to escape Wright later.

“Not it!” Michael and Sarah chime.

“I- how old are you people?” Rosie huffs, stepping back into the open research area, arms full of misc objects that Elias only vaguely remembers. Hng, he’ll probably just use the monocle in his office, it was dependable and the side effects weren’t any different then his normal brand of paranoia. Assumedly of course, it’s been a while since he was without a buffer, supernatural or otherwise.

Rosie grumbles as she kicks off her heels, pulling out another set of shoes, black and lowheeled with little bows on the toes. Another set of shoes? Where on Earth? Why?

“I’ll be back, don’t start without me.” And she flits off towards the Archives.

“Right then, we can parse out who does what.” He drags the blanket further over his head as they turn towards him. “I need to fetch something from the office but I’m sure you can decide between the two of you who’s better suited to reading or acting as an observer.”

He traces his eyes over the small office, now where did he put- Ah, there it is, wedged under his desk. He pulls out the damaged monocle and watches as it swings like a pendulum, the cracks catching the light with a peculiar shine.

He hasn’t tested the object since, hasn’t had the occasion or much cared to. Would the effects be amplified or would it be rendered completely null from damage and what he can only assume was something amounting to overuse? Only one way to find out. He wedges it into place, slipping his blazer back on so he can safely notch the chain through the lapel hole. Elias keeps the blanket on as he shuffles back out.

Michael and Sarah seem to have come to a conclusion and it would seem the power of the lens was only magnified by the incident. He sways under the sight of it all, there’s a sort of afterimage of thousands of eyes winking in and out of existence across the room. Bile rises in the acrid tangs of burnt coffee and curdled cream, this was unexpected.

He needs to sit down. Now.

So he does. Practically collapsing on the spot as he gathers himself beneath the throw, dragging it over his eyes. The world goes dark and he breathes, short and quick, a cold sharp breath that mingles with the burbling nausea.

He wraps his fingers around the chain, and tugs. Once, short and light, it doesn’t budge. Twice, more forcefully, a stern yank, nothing. His breath quickens. He grabs the frame of it and tries to pry it away with trembling hands.

It doesn’t budge.

Fuck.

Right then.

“Good news everyone,” he says, swallowing his tremors the best he can, hardly a waver apparent as he digs his nails into his thighs. “We don’t need to test the Leitner.”

“Are you, er alright?” Sarah asks.

“The bad news is, we have a different artefact issue.” he tugs the blanket down and regrets it immediately as a thousand eyes bore into him and find him wanting.

Don’t get sick, don’t get sick, don’t look them in the eye and- he fumbles for a cigarette.

The nicotine does nothing and he finds the sick rising faster.

[zankivich]

The Assistant: Shawn Mendes x Personal Assistant: A One-shot

a/n: this is just me seeing if I could even still write for this man tbh. I’ve been getting very good at separating my emotions about the pr stunt, and I think that’s because I literally have blocked it from my social media in every way, shape, or form. Honestly when I wrote this I envisioned a black woman because that’s just where I’m at in life, but I never specified so....do with it what you will. K bye. 

WARNINGS: mutual pining, fluff, love.

“Stop it, jackass.”

“No Shawn, seriously. Stop!”

“Stop! We’re going to be late, and if I have to hear Andrew complain one more time about it, I’m kicking your ass, do you hear me?!”

Being the personal assistant to Shawn Mendes is basically the best job in the world. You got to travel all the time. You got to learn more about the music industry than your internship at a record label had ever taught you. And he just happened to be the sweetest, most wholesome person on the planet. Except for when he was getting on your goddamn nerves. This just happened to be his favorite past time.

You’d been his PA for four years and no one knew him better. You knew his coffee order, what size underwear he wore, and the brand of cough medicine he trusted most. You knew what made him scared in life, what one sigh meant from another when it came past his lips, and when he was hungry or tired or emotional. What you hadn’t been prepared for was for Shawn to learn these things about you. And what you should have prepared yourself for was the trouble that this would bring.

Shawn had spent the last twenty minutes playing with some nerf gun that Brian had bought. He thought it would be a wonderful idea to see if he could hit you with it from multiple points around his hotel room. Shawn was usually business all the time, and so you loved any opportunity for him to get to relax and be a twenty-one year old. He had taken advantage of this and was more excited for a nerf battle than the business meeting he needed to be at in forty-five minutes.

“You have goooooot to relax a little bit.” He sighed rolling his eyes and dropping the gun.

He made his way over to you and slid his oversized palms onto your shoulders. Screw him. He was so warm and tall and chiseled. Dumb. So dumb.

“I could relax a lot more if you just let me do my job.” You pouted.

He snorted softly and let his thumb touch your chin.

“Is this you pouting now? You’re gonna try and guilt trip me with a pout?”

“That depends....Is it working?”

He licked his lip and you honestly could have swung on him. There was no need for him to behavior is such a sensual matter. Damn him.

“I’ll get my shoes on.” He hummed in defeat. “Just don’t be sad.”

You smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

He paused for a second, his hands still poised on your shoulders. There’s a moment of silence where it’s just the two of you looking at each other. You up at the mammoth you called a boss, and him down at you with those honey brown eyes. You hated when he looked at you this way, like he might wanna try something, like he might actually care about you the way that you cared about him. All it did was cause you unnecessary hurt, and very vivid daydreams.

See there’s a running joke in the Shawn Mendes team. If you want Shawn to do anything, then you simply just call y/n. The two of you were closer than closer, and he seemed to trust you with his life. Eventually you had become friends. Close friends. And so it suddenly became less “go buy me a juice” and more “can I lay my head in your lap until my migraine passes”. When the road was cold and lonely and he had no one, it was you he cuddled up to. For Shawn it was the convenience of it. You were there and you could provide him with what he needed. But for you? God touching him was like lightning. And you hated every second where it wasn’t real, where it didn’t mean the same thing to him. More than anything you hated the way that you loved it, because it meant being in his orbit.

“Go get your shoes on. Please?” You whispered.

He nodded slowly and pulled away finally giving you a moment to breathe.

The ride to this meeting was a quiet one. You struggled with Shawn’s affectionate touches and the ridiculously soft glances. Every now and again it got to be too much, and you had to preserve yourself if you were going to stay afloat. Working for Shawn was a joy, but that didn’t stop it from hurting sometimes.

The car pulled up to the destination and Shawn went to open his door only to stop when you didn’t follow him.

“Aren’t you coming?” He asked.

You shook your head. “I’m gonna go pick up your suit for your party.”

“Oh...Well you’re still coming to the party right?”

“Of course. I’m on duty, Shawn.”

He frowned. “No you’re not. I invited you as a friend.”

“Yea well Andrew knows better than to let you go to an open party with alcohol without me, so...I’ll be there regardless.”

“Okay well...I’m sorry you have to put up with me for the night.” He mumbled closing the door.

You sighed and let your head fall back against the headrest. Now you were both in a bad mood. Ugh.

***

New Year’s Eve was testing your patience. Here you were looking good as hell, ass all poised and waiting to be grabbed. What did you get instead? Nothing. Not a look, not a squeeze. You took another sip out of your vodka soda and went to stand up only to figure out that the previous two drinks before it, were a little stronger than you remembered. Shit.

“Woops! I’m sorry!” You gasped knocking into someone behind you.

“Sorry I--Oh, hey.”

You bit you lip and peered up at Shawn. The suit looked even better on him now then it did when he first stepped into it. And then there were his rosey cheeks and the heat of the room getting to his curls by the moment. He was absolutely stunning, and you couldn't believe you were about to enter another year of being practically suffocated by the weight of him.

“Hi.” You murmured reaching one of his arms to stabilize yourself. “How are you doing?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been alright. It’s been kinda hard to have fun though. My best friend’s been MIA.”

You snorted. “Is that so?”

“Yep. She got mad at me earlier, and I’m not really quite sure why. Perhaps you could tell me. I hear men are pretty dumb.”

You let your body weight lean into him, and sighed happily when his hands fell to your waist. Usually you’d do anything to stay away from this kind of contact, but vodka is a hell of a thing.

“It’s fine. I’m over it.” You assured him.

His eyebrows scrunched together at your words. That sort of Canadian pout of his. It was extremely effective.

“See, but I don’t even understand why you do that. Sometimes it’s like you're pissed at me, and then maybe you decide to get over it all without ever telling me what I’ve done in the first place.”

“Look let’s just enjoy the night, huh? It’s New Year’s Eve. All your friends and family are here. Let’s not make it more complicated.”

“Fine. But only if you promise to stop sulking in a corner and come have fun with me.” He mumbled. “I’ve like missed you all day.”

It was moments like that that you just wanted to shake him and yell. How could he not see what he was putting you through? How was it not incredibly obvious how in love you were with him? But you could tell just by the look on his face that he was being as sincere as ever. Shawn was just too kind for his own good, and for yours apparently.

“Yea, okay. Let’s have fun.”

*two hours later*

You are drunk. And the only reason you know how drunk you are is because you’ve lost your ability to measure other people’s drunkness. As far as your ass is concerned, everyone is living their best life and no one is any drunker than one another. Dumb. You should have known Shawn was drunk off his ass the minute he started hugging strangers. But alas, if Andrew’s expectation was that you were meant to keep him out of trouble then...you just might be fired tomorrow.

“You smell amazing.” Shawn whispered in your ear as he threw himself onto your back, arms wrapping tightly around you. “Where have you been all my life?”

You giggled. “I’ve been here, kiddo. You know, controlling your day to day life, keeping you afloat?”

“Not like that. I mean...I mean like...where have you been ya know?” He mumbled taking a sip out of a champagne bottle.

Sober you would’ve gotten him straight to bed at this point. Drunk you was a little dumber.

“No I don’t!”

“You just...God you’re so beautiful ya know?” He huffed bringing your foreheads together. “It drives me crazy.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Y/n I--”

“Shawn!”

And just like that, one minute the boy you like is hovering over you with heart eyes and the next his friends are practically picking him up. Jon, Brian, and Connor descended like wolves, quickly rushing Shawn away from you.

“We’ll be right back!” Bryan called over his shoulder.

You were left to your own devices and the only thing you could think to do in your drunken state was...to go complain to Aalyiah about how dumb her brother was. You know, like a crazy person.

“Hey what’s wrong?” She asked softly, not nearly as drunk as you. It must have been the whole underage thing.

You shook your head. “Your brother is an idiot.”

“Oh I’m aware. But why in particular is he an idiot this time?”

“He just can’t communicate jackshit unless it’s in a song. Can’t tell anyone how he feels. Just likes to stick his dumb, big head everywhere with his dumb big eyes and his dumb smile. I’m sick of it, ya know?”

Aaliyah smiled softly at you and squeezed your shoulder.

“Oh you poor thing. You want me to talk to him?”

You eyes widened. “No. Oh no, ‘Lyiah, not at all. I was just blowing off steam.”

“Uh huh…”

“No seriously. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

She rolled her eyes. “But y/n--”

“No promise me!”

“Alright, alright, Jeez. I promise.” She groaned. “But for the record if this is how complicated adults liking each other is, I want no part in it.”

“‘Liking’? Who said anything about liking?”

“Oh y/n...Please.”

“I liked you better when you were younger and shyer.”

*meanwhile in the corner on the opposite side of the party*

“What the hell guys!” Shawn muttered still trying to peer over the heads of people to see y/n.

Jon clicked his fingers in front of his face. “Excuse me? You told us not to let you get carried away with y/n tonight, remember?”

“...No. not really. And I retract my statement, now if you’ll excuse me...Goddamit, guys!”

They weren’t budging. And Shawn was pretty sure he was thinking clearer than he had in years. Save for the bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Bro, stop being an idiot, you’re blowing my high here!” Brian yelled at him. “You don’t want to fuck things up with y/n remember? You don’t want to mix business with pleasure! These are your words.”

“But...But...she’s so pretty.” He whined closing his eyes in despair. “So pretty.”

Jon snorted. “Oh to be young and in love. What a travesty.”

“Look we’ve got ten minutes until the ball drops. Let’s get you a fresh bottle of champagne and try to relax, aye?”

Shawn couldn’t quite do anything but pout.

“Fine. Let me go dammit.”

And thus the two were separate as the party began to re-hype for the ball drop. Brian got Shawn a bottle of champagne, his friends surrounding him on all sides so that he didn’t make any mistakes. Y/n was left to chill back in her corner. Without Shawn to hang out with, and his friends--which used to be her friends--being assholes, it was a lost cause.

At some point you were just waiting for the night to end. You wanted to go back to your hotel and sleep and forget all about Shawn’s dumb face when he told you how beautiful you were. What a joke. This whole night was a joke. Usually Jon and you would’ve spent the whole night making fun of all the white people, Connor would have hung on your hip like he always tended to do. Even Brian was a cocky son of a bitch who let you give it right back to him. But Shawn didn’t want to be near you for some reason. Friends. Yea right.

It wasn’t until everyone begin counting that you realized you weren’t in the mood at all. The excitement. The joy. It just wasn’t there. So you decided to leave. Meanwhile, at the clock struck midnight, Shawn busted open a bottle of champagne to spray his friends with. It’d been a hell of a year and he knew he deserved to celebrate a little bit. So the hugs go all the way around and he squeezes them tight enough that he hopes they know how much he loves them. He’s drunk and he’s happy and when those two things happen there’s typically on one person he wants to share that with. But it only takes one look around the room to see you’re not there. And that’s the opposite of what he wanted.

“Hey! Hey! Have you seen y/n?” He asked Jon who had quickly discovered his girlfriend’s throat after the ball drop.

“No man. And you shouldn’t either.” He huffed.

But Shawn had no time for his friend’s bullshit. This was the woman of his dream they were talking about here.

Brian was practically tripping balls and extremely ineffective. Connor was sympathetic but hadn’t seen her. His next best guess was Aaliyah, who was looking a little wobbily like maybe she’s stolen a drink or two. (He was too drunk and too fixated on y/n to remember that he’d been the one to give them to her).

“Sis, have you seen y/n? I can’t find her anywhere!”

She rolled her eyes. “No! But she probably got tired of the games and went back to her room.”

“What games? What are you talking about?”

“She’s tired of you acting like you want her until it gets too serious and then backing away and pretending you’re just friends. It’s bullshit and it hurts and she probably got fed up. Let me guess tonight’s plan was to have the guys keep you away from her?”

Having a sixteen year old sister who’s smarter than you is truly terrible.

He stared at her dumbfounded. “I…”

“Yea, that’s what I thought. Look if you don’t want to be with her just leave her alone. She’s not some play toy, alright?”

“I’m not--that’s not even remotely what’s going on!” He muttered at her.

“Well that’s what it looks like! Women aren’t stupid and you’re not clever, dumbass. Stop messing with her. It’s driving her crazy.”

He rubbed his hands over his face thankful when the music finally cut down as people took the time to huge and squeeze their loved ones for the new year. His little sister had never been one to let him off the hook, and it was nice to know some things weren't going to change in 2020.

“I’m in love with her!” He bursted. “I’ve been in love with her since the moment I saw her, and I didn’t want to let her go, okay? She’s amazing at her job and she’s my best friend. And I need her in my life. So, I thought I’d rather have a part of her forever than ever face the possibility of losing her. She’s not some plaything alright...she’s--she’s everything.”

And just like that the anger on her face twisted to happiness and she quickly reached to pat him on the shoulder. Teenage girls were practically navy seals mixed with ninjas or some shit.

“See, now was that so hard?”

“Look don’t take this the wrong way but I think you might be a sociopath.”

Aaliyah rolled her eyes again and pointed over his shoulder. He turned to see y/n standing there with her jacket in hand looking about as shocked as he felt. Suddenly the room was much warmer than he remembered, and his hair felt sweaty against eh back of his next. The cat was out of the bag.

“H--How much of that did you hear?” He asked you, walking slowly in your direction.

You bit your lip. “I showed up around the ‘love’ part.”

“Oh...okay. Do you wanna--can we maybe go somewhere and talk?”

“I don’t know. I’m drunk. You’re drunk. I’d probably just go to sleep thinking I made the shit up.”

He shook his head. “That couldn’t be y/n. I meant it. Every word.”

“Yea? Then prove it.”

“Prove it? How?”

“I don’t know! I’m drunk, shit.” You whined.

He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling and stalked closer to you until you had to peer up in order to see him. His warmth was intoxicating, the smell of campagne still fresh on his lips. This is dangerous territory. There are witnesses. No room for him to go back when he changes his mind in the morning. His fingers cup your cheek.

“Shawn.” You warned jaw going slack in his grip.

“You drive me absolutely crazy, you know that?” He whispered, breath fanning your face.

“Yea, the feeling is mutual...Don’t play with me right now.”

“I’m not. I swear to you. We can figure the rest out tomorrow, but for now, I love you.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

There were tears in your eyes threatening to fall, and your body as lose as it was from the alcohol was still struggling to let go. You’d dreamt about these words long enough that reality has begun to blur. Who knows what’s real and what isn’t.

“I mean it.” He hummed so softly against your lips. “I mean it, I mean it, I mean it. I love you. Let me show you.”

Leave it to your New Year’s kiss to come fifteen minutes late. But there’s not a care in the world when his lips are on yours. Your toes dig into the carpet as you lean up to kiss him something soft and chaste turning more dominant by the second. If this was a dream, let them never wake you up. Because it felt so real. So right. So soft.

“Happy New Year sweetheart.” He whispered against your ear.

And a happy new year it was.

The End.

Taglist: 

@liliane106 @wokeupinjapanisabop @sinplisticshawn @lifeoftheparty74 @xeuphorically-moonstruck @euphoric05 @daijanicole @bruhh-whateven @learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @decewill @goldiean @bitchacho25 @bruhh-whateven @justbeingoceana @loveylangdon @iloveshawnieboi @september-lace @disaster-rose @dimestorebieber22 @sinplisticshawn@MixerMani  @justbeingoceana @qcoachcartier @simpledomain @kamahriii @lifeoftheparty74 @valedictorian65

[miss-choco-chips]

Soul Shards part 4

I have nothing to say for myself. Don’t kill me? I tried to edit this, but it’s longer than what I’m used to, so I probably fucked up somewhere along the way.

This... will probably need another part. Or should I leave it like this? I dunno.

Enjoy!

~~~.~~~.~~~

Timothy’s eyes shone hatefully. It was the most beautiful shade of icy blue he had ever seen. Even if the emotion was such a dark one, they weren’t empty anymore.

-It’ll be over soon -he shushed, slowly sinking to his knees and bringing the man into his lap, almost engulfing him between arms and firm chest, as if to protect him from the pain that was coming from deep inside; distantly, he heard Kon and Jon’s voices as they approached, their concern obvious but unimportant at the moment-, you just have… a lot of emotional catching up to do.

~~~.~~~.~~~

16   -   21

The young man raised his eyes from the documents he was revising, merely glancing over Damian’s case files.

-Zsasz -was all he said, before going back to his own thing. 

Damian a year ago might have gotten mad, thinking Timothy was sprouting spur of the moment lies to get him to stop nagging him. He knew better now, that the man didn’t need more than a second of looking at his carefully collected evidence to make a verdict.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t curious, though.

-How? -was all he asked, giving the file a closer look, trying and failing to see what the other could- He was at Arkham at the time of the crimes, there’s witnesses and video evidence. 

Timothy didn’t seem to be paying attention to him any longer, answering by rote but not taking his empty eyes from his own work.

-Not Zsasz himself, but not a copycat either. This is the work of a lover, or someone romantically interested in the bastard. Could be a courting gift, a mean to attract his attention, or both. Look deeply into any woman…

-Or man, or both, or neither -he felt compelled to add. Timothy shrugged, but his soul gave an approving humm.

-... or man, or both, or neither -the detective conceded, dropping his papers in favor of his coffee cup and tablet-, visiting him this last few months, or that could have benefited from any of Zsasz murders; maybe he unknowingly saved someone by killing their abuser or something like that, and they fell for him. Think Misa Amane from Death Note.

As he did any time Drake dropped a reference, Damian made a mental note to check this out. At least, “Death note” sounded more his style than the time he had to watch both Mean Girls movies.

-How do you know it’s a love interest and not, say, an apprentice?

Without dropping his cup, and balancing the tablet against his legs where he was sitting on the couch, Timothy raised his other hand and pushed one of Damian’s papers across the coffee table towards him. One of the autopsy’s photos.

-The cuts. Zsasz usually makes them all across the body, picking certain places that would make his victims bleed to death as slowly and painfully as he feels like. These, instead, are focused on the chest area, almost circling the person’s heart. In this one, a victim that was murdered specifically on Valentine's day, the cuts are even closer to it, almost framing the heart. 

-...I can see it -he muttered, eyes widening. After two weeks of useless tumbling around this case, it was only when he caved and went to Timothy for help that he finally had some possible lead on it. And, as every time he did this before, a few minutes was all he needed to figure it out and to point him in the right direction.

-I’d hurry, if I were you. The least thing Gotham needs is a new villian power couple, a “Harley and Joker” take two. It was just too good when she left him for Ivy, so don’t allow anyone else to take their places as the criminal lovers of the city.

Damian nodded and went back to his files on Zsasz, energies and will renewed. Timothy ignored him once again in favor of his own things, and silence enveloped them. He didn’t mind; the icy blue soul’s warm encouragement was all he needed.

----.----

-It has grown -commented the older of the two, watching from the corner of his eye the souls on Damian’s lap. They had to fight some sea monsters at the beach, and sand had gotten into his pouch, so he stopped at the earliest chance to clean it up.

It was the first time Timothy saw his soul in years. Damian had being careful to not take it out around him, scared it might spook the man into leaving.

If anything, he seemed curious.

-It has? -he asked, dropping his own back on its hiding place and rising the other to eye level- It still fits in my palm the same way it always did.

Timothy rolled his eyes.

-Yeah, and your hand is the exact size it was when you were twelve? Brat, you are already taller than me -wipe that smile off your face, we both knew this day would come. You grew, and if it still fits the same, it’s only logical that it did as well. You probably didn’t notice because you see it all the time, and since your soul has also grown, there’s no sure way for you to compare them and realize it.

Amazed, and more than a little happy, Damian examined it closer. He was right, of course; now that it was brought to his attention, he couldn’t unsee it.

-A soul grows and thrives on multiple things -kept going the other, shaking his head to get as much sand as possible off his hair-, both positive or negative.

Damian knew this, has seen the sheer size of the Joker’s rotten soul, doubled after his latest killing spree: it fed on the pain of his victims. It was a disgusting sight, but one that proved just how different the psychopaths they fought saw life, and how unlikely it was they’d ever stop.

-And in this case? -he asked, refraining himself from saying ‘your’ instead of ‘this’.

A shrug- If I had to guess, love, like most people’s. It was what always healed me, time and time again, growing up; love for my friends, parents, family, people I liked… It started to shrunk when half the people I cared for died, and the other half didn’t seem to want my feelings nor return them. Poor, past-me’s soul was starved to death. You seem to have it well fed, tough. 

It was said tonelessly, but Damian felt two sizes taller all the same. The soul at hand seemed to shine in front of his eyes (although it was probably just the sun’s reflection), and a quick succession of images flashed across his eyes.

Kon El, Bart Allen, Cassie Sandsmark and a few other heroes he recognized from Drake’s old Young Justice photos, going out of their way to seek him out and keep him company in his self imposed soulless exile.

Grayson, Father and Todd sitting quietly at the Cave’s Red Robin memorial (with cracked glass; The Red Hood hadn’t reacted well the first time he saw it), sharing stories of the man as they knew him: brother, son, childhood friend.

Cain and Brown, sitting back to back, holding the other’s soul shard; Brown delightedly absorbing the love Timothy had put in Cain’s icy blue compass, and the other carefully caressing the almost black locket, cocooning it in her hands, as if trying to breath emotions back into the almost empty thing.

Himself, tirelessly looking for information on the man years ago, following him around more recently. Taking hits for him during the times they worked together, doing his best to keep Grandfather away, sneakily replacing his coffee for decaf.

(taking care of his body)

Holding the precious icy blue orb in his palms, cradling it against his chest when sleeping or fondling with it between his fingers when troubled or distracted. Constant, tender touch. Never damaging it. Never leaving it alone. Never ignoring the feelings it sent his way.

(taking care of his soul)

Timothy looks indifferent, typing away at his new phone (he changed them almost every day, no doubt to keep Oracle or Father from finding him), but his soul reacts beautifully to Damian’s thoughts.

Fed by love, indeed.

-----.----

17  -  22

After he saved some children and comforted them during patrol, when he had (briefly) the upper hand against Cain in a spar, when he successfully talked Todd down from blowing up a building, when he stood firm against father in order to protect Jon, Colin and the rest of his friends from a scolding, when he tried (and failed) to help Alfred bake Grayson a cake for his birthday… each time, he would feel a tug from the not-so-little-anymore orb, and when he took it out of his pouch to inspect it, he’d always see a new, beautiful green and gold spot slowly dying the area surrounding the core. 

Little specks of his colours, appearing here and there at times that seemed random to him, but evidently were appreciated by Drake’s soul. 

It scared him so badly he could barely sleep without nightmares. Because, even if it meant tentatively good things (he was leaving a mark on Timothy where not even Todd had reached, was securing himself a way into his heart), it also meant a change. 

What if, after all his efforts, this made impossible for Drake's soul to fit into his body after all?

After the soulless man had pointed it out for him, he begun to notice things. Not only the suddenly appearing, breathtaking looking spots on the icy blue sea of his soul, but how it seemed to shine more with each passing moment, how the feelings it gave off were more intense (it had come as a surprise; he would never had guessed they were muted before, until he was almost blown away by the soul’s rage after an encounter with Deathstroke left Nightwing at death’s doors), how the small little bumps and dents in it were filled out as the soul grew, healthier and prettier. 

It had grown so full of feelings, so strong, he feared. What if, even if he got Timothy to take it back, his body couldn't accept it due to its changes? Or what if the accumulated feelings were too much for him to take, to process? He certainly had some emotional baggage to catch up to, and he had little to no information on soulless people accepting their core back to properly  predict what outcome they might face.

He was scared by the changes. He was excited about his colours slowly taking space into Timothy’s soul. He couldn’t rest properly anymore.

The soul was a faithful companion on his long, sleepless nights. It spoke to him, in a language of feelings and abstract-like images he had come to learn with the years. It returned his love and care tenfold, in a way he knew only Drake, with his seemingly unending flow of emotions, could do.

A part of him (Wayne, hero, martyr) didn’t believe himself deserving of it. None on his family, with maybe Cain and Pennyworth as the exceptions, were worth the unconditional trust and loyalty Timothy bestowed upon them.

The part that was purely Al Ghul (proud, selfish, greedy) asked for moremoremore, and only himhimhim.

That didn’t help his insomnia.

Neither did Timothy’s warm comfort.

The feelings, on both ends, only grew.

-------.-------

When he finally gathered courage and went to the source, Timothy himself, to show him the changes on the orb, the man only hummed, undeterred in his task of cleaning the kitchennet of this small place he was using for the week. They were somewhere in Singapore, and Damian could see the sea from the living room window.

-It’s such a shame, really -he spoke, as his hands worked steadily and with the ease of familiarity on making both coffee and Damian’s favorite tea. Never let it be said he didn’t know how to host. Another muscle memory skill, no doubt.

-What is it?

-You fell victim to Robin’s Third Law. I thought you might have been excepted from it, but obviously not. So sad. If I had an Alexa, I’d have her play sad violin tunes.

Ignoring the last bit, he took his eyes from where he was comparing the blue and green souls (his and Drake’s), and glanced in his direction.

-Third Law?

He never heard of it before. He would remember if Father or Grayson told him about it.

-Hmm -he nodded, brining a tray with the beverages and cookies to the low table, taking his seat in front of Damian, back to the window (whether this was trust in him to watch out for him in case they were attacked, or he simply didn’t care, he didn’t know)-. It’s a theory I developed while Stephanie was Robin, and you only confirmed it for me. First Law: Each Robin shall have his or her Batgirl. Dick and Jason had Barbara, me and Steph (though very briefly on her case) had Cass, and you currently have Steph. Second Law: Each Robin will have either a Super, a Speedster, or both, as his or her friend and teammate. Dick had Wally, Jason Bizzarro, I had both Kon and Bart, Steph teamed up with Kara for a while there, and you have Jon.

Blinking rapidly, he nodded. It- it was too much of a coincidence. Timothy’s claims, as always, had their merit, no matter how far fetched it seemed to have three unescapable facts following the wearer of the Robin mantle.

-And the Third Law?

-Each Robin will fall in love with their predecessor, without a happy ending.

That stopped him cold, tea cup halfway to his mouth.

He knew?

It must have shown on his face, because the man rolled his eyes.

-Just because I don’t have feelings of my own any longer doesn’t mean I can’t recognize them on someone else. I told you, the soul that belonged to me -he nods in the direction of Damian’s lap, where he had placed the soul while they eat- thrived in love. It’s almost the size it was back then, when I was young, idealistic and stupid.

A sip of coffee. Timothy’s soul reached out tentatively, it’s metaphorical touch brushing Damian’s own, a wave of lamenting and corresponding. He didn’t want to focus on what it meant.

-Dick loved the boy he was, the little Robin his parents raised, that flew on the trapeze without a care on the world. That kid died the night his parents fell. Jason most likely had a crush on Dick back when he was Robin, though the way he was treated by him back then killed that tentative love. I know, because I studied him for years, until I learned everything there was to learn about my predecessor and friend.

Damian listened, but half his mind was on the unrelenting wave of feelings Timothy’s soul was sending his. There was a message there, but he was way too overwhelmed to understand it.

-Myself, well, since you have that thing -he pointed to Damian’s lap, then shrugged-, you must know about my hopeless, tortuous love for the bastard. You know, even though past me trained himself with a flight or fight response to him, it still took me some battle time to go for the fight one? My body couldn’t seem to settle into the idea of hurting him -he sighed, shaking his head- Stupid little brat.

-Th-then… What about… Brown did have you. Her... her love didn’t have a tragedy following.

TImothy merely raised an eyebrow.

-Even before she faked her death, I was kind of an asshole with her, always demanding she hang up the cape. Then, when she came back, I was so pissed and betrayed, I couldn’t even look in her direction as much as I couldn’t take my eyes away; from what I remember, it was hell. I’m pretty sure a part of her will always love past me, just like him would always love her a bit, but they’re never getting back to what they were. There’s just too much polluted water under the bridge.

-Her shard is almost completely black and empty -he muttered, eyes dragged against his will to the Icy blue (and green and gold, now) soul.

Timothy laded his head- Doesn’t surprise me. Kon, Bart and Cassie all have theirs in almost perfect shape, though some spots here and there are losing their colours. They were absolutely freaked out when it started to happen, came straight to me to yell about friendship, bonds and  shit like that. I’m guessing both Cass and Alfred’s pieces are the same -at Damian’s reluctant nod, he smirked- about time, too. 

Damian didn’t comment on it, because he was well aware of how much Drake wished for all his soul shards to go completely null. When that happened, his soul would have definitely died, no take backs. 

There was also the matter of the soul core, in Damian’s possession, that kept on thriving and growing, but Drake didn’t seem too worried about it, which scared Damian in turn. 

-And, lastly, young current Robin. In love -he smirked-, ah, no, corresponded love, judging by the green spots, with his predecessor. Tough luck. The soul might have feelings for you, but the body certainly doesn’t (muscle memory from back then is a bitch, isn’t it?), and those by themselves are not enough, are they? Such a tragedy.

He smirked while talking, empty eyes not really caring about Damian’s crushed heart. 

He hated him, a little, just then. Not nearly as much as he loved him, sadly.

-------.-------

Watching him through the monitors of the cave was such a normal thing for him to do, it no longer called to the attention of his family members. They just accepted it as one more of Damian’s oddities and moved on. 

Sometimes, Grayson or Todd would stop by. They would comment on some sparring mistake he made, or marvel at the mission report when Drake’s explanation on the thought process that drove him to solve it was beyond amazing, longing and pain lacing their words. 

Cain and Brown rarely accompanied him, but when they did, it was their choice on what to watch, and more often than not it was some funny, endearing thing, like Drake’s comm quips, or mask recordings on the cheesy puns he threw to his enemies.

Father never stayed, once Damian took a seat by the Batcomputer. It was beyond frustrating, his decision to pretend his son was dead, from the memorial to avoiding all talk of him unless forced. Timothy was out there, and Damian held in his pouch the answer to his predicament, but no, Father would sooner think him dead than deal with the emotional rollercoaster Damian was currently riding.

Timothy defied death itself when everyone else thought Father dead. He went toe to toe with  a devil like his Grandfather, and came out on top, for him. It angered him, not seeing such devotion returned. Todd’s death and later criminal career had undoubtedly messed with his emotional bonds with all his children, but this was just ridiculous. They fought over it, often. They fought a lot, these days; his older siblings said it was a rite of passage, to reach that moment when Robin was just done with Batman’s shit.

-Master Damian, you never showed up for supper. I took the liberty of bringing some leftovers for you to snack on here.

Lost as he was, both in thought and in footage of Timothy reaching a compromise with Poison Ivy, he had to repress a startled jump; it would be unbecoming of him, with all his training. Though, Pennyworth probably knew anyway. He always did.

-Thank you -he nodded, accepting the plate stacked with sandwiches. The old butler left a cool glass of water by the computer’s keyboard, and his eyes went up to the image of Timothy returning home after another successful mission. His tired eyes seemed to soften.

-How is Master Timothy fearing, young sir?

As sure as he was that everyone suspected him, only Alfred directly addressed the fact that Damian went to his old charge, time and time again. Even so, when he asked for “Master Timothy”, he always referred to the same.

Wordlessly, one hand holding a sandwich, he retrieved the soul next to his from the pouch. The spots weren’t bigger than last time, but more numerous.

One finger softly caressed the orb. He wouldn’t feel it, but Damian could, and it always warmed him the way Timothy’s soul reacted to the old butler’s touch.

-To think I let a young man under my care to go starved... -muttered the man. He hadn’t taken well when Damian confied on him the reason why the blue orb used to be so little.

-It was a shared mistake, Pennyworth. If anything -he nodded towards the man’s bowtie, where the small icy blue shard still shone- it’s evident how you -and Cain- were far from the worst perpetrators. The fault lies on the rest of us.

The man sighed- It’s such a shame, truly. Master Timothy was such a bright, full of life young man… his heart might have been naive, but it rarely steered him wrong.

While he spoke, the man went around Damian, reaching for the keyboard. A few clicks later, and a video file he never saw before was brought forth. Timothy’s young face appeared on the screen, and Damian paused, softly putting his glass back down.

On screen, his predecessor, down to his old Robin pants and no shirt, was finishing a training routine on the mats.This one, he didn’t recognize.

-I searched every bit of information on Drake, how…? 

As he asked, another figure appeared on screen, this time… an odd version of Nightwing. He started needling Timothy (the file lacked audio), seemingly asking for something the other kid wasn’t willing to provide. He kept shaking his head.

-I have every bit of photographic evidence of Master Richard’s… most questionable clothing choices password protected, least he finds a way to get rid of all of it. It’s for posterity’s sake, you understand? And to maybe help refrain him from trying his hand at “improvising a new suit” ever again.

Looking at his mentor’s mullet hair and deep v-neck, he can’t exactly bedrugde Alfred his counter measures. He’s feeling shame just by looking at a video, can’t even imagine what living through that must have been for the poor butler.

-Grayson’s fashion sense is sadly lacking, isn’t it?

-I wouldn’t call that fashion, Master Damian, nor sense. One could forgive and forget the first Robin suit, a circus child in need of colour and reminders of home. But this? -a stiff nod to the screen- This makes me worry for any children he might have. 

-I’ve been keeping him away from orphanages -he assures the old man, because at this point, it was a two on two battle, him and Pennyworth against Father and Grayson and their inability to keep their greedy paternal paws off of possible new family members.

-Good lad.

In silence, they watch as Nightwing goes off screen, returning later in civies. One would think anything would have been less of an eye sore, but the bright green pants, red sneakers and yellow shirt aren’t so much better than glitter and feathers in a skintight suit.

Shockingly, though, Timothy-on-screen seems to disagree. Graysons’ renewed efforts at convincing him of whatever he wanted bore fruits, and soon enough, both vigilantes left the scene. Automatically, the video started to reproduce again, on a loop.

Alfred hummed, taking back the empty tray- I would highly recommend you went upstairs to try and sleep, young Master. Your eyebags are two thirds the size Master Tim’s used to be, and that’s worrying on its own.

He wanted to protest, but the look on the old man’s face made him reconsider. There was very little any of them could do to repay Alfred for everything he did for the family. Easing his concern was just a start.

Silently, he closed the files he was revising and walked side by side with the butler. 

-I wonder what was what Grayson said, to make Timothy concede -he commented, while they slowly hailed back to the Manor.

-Nothing of great importance -was his answer-. Master Timothy’s will is a force to reckon, but he always found Robin to be his Achilles’ heel. The moment Master Dick changed into civies the colour of his first suit, poor lad had lost the battle.

The words kept spinning in his head, even after he went to bed.

It wasn’t a plan, not even the beginnings of one, and it lacked all the finesse and detail attention one of Timothy’s would have, but it was more than he had yesterday. 

A start.

------.------

He went to Kent with his idea. Conner. Kon El.

(Not Superboy. Not his Superboy, at least; just like he wasn’t his Robin)

He choose him, because he could fly them somewhere away from his Grandfather's ears. Because he was better at lying than the Impulse, and less noble and forthcoming than Wonder Girl. He trusted him more than he did Timothy’s other Young Justice old teammates.

But, more importantly, he knew Kent would be ready and willing to do whatever it took to get Drake back.

-You know it’s gonna hurt him -the clone pointed out, face serious and stony. He was already preparing himself mentally for the backslash of what they were going to do. His hand had raised up to the Icy blue earring. Out of everyone else, Cain and Pennyworth included, his soul shard was the brightest; his love and loyalty to Timothy never once wavered.

The soul in his pouch gave a warm wave of fondness. He suspects that, during Drake’s darkest hours, his best friend’s love was what kept the little orb fed. Even now, he felt it strengthen under Kent’s undying devotion.

-I know.

There was no question it would. If they succeeded, the onslaught of feelings would be far too much for anyone to handle. Timothy, awesome as he was in every other field, would not be the exception.

-He’s probably gonna hate me.

-No -he shakes his head, echoing on Timothy’s soul sentiments- He never could. You and the others… he’s weak to you. That’s why I’m asking for your help. I need you there first, to soften him up to the idea. Make him more… receptive.

A pause. Then:

-It’s me he’s going to hate.

-At first, for sure- the easy admission, from the mouth of someone as well (or better) versed in the mysteries and wonders of one Timothy Drake, hurt; then, the man continued- but I can promise you, it won’t stay in the way of your little love story for long. He will cave soon enough.

Startled, he looked into the meta’s eyes; mischief, but a shade of seriousness. He wasn’t lying.

-There is no love story. Only redemption for me, and a chance at happiness for him.

-Yeah, yeah, I know, you bats are all for ‘what’s right’ and ‘emotions and personal life are for the weak’. I’m just calling it like I see it, dude, and anyone can see how you look when you talk about him. And, honestly? It’s a little creepy, Edward Cullen style, the way you spent your entire teenagedhood pining after someone without actually interacting with him for almost half of it.

Multiple reactions raced through his mind. Embarrassment, denial, rage…

...resignation.

-I’m not worthy of his affections, not after everything. And even if I was, who’s to say the feelings his soul has now will be the same once it’s back with its rightful owner?

Kon El just sighed, something that sounded like ‘emotionally stunted bats’, and carefully placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. It was striking, realizing they were not so far in height now. He would never bulk up the way Superman’s clone had, but his body was closer to it than Timothy’s, or Grayson’s.

-I’ll let you in a secret. There’s one easy shortcut, straight to Tim’s heart. Though, maybe ‘straight’ isn’t the right word in this case.

-Shut up.

A smile- Trust me on this one. You’re already using that way, even if you don’t realize it -he clasped his hand tighter, and then released him- Well, gotta go. Showtime is in two days, right? Have to be ready. 

He was already taking off, when Damian’s brain to mouth filter seemed to break and he blurted out.

-What is this shortcut?

Still flying, the meta spin in place to face him, moving backwards. His smile was one part wistful, two parts sad.

-The fastest way for Tim to love you? Love him back. He’s a sucker for people giving him the barest scraps of affection, it would be impossible for him to resist someone wholeheartedly loving him.

-----.-----

18  -  23

All fell into place on Damian’s birthday.

The morning, he couldn’t escape his family. Grayson cried, of course, and  Father had his constipated-emotionally confused face on. Todd and Brown promised to take him to a bar, careful to make that claim where Pennyworth couldn’t hear them. Him and Cain were in charge of the cake (Cassandra’s latest focus of attention had been bakery, and she wanted to participate), and Damian spent half the day surrounded by their love and support. 

As promised, Jon came by mid afternoon to take him to ‘celebrate together’. He asked his family to wait for him awake, even if he came past the time patrol usually started. An odd request, but since he had asked for so little for his birthday, they couldn’t help but agree, Barbara going so far as to have The Birds of Prey ready to cover for them.

It was a long flight to Uruguay, but it was needed. He had taken note on how Drake was, more often than not, found on some seaside location. According to Grayson (and the multiple mission reports he had read on the subject), the tiniest Robin always seemed to like  and take comfort on the beach. It had become a small compulsion, probably one he wasn’t even aware of, to stray to places surrounded by water.

The only stop they made, was for Damian to change civies for his suit. The Robin suit.

They found him sitting on the sand overlooking the calm afternoon waters, at La Pedrera Beach. Just where Damian asked him to met, where Kon had undoubtedly brought him a few minutes before. 

No one was around, thankfully. The less witnesses, the better.

Jon touched ground softly, smiling at Damian and taking off again, to wait with the older Superboy as planned. His friend’s eyes betrayed no nervousness, but he didn’t need to; Damian was nervous enough for both of them.

Steeling himself, he walked towards the smaller man and stood by his side. Silently, they both watched as the sun slowly sunk into the horizon. In ten more minutes, it’d be completely hidden. Damian wanted for everything to be done before then, as if the beauty of the sunset would counter the pain of what was to follow.

-Okay, Baby Bat, lay it on me. Why ask me to come here, all the way from Italy? I was having a blast, you know, catching those mafias one by one.

Even as he spoke, he didn’t look particularly bothered. Soulless as he was, he had no qualms on showing his displeasure. Right now, though, he looked as satisfied as he ever did since losing his soul. The morning catching criminals, noon with his best friend and afternoon at the beach seemed to have worked like a charm. He was at ease, no longer waiting for Damian to attack him, and when he looked up at him and saw him wearing his colors (for once his more muted pants having a green tint to it, resembling more his predecessor's old costume), surprise gave quick way to trust.

Alfred was right, as always. Robin seemed to be the key past Timothy’s defenses.

-It’s my birthday today -he informed the man, doing his best to not be so stiff- And I want my gift.

A sharp laugh, devoid of feeling but humorous all the same, and Timothy stood, face to face with him, tilting his head to look him into the eye.

-My, my, what a spoiled prince. But whatever, I’m here already, and I already indulged you these last two years, letting you stay around and helping you with cases. What’s one more? I won’t take the soul back, though.

Damian shook his head.

-I don’t intend to return something of yours. I want to give something mine, for you to carry with yourself.

The smirk on his face turned utterly devious, and Timothy’s pale hands found perch on his shoulders.

-Such a daring man you have turned into -slowly, he leaned closer, standing on his tiptoes to reach Damian’s ear- What do you want to give me, baby bat? -his warm breath caressed his face, and he had to shut his eyes tightly when he felt Timothy’s face getting even closer- Maybe a kiss? It’ll be free of charge, even, just because I’m in such a good mood. I’ll still let you have the gift you had in mind, too.

Startled, he held the other man’s hips. The want that pushed viciously against his restrain left him dizzy, but his heart twisted and the pain brought him back to his senses, just before his lips -that he hadn’t even be aware he was parting- touched the other’s. 

Carefully, because he didn’t mean any harm and because of how hard it was, he pushed the man away.

-No.

-No? Despite how desperately you clearly want it?

He clenched his fists, before slowly opening his hands and dragging them away from Timothy’s body. He opened his eyes again, looking down at the beautiful face, at those empty eyes. That sealed his decision.

-Not like this. Never like this.

He both regreted and was relieved by his words the moment he had uttered them.

A huff, and slim arms crossed over his chest. It helped a little, once the temptation was over. 

-Okay then, boring. What’s this gift you want? Wanna give me a necklace or something? You seem the possessive type.

Damian breathed in, deeply. This was the moment.

-Open your hand, please.

Eyes rolling over the drama, one hand on his hip, he stretched out the other one, palm up.

Bracing himself, Damian retrieved something from his pouch. Before he could second guess himself, he softly placed it on Timothy’s hand.

Deep, rich green. Shinning gold. A sea of those colors, with specks of icy blue floating around.

His own soul.

Timothy’s eyes went to the soul, the one that wasn’t his, and widened a little. Reflexively, he closed his fingers around the orb as much as he could. He was still being moved by the muscle memory, the compulsion of pleasing Robin.

A second later, tears started to endlessly flow, and he was screaming in pain. 

-----.----

For months, years, Damian had looked over him and saw two separate pieces of the same puzzle. Soul and body, beautiful on their own, but absolutely breathtaking if he only could put them together.

Now, the full picture stood in front of him. Despite its beauty, there were visible cracks where Damian had forced their ragged ends together, where he had to put his own soul as a filler between them.

Effective as it was, meshing two pieces, despite they belonging to the same puzzle, wasn’t the most gentle way to mend them.

They were bound to break a little, in order to fit.

-What have you done to me?! -demanded Timothy, hand clutching desperately at his chest (the other one still holding the gifted soul core), knees failing him. He would have crashed into the ground, if not for Damian’s firm arm around his waist.

He looked completely miserable, scared and shocked, which sent waves of both guilt and elation through him, because his Beloved was hurting because of him, but he was feeling.

Timothy’s eyes shone hatefully. It was the most beautiful shade of icy blue he had ever seen. Even if the emotion was such a dark one, they weren’t empty anymore. 

-It’ll be over soon -he shushed, slowly sinking to his knees and bringing the man into his lap, almost engulfing him between arms and firm chest, as if to protect him from the pain that was coming from deep inside; distantly, he heard Kon and Jon’s voices as they approached, their concern obvious but unimportant at the moment-, you just have… a lot of emotional catching up to do.

-What is happening to me?! How?! This isn’t my soul! I shouldn’t be feeling my own emotions! -he shrieked, his entire body shaking, and it was obvious he would have attacked Damian if not so focused on his own pain. Tears fell seemingly without his notice, and flickers of different emotions crossed his face. Guilt, anger, joy, sadness, rage, fondness, pain, guilt, anger, joy… Too quick to properly categorize, too sudden for Timothy to process them. Those were the emotions his soul had been storing this past few years, and it was all crashing down around him.

-I’m well connected to the soul you gave me. As thus, by using my own as a conduit and bonding us together, yours finally has a way to reach out to you, to do its job and make you feel. It’s muted, not as strong as it’d be if you had accepted your own soul back in the first place. I’m afraid that would have killed you.

-I feel like I’m dying now.

There was screaming. Then laughter. Panic and crying. Puking. Timothy’s hand left his chest to tug at his hair, plucking off strand, then going to his naked arms and leaving red indents with his nails. Softly, he took his fingers between his,  Timothy’s back to his chest, if only to keep him from hurting himself any longer.

-I can’t breath. I can’t think. Why did you do this to me? I love you. No, I don’t. Fuck, I’m going crazy -Daman tightened his arms around the man, shushing him, rocking back and forth on the ground, wishing desperately he could sooth his pain.

-It’ll pass.

Timothy whined, and cried, and smiled, and puked on the sand.  

-I hate you right now. I love you. I’m scared. I hate you again. I/

-I know, love. I know.

When he passed out, still caught between tears and smiles, Damian couldn’t help but feel relief.