#I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE NORMALLY SINCE THESE PICTURE OF SASHA WITH THE ROBE STARTED DROPPING

[sashabarkovonly]

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[bluejayblueskies]

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

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Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

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.

.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

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The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

.

.

.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

.

.

.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

[rosy-cheekx]

from the fluff prompts! 17: “come here, i need to hug you”

hehe this is not fluff. I wish I could say I was sorry but I'm not. (CW canon-typical body horror, Stranger content. There’s fluff at the end.)

-

Familiar Faces

Tim, Sasha, 1.5k

The woman in front of him was blonde, tall, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. She was swearing a smart blazer, had pursed lips as she clutched files to her chest. Her hands were…wrong, somehow. He couldn't pinpoint what was off but Tim couldn't stop staring at them.

“Tim, you’re not quite looking yourself.” Sasha smiled at him, sweeping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Maybe you should take the day off.”

Tim didn’t respond, not daring to take his eyes off her.

“You—?” He tried, though his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. The words came from his lips muffled, as if something was covering them. Without thinking about it, he raised a hand to his lips. His fingertips came away slick, skin that was not his own stifling the sensation on his face. Tim’s vision tunneled, zeroing in on the face of the woman who was Sasha, wasn’t Sasha? He wasn’t sure anymore.  Looking down, Tim saw his hands were slick tendon and bone, skin peeled away in neat strips, fingernails embedded in the fat that had once been underneath.

Tim felt his stomach churn. Eyes back on the woman that couldn’t be Sasha, Sasha wouldn’t do this, he saw a grin peeling her face apart, wider than a normal smile should be. The files in her hand were a mirror and she turned it to him, raising it so his shoulders aligned with her frame in the reflection.

Tim’s vision swam as he focused on what he saw in the mirror, something in him unable to look away. He was sure he was going to be sick, but there was something in him that forced him to look, see what had been done to him. To Danny. The stitches were clumsy, close together but clearly amateur, reminding him of his brief stint into embroidery. They were uneven around his jaw; Danny’s face had always been rounder than his. Blood was smeared down his chin, but it was impossible to tell whose it had been, once upon a time, especially since there was no other skin to compare it to. Of all the things, Tim was struck by how much tanner Danny’s face was than he had remembered.

“Tim?” The woman who Was Not Sasha asked from behind the mirror, and Tim watched his lips, Danny’s lips move in his reflection, straining against some of the stitches with each word. “You look quite peaky. Maybe some time off will do you some good, get you feeling like yourself again.”

Tim balled his raw hands into fists, forcing all his energy into moving his lips, tearing the stitches apart. Slowly, gummily, he parted his lips. “Fuck. You.”

--

“Tim. Tim, wake up.”

His eyes were open now, peering up at a bleary ceiling and about a third of Sasha’s face, dark curly hair hanging over most of it. He exhaled sharply and inelegantly shuffled into a seated position, checking his hands for a moment before rubbing them over his face. They came away wet but, as Tim was sure to check, for a different reason. The pair sat in silence for a moment, neither sure how to approach the situation.

“Are…you okay?” Sasha asked eventually, hand hovering between them, like cautioning a wounded animal. “You looked like you needed help.”

Tim bit back a breath, sucking on his lower lip as he contemplated what to say next. His eyes followed her hand, and yes, they looked normal now. The dream came back to him piecemeal, the woman who called herself Sasha and his hands and the mirror, all fragmented images whirling away too fast to form a comprehensive picture. Sasha’s eyes were big and brown, studying his face like a practiced therapist. Her hands had looked wrong because they had been missing her vitiligo, the pale spot that curved around her wrist and looked just like Germany. Her hair was in unbound curls, mussed from sleep and other bedtime activities, and she was tall but curvy; round and warm. Not the thin, angular woman from the dream, mirror held in front of her with such menace.

Tim was staring. Sasha’s brow was wrinkling. She was worried. He processed these facts in slow motion like his mind was moving through molasses, tongue thick with the taste of Danny’s blood on his lips.

Danny. Tim threw a hand to his mouth, feeling the smooth seam of his lips and skin that was his, the five o’clock shadow he really should have shaved this morning tickling his fingertips. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I…I had a bad dream.” No shit, Sherlock. He fished for words, fingertips tracing the edges of his jawline, his temple, finding no clumsy seams to be torn off.

“You weren’t you. You were blonde a-and horrible and your voice was like…sandpaper.” Tim realized his hands were shaking when he felt the cool fingers of Sasha pressing on his own gently, steadying them.

“I was…me. But my skin was missing. A-and you were teasing me about something. You showed me a mirror. And I was…” Tim chewed on his lip. Biting it had always been a nervous habit but the reminder that they were his lips was comforting enough as well.

“They had put Danny’s face on mine.” The last words were a whisper, barely able to say it out loud before he felt a shudder rip through him and felt the wind knocked out of him once more. “I-I couldn’t look away.” He pulled his hand from underneath Sasha’s to wrap around the back of his neck. “It was...” He swallowed thickly. “It was hideous.”

Sasha, saint that she was, listened dutifully as Tim haltingly put together the information from his dream, nodding in silence but eyes full of tender patience and compassion. When he was done, the silent tears halted to sniffles and deliberately careful breaths, she drew a knee to her chest and pursed her lips.

“I’m so sorry, Tim. That sounds awful.” Hand out in a quick search of approval, she gently began to rub his back, slow circles in time with her breathes. “His anniversary is coming up, isn’t it?” Her voice was almost a whisper. He nodded.

“You know I’m me. I’m Sasha James, your best friend, the one you can count on to get you out of a scrape. I like Thai food and purple and sweets and you think I have a spot in the shape of Thailand on my back, which is why you think I like it so much.” She paused for a moment, eyeing him. “Helping or hurting?”

Tim nodded, barely eking out a whisper of ‘helping,’ and she continued. “Your name is Timothy Stoker. You work seven and a half feet away from me, but somehow you always find an excuse to scooch your chair closer. You like to be touched constantly except when you’re angry. You drink iced coffee year-round and think heist movies are the superior film.” She wrinkled her nose good-naturedly. “You like to be kissed in the spot between your eyebrows. I like to pretend your snoring bothers me. You like when I bring you a snack from the café because you like being remembered. I like to braid your hair when it gets shaggy. You’re allergic to peanuts. I’m allergic to red food dye.”

Her hand had slowed as she had rattled off facts about them both, a heavy warm weight resting behind his lungs. He focused on her words and breathing into her hand, letting the smoothness of her voice wash over his anxieties; the disturbing imagery not gone but filed away in a smaller, more manageable package.

“I think…I think we know each other too well,” he mumbled, managing a small smile.

“You take that back,” Sasha grinned, pressing a kiss to his temple. “No such thing. Now, what do you need from me? Tea? A distraction?”

“Come here,” Tim asked softly, eyes meeting hers. “I need to hug you.” I need to remember what’s real and solid; I need to feel you in my arms and know the you I saw back there was an imagination, a figment, a neuron gone fritzy. I need to know that they didn’t take you like they did him.

He didn’t say of that, but Sasha seemed to get the message. She pulled him gently into her, burying her face into his neck. Tim inhaled the scent of her shampoo, a soft pine scent mixed with lavender, and that was Sasha. He knew her from that smell. They balanced precariously between the pillows and their seated arrangement for who-knows-how-long, just taking in the silence and touch of someone else, grounding Tim to reality in waves until he felt firmly centered once more.

Sasha fell back to sleep eventually, still tangled in each other but more comfortable now. Instead of sleep, Tim studied Sasha’s face in the slow-rising daylight, the splashes of pink against her dark skin, the mole under her ear, the way her hair curled back on itself when it got long in a confusing pattern, the way her jaw rounded against her throat. This was his Sasha. He was sure of it. He would never forget her face again.

[p1nkwitch]

Hi, I really like you writing. Could I get 51. for some ship with Jon? (preferably jongerry, but if you don't ship it jonmartin is fine too. also feel free to make is as soft as you want!)

Oh no no, I love JonGerry i actually like it more than Jmart. The potential was there so here!! Have some fluffy and fun bbys enjoying hanging out.

51- Public kiss JonGerry

Au where they work in a normal job

Jon is nervous, the institute is having a party and Tim invited him to hang out with everyone and he was already panicking. He is their boss, but he had been so insistent and when he mentioned that they haven't been able to just spend time in a group since his promotion…

Made him cave in feeling guilty.

Still he was very worried that he might make the wrong impression, Gerry who was cuddling Melon Princess looked at him amused from the couch.

“What?” He is snippy which is not fair, still he knows him enough to just snort an answer back.

“Cmon Jon, you said Tim is your friend. I'm sure it won't go badly” He doesn't understand, he doesn't.

“Yes, but that was before, now i'm his boss and- and i know i didn't deserve it, but i wanted that promotion and maybe they don't-” A cat is put in front of his face.

“Hi dad, mew, i think you are being paranoiiid, pet me and it will calm you down!” The complete dry tone makes him choke a laugh and pick up Melon from him.

“Thanks” He shrugs and kisses his cheek.

“How about this, I tag along, if anything they will be more focused on me that in you?” Usually he would refuse him, but he deflates and agrees, anything to keep him more calm will do.

“Please..” Gerry smiles at him and Jon feels his cheeks burn, he is so lucky to have met him, and to be the recipient of said smile. Gerry was far more… subdued before, but now he is far more open and he is happy to think he helped and likewise he is helping him too to not be so closed off.

“Of course, I will change, I'm sure they will be far more focused on my hair, apparently everyone is!!!” Jon snorts and sits to wait for him.

“Maybe if you let me help dye it-”

“Oh fuck off Sims-!!” He grins.

They all stare. Sasha, Tim and Martin all stare, not at him, but at Gerry who decided to come in his favourite clothes, which, now that he thinks about it, are not exactly what you would wear for an office party, but he had been so relieved that he did not question it until it was too late.

“So this is my boyfriend Gerry, i… hope you don't mind? I remembered you always insisted on seeing a picture…” Tim opens his mouth and closes it a few times, but ends up grinning like he saw the best thing ever.

“Pleasure to meet you Gerry!!” Sasha and Martin also say hi and then they all go to get some drinks and talk while everyone at the institute sort of mingles around. Its a little bit awkward at first but once Sasha asks about Gerry's job and he mentions that he sells paintings he makes plus working half time in his own bookstore, things smooth out fairly easily.

Tim talks with him and gets Martin to join, who looked a little bit uncomfortable, but was ultimately by the end of it having fun. Jon feels Gerry interlace their fingers under the table and he smiles. 

At one point Tim, slightly drunk, declares they should have a karaoke contest. Elias for some god forsaken reason had thought it would be a nice addition to it, drunk or tipsy people would all go there. In fact he has seen several people from research perform a group rendition of bohemia rhapsody in slightly off key tune.

Jon was also as a matter of fact tipsy, not enough to just embarrass himself like that, he has actually a fairly good tolerance for alcohol. Sasha joined him and after egging Martin one the three made their way there. He picked his cellphone and went to record.

“They are nice”

“Mm” He keeps recording Tim trying to do a slightly bad macarena while singing total eclipse of the heart with Sasha and Martin.

“It looks like they are having fun…”

“Yeah, im making sure they will remember on monday”

“... Jon” He turns at him and sees the mischief. Oh no.

“Err yes?”

“I never sang karaoke” And. well shit. He lets out a breath,

“Awful and incorregible” His lips are up in a crooked smile that is more accentuated by the dark purple lipstick. 

“Fine, fine!” Gerry grins so joyfully and happily that it feels like he was staring at the moon all pale and beautiful, his boyfriend leans forwards and feeling his breath catch on his throat he closes his eyes and lets him kiss him. His left hand goes to his cheek to caress it and he has to lean back a little bit because he presses himself closer, Jon feels giddy, its nothing beyond their lips pressing together by his own personal preference towards the activity, but no matter how many times it always feels just as perfect as the first time it happened all those years ago.

Gerry pulls back a little bit and kisses him softly a few more time, each one making him feel more and more like he was floating, but before he could say anything the bubble he is in burst when someone wolf whistles at them and then-

That's when he remembers that he is at a work party and he got kissed by his boyfriend in front of everyone. Gerry must realize it too, because he flushes too but smiles nonetheless.

“OY, DONT MESH WITH MY MATE. I CAN KISH TOO-” Tim who was very brave, drunk and trying to help , grabs Sasha and kisses her, before turning to  Martin’s and giving him one too.

Everyone around who was in a relationship looked at him, shrugged and kissed their partners while the others cheered them on.

Jon snorts and then starts to laugh incredulously. Gerry joins him and he ends up putting his hands on his shoulders while he grabs his waist, they lean against each other laughing and actually spinning a little bit at the ridiculousness while  adding a few more kisses along the way, even if everyone was watching no one seemed to care. And Jon felt finally at ease.

Enough so that he sang a few songs with Gerry who looked way too happy and managed to snatch a few more kisses. That is until he decides to sing the song that he was Performing the day he met Gerry while at a mechanisms concert.

To say that everyone lost it by the end of Red Signal would not be an exaggeration.

Jon had a lot of fun and seeing his boyfriend laugh and joke with Tim and the others while holding his hand, he felt that things were settling better than expected.

By the time they are in bed that night he kisses him a last time before turning off the lights and telling him how much he loves him, he always looks surprised by it, but while blushing a little at it, even now, he tells him as much.

“Thanks for coming”

“Thanks for amusing me and dedicating me that rendition, I think Tim almost has a conniption” Jon laughs.

“He wanted my secret past, he got it”

“That he did gnight... jonny”

“Shut up.... Night Ger”

[selinakidreams]

year six at hogsmeade

ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! This fic is for the @haikyuucreationsadm​ secret santa event! dedicated to @ichorizaki ! sol, I hope this gives you the warm fuzzies! 

genre: fluff

warnings: none!

tags: harry potter au!, gn! reader, friends to lovers, yams is a lil over protective, fake dating (if you squint really really hard), yamaguchi’s pov !

a/n: no i do not hate the character i put as the slytherin (i’m not gonna spoil anything <3 teehee) i did it almost as an easter egg ...? like if you remember how yams reacted when he heard a certian thing come from his mouth,,,,,,, you’ll understand why- the clip was playing in my head on repeat while writing it lmao (super vauge ik but ah ha haa)

Both of your school capes sashae across the cold stoned floor as you two head to the one class you had together. The air was nippy; delicate flakes of snow danced around the sky until they landed on the ground.  Yamaguchi hugged his books closer to his chest in hopes to ease the lack of warmth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you nuzzle into your silver and green scarf that was already bundled up to your nose. 

‘Cute,’ he thought to himself- and when it comes to you, that word comes up in his head quite a lot.

 Far from being his favorite class, Yamaguchi Tadashi had to get used to the defense against the dark arts course. It was very… out there for him in the beginning. By pushing his limits, it created a wave of self-consciousness that would wash over him, resulting in the feeling of incompetence. Thankfully you were there to encourage and support him, just as you had been since the day you guys met. It was something about your strength and determination- he learned that through the years when you had an idea, a goal, or a project in mind, you would see it through. It was so inspiring to young Yamaguchi, the little boy constantly cowering away from anything that seemed too much. He would constantly be picked on and could never speak the words that clogged his throat but then you came along with a single snarky remark to end all of theirs. There was no time between the moment he words left your lips and when your hand slipped into his- pulling him away from any sense of loneliness he would ever feel again. You were there for all the big moments, from when he first got his letter to him getting sorted into Gryffindor to him trying out for their quidditch team. You two had been absolutely inseparable and neither of you would change a thing.

Yamaguchi cherished walking to class with you- the way you fit so well in the environment… he just couldn't take his eyes off of you. His favorite version of you was in the winter because you just looked so much cozier. The dark colors of your house heavily contrasted against the bright sparkling snow that reflected natural light into the corridor. The pink that tinted the tips of your ears made his heart skip a beat. If it hadn't been for you stopping by the opened door way, he would have completely missed the entrance to the classroom because of his… observations. He motioned you go in first, your eyes crinkled in thanks as you stepped inside and he swears that you caused a heart palpitation. 

It was your guy’s sixth year at Hogwarts and by far Tadashi's favorite Defense Against the Dark Arts course yet. The teacher, Remus Lupin, had such a way of teaching that it was not only fun and interactive, but also incredibly informative- the prime way for him to learn. He was so happy that Lupin’s tactics were sticking, this meant he didn't have to cling to you for help as he had previously; He was able to show you that he was capable of being strong on his own. Whenever you showed your delight at Tadashi’s progress, he only wanted to work harder.

“Hey so… after class, did you want to go to Hogsmeade and get something to drink from Honeyduke’s? It’s all snowy out and it’s the perfect weather for something warm and comforting.” You grinned as the both of you took your seats, conveniently across from each other, the only thing that separated you two was a slim isle way. Yamaguchi turned to you with a small smile curving his lips, “Yea, sounds good but just remember I have practice later so I can't be out too la-“ his last word was cut off by an obnoxious scoff from the keeper from the Slytherin quidditch team. 

“That was supposed to be our practice, you know. Daichi snatched up our usual practice time.” Koganegawa Kanji said snottily, judgmentally eyeing Tadashi up and down before turning his gaze to you. Suddenly there was a different type of look in his eyes, a bright one that showed that he believed he could secure all sorts of things… including you. “Those Gryffindors think they can take whatever they want, but I know what we're going to be taking. The win at our next game… which just so happens to be against Gryffindor. You’re going to be there, right y/n?” He practically beamed to you as he kept side-eyeing Yamaguchi. 

Before you could even answer- before he could even realize what was coming out of his mouth- your shy, kind hearted, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Tadashi rolled his eyes and said, “Yea they’re going, they’re going to be screaming out my name when I catch that snitch.” 

Your eyes widened as you turned to him with your jaw slack, the sexual innuendo in the forefront of your mind but when facing your freckled best friend, it looked like he couldn't believe he was able to even speak up. Yamaguchi is not one for confrontation or someone who initiates fights… but when things come down to you, he acts in ways he doesn’t recognize- for painfully obvious reasons.

“You better watch that mouth of yours, Yamaguchi, or else i might just have to zip it up.” The Slytherin hissed, getting ready to reach for his want but stopped in his tracks when his gaze caught sight of a scruffy man in his mid 30’s standing behind the frozen Gryffindor, hands in his pockets and a brow raised. 

“Now… I know you were not about to hex mister Yamaguchi inside of my class, right Mister Koganegawa?” Professor Lupin tempted, a small smirk danced on his lips with the unmissable glint of entertainment that twinkled in his warm eyes. 

The professor didn’t give the boy a chance to answer, instead turned around and headed to the front of the classroom while saying, “Return to your seat Koganegawa, I expect whatever hex you were going to cast was going to be a naughty one. Well ironically, today’s lesson is focused on learning to reflect those nasty curses…” The whole class settled in for the lecture as Tadashi sneaked a peak at the reaction that had been plastered on your face- boy, was it a cute one. Both of your lips curled in with saucer eyes, cheeks tinted a faint red, as if you were holding back a laugh that was forcing its way out. 

<♥︎>

After Lupin bid the class adue for the day, everyone went their separate ways; Tadashi held you close as you both headed to Hogsmeade, his arm draped over your shoulder as you leaned into him for warmth. The walk had been a comfortable silence until you spoke out your curiosity to break the ice, hitting him with the million dollar question.

“Hey, what happened back in Lupin’s class? That was.. odd.. of you to say.” You inquired. Normally when you catch Tadashi off guard or in a vulnerable state, a cute blush dusts along the apple of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. You knew you were robbed of the sight, the cold had beat you to it, a violent scarlet already bared his skin. 

He let out a sigh, the breath showing itself in the cold, before he muttered, “I’m just tired of him openly ogling at you like you’re some toy. It’s not cool.” 

You responded with a slight hum, the real reply bouncing off the walls of your brain: I can't believe we’re not together by now.

“Oh yams,” you chuckle as you huddle closer into his side.

<♥︎>

Passing under the grand Hogsmeade archway, he was grateful that there were barely any students about- this meant you guys could get your drinks faster and walk around the shops easier. With the antique green and pink building in sight, the beeline to the shop’s entrance was determined.

“Okay okay, let me guess…” you started as Yamaguchi held open the door for you to walk in, already eyeing the colorful treats that decorated the room, “you want a hot chocolate.” 

“And you want a hot strawberry tea.” Tadashi retorted with a smile.

“It’s almost like… we’ve known each other for years.” You say, your tone dripping in sarcasm as he watches your finger trace over the newest candy they sold. 

Sol, a sweet that’ll brighten your day! The container said, with a picture of what looked to be an edible ball of light. Supposedly, once it hits your tongue, it melts into the flavor you're craving most.

After inspecting the shelves around the store for any new and exciting treats, you both headed to the register where Tadashi placed the drinks order and fished out two golden galeons and five silver sickles. He snuck a glance at you admiring the brightly colored walls to make sure you weren't looking as he slipped the cashier the two packets of sol he stealthily grabbed and handed them three extra sickles. A sweet surprise for later.

Leaving the store, Yamaguchi watched the way your hands slipped around the warm cup, the tips of your fingers slightly intertwined. He wanted nothing more than to take your cup out of your hands and intermingle his fingers with yours…but he couldn’t, it would be crossing a line, wouldn’t it? Nevertheless, the image of holding your- probably- freezing hand was on his mind the whole time you two were walking around the village you knew all too well.

Deciding that it was pretty late you guys began to head back to the castle. The snow crunched underneath your boots with almost empty cups in your hands, you knew it wasn't going to take long before you’d be greeted by the back entrance of the castle. “‘Dashi… do you have to go to practice? I… i need help with Lupin’s coursework.” you stutter out, causing Yamaguchi to pause and turn toward you.

This took him by surprise, normally you were really good with your coursework, so for the roles to switch… something had to be off.  

“ y/n... You know I can't. The team said they really need me there.  Daichi would have my head if I missed practice. The game against Slytherin is so close and I really need to-” he cut himself off before he could reveal too much or get too annoyed, the flash of Koganegawa smirking flashed in the back of his mind. 

“you need to… what? I saw your last game and the way you soared through the air was incredible, it didn't seem like you needed to work on anything!” you pouted with damn wide eyes.

Tadashi tried to ignore the slight increase in his heart's beating pace, “aha well..” he said as he lifted his arm to scratch the back of his head, “we’re a team and they need me as much as i need them!” you stopped walking so he turned to face you.

He watched the small sad smile creep onto your face before hearing you mutter, “Jeez, when did my Tadashi become so popular?”

For Yamaguchi to not lean in and plant a kiss on your lips, something had to be holding him back... but there was nothing- if anything, you seemed to slightly lean in. 

He figured that you'd assume that the first move was going to be on your part, as it normally was when something serious would happen between the two of you but he wanted to prove to you that he's changed. He's not scared anymore. He has no reason to be. He’s learned so much about himself  throughout the years because of you. You're the reason he was the social person he was today. And he was the one that finally connects your lips with his. 

Due to the cold and dry winter, both lips are not as smooth as wanted but it doesn't stop him from deepening the long awaited kiss. He placed his open palms on your waist and his fingers gave you a small squeeze when he heard you sigh into the kiss.

When Yamaguchi felt your arms around his neck, he swore the world stopped turning for a second. The warmth that he was feeling was unmatched- this was warmer than any other winter coat had made him. 

When he pulled away, your arms stayed around his neck and he refused to let his hands leave your waist. 

“I uh-“ at this point Yamaguchi’s face was bright pink, yours being no different, “um I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” You said, cutting him off. 

Tadashi had to blink a few times, as if he was clearing his vision because what he just heard wasn’t possible. 

“N-no way…” he mumbled, looking at the ground next to you. Tadashi almost felt overwhelmed but one thing's for certain, the weight of needing to properly confess was only getting heavier so he gulped down his anxiety- as you had taught him so many times before- and brought his eyes to meet yours. 

“Y/n… I’m so in love with you. I have been for so long-”

Something red wizzed before your guys’ eyes, cutting off his huge confession. His eyes became wide at the hovering letter facing him. 

A howler. 

Before you could even raise an eyebrow, the letter opened itself in the shape of an origami mouth. 

“Yamaguchi, YOU ARE LATE FOR PRACTICE! WHY? WHAT COULD BE SO IMPORTANT THAT IT’S CAUSING YOU TO MISS PRACTICE?” the letter with daichi’s deep voice boomed around the empty of the woods. It began to look around, as if it could see the surrounding area- which was weird because typically howlers were only used to relay a (very loud and disappointed) message. When the envelope eventually faced you, the bottom of the mouth dropped and seemed to gulp.

“Ah.. i see.. Hi y/n… um,” the letter turned to face Yamaguchi before reminding him to go to practice and ripping itself apart. 

It was silent for a second, neither of you knew what to say. 

“I dunno but it almost sounded like Daichi wanted me to go to practice.” was the first thing he said. He watched your face contort from a small smile to a full out grin joined with a hearty laugh. 

“Let's get you to class ‘Dashi.” you said as you wound down from your laughing fit. Holding out your hand, the expression you gave him was one that he never saw from you before. The corner of his eyes crinkled with how genuine he was smiling as he took your hand, finally getting to entwine your fingers together as you guys headed to the quidditch field.

Ps. yes you did scream out his name when he caught the snitch- it didn't go unnoticed...

[ollieofthebeholder]

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

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 39: Tim

Of course they don’t believe it. Of course they don’t. Setting aside the fact that Elias Bouchard is a rat bastard who lies like a cheap rug, never mind that Sasha’s attempt to call failed (and it’s not just hers, or just a one-off thing; Martin and Tim both try. Twice), they don’t believe the message because both Tim and Martin know, with a certainty that has nothing to do with the Eye and everything to do with the last several months, that Jon would never go out of town on an errand without letting them know first. He would at least call them to say he was leaving.

Jon Prime assures them that it’s probably fine. Well, maybe assures is the wrong word. He tells them that it’s probably fine, but he sounds uncertain and Tim doesn’t believe him either. They don’t ask what could be going on, not at first; as Martin Prime said, this isn’t the Primes’ story anymore and asking what happened to you is unproductive. The best they can do is put their heads down, plunge ahead with work, and hope.

That lasts about three days.

On Friday afternoon, Sasha comes back from lunch with a funny look on her face and something cradled in her hands, which she sets wordlessly on Tim’s desk. It’s a phone, cracked and battered, looking like it’s been dropped and run over a couple of times. Martin manages to turn it on, and they’re greeted with a cracked, warped picture of two men and a little boy staring raptly at the sky, all three of them utterly content despite everything life has thrown at them. They stare at it for a couple seconds before the phone fizzles and shuts off with a final-sounding pop.

Hope dies with Jon’s phone, and Tim shuts down a little. He spends the rest of the day looking at Gertrude’s tapes, squinting fiercely at them, drawing on every scrap of power he can, trying desperately to see through the green to the colors beneath. The best he’s able to do is sort them into piles that are sort of the same color blend, and it leaves him shaky, drained, and irritable. That night he sits up at the kitchen table with the box of Gertrude’s books they’ve never actually gone through and carefully, methodically, sorts them out. He tries to look at them, too, the way he did the tapes, but either he’s too tired or they don’t actually have anything of any of the powers on them. Instead, he begins going through them, one at a time, notebook and tape recorder set up in front of him as he jots down observations, notes, anything that might be helpful.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, other than the generic “answers”. Something that might provide a lead to where Jon is, he guesses, even though in the back of his mind he can’t imagine why something like that would be in something belonging to Gertrude Robinson. Maybe there’s a part of him that suspects Jon is off on some madcap adventure, that he dropped his phone like Tim forgot his, and that if they can only find a clue to where he is they’ll be able to find him and get him home.

He’s at it all weekend, and by Monday, he’s frustrated and angry about the lack of answers. When Sasha asks him why there are fifteen piles of tapes instead of only fourteen, he snaps at her and can’t bring himself to apologize for his tone as he tells her that the fifteenth is the ones he isn’t sure about, the ones he can’t tell the underneath color of.

Sasha doesn’t react to his tone. She simply shrugs, points at the Document Storage room, and tells him to go listen to some of them then.

Tim is annoyed with her, at first, but three tapes later he realizes he’s stopped shaking. He’s still upset, but he’s not so angry, and he’s definitely feeling a bit stronger than before. It’s only then that it occurs to him how much energy he’s been using. And it’s not until he comes out, ready to apologize for his temper, that he realizes how pale and drawn Martin looks and it occurs to him that he hasn’t slept since Friday. Which, apparently, means Martin hasn’t either.

Martin confirms as much that night, while he’s making tea for them both (Tim only realizes then he’s been drinking Martin’s tea all weekend without even noticing). He says he’s tried, a couple of times, but he can’t seem to rest for worrying, both about Jon and about Tim, which makes him feel horrible. Tim actually goes to bed that night instead of working himself to exhaustion over the books, and he and Martin both manage to get some rest even though they’re both horribly conscious of the fact that there’s something—someone—missing from their bed.

It’s not until almost lunchtime on Tuesday that the little voice in the back of Tim’s brain asks him when it became their bed rather than his bed.

After that, he tries to get back to work, tries to buckle down to doing their duty—Jon will be back, he tells himself, and they’ve got to keep things moving for him—but he’s distracted, and from the way Martin’s eyes keep drifting to Jon’s closed office door, he knows Martin feels the same. And while they’re trying to talk about it, they’re both still tense.

By the time Jon’s been gone almost two full weeks, Tim decides he’s had enough. He glances at the clock on the corner of his laptop, then shuts it with a snap that startles the other two and pushes back from his desk.

“I can’t stand this,” he says, barely controlling his tone. “I’m going to run this down.”

Martin seems to understand. He closes his own laptop. “I’m coming with you.”

“Martin—”

“No. I’ve been—I need to know, too. And I need to hear it directly, I think. Otherwise—” Martin shakes his head.

Tim thinks he understands what Martin isn’t saying. “Sasha, can you hold things down up here?”

Sasha nods, her eyes sympathetic. Tim manages a half-smile, then heads over to the trapdoor.

The Primes are in the middle of eating—probably breakfast, given their odd sleep schedule—but Jon Prime looks up when the light of Martin’s torch plays through the door and sets aside his plate. “Tim. Martin. Any word?”

“No. Nothing.” Tim hesitates, trying to figure out how to phrase it, or even what it is he’s there to ask.

Martin beats him to it. “We were hoping you could tell us where he is.”

“I don’t—I can’t be sure,” Jon Prime says gently. “Things aren’t—”

“No, we’re not asking where you were this time around,” Martin says, unusually to the point for once, which either shows how comfortable he’s grown with them all or how absolutely stressed and terrified he is. “We’re asking if you can—Know where he is.”

“Oh,” Jon Prime says softly.

Martin keeps talking, words tumbling out almost desperately. “We’ve been—we were trying to figure it out, if, if he left on his own after all and just dropped his phone, maybe if there was some clue. But there’s nothing. Sasha tried to Know—”

“When?” Tim asks, surprised.

“Yesterday, when you were picking up lunch. But she couldn’t find him. She’s not sure if it’s just because it’s the wrong kind of Knowing or if it’s because she’s not strong enough or what, but—” Martin gestures helplessly with both hands, making the torchlight bob about. “It’s been two weeks. And we can’t—we need to know if he’s okay.”

Martin Prime touches Jon Prime’s shoulder gently. “I think he’ll forgive you for looking, Jon. I know you’re trying not to, but…if it was me, I’d want to know you were okay. Remember…” His face darkens slightly.

Jon Prime turns and hugs Martin Prime tightly, and Tim’s stomach lurches. He remembers the day after Jane Prentiss’ attack, when the Primes gave them the basic rundown of everything that happened to them—remembers Jon Prime mentioning being kidnapped and held prisoner by Nikola Orsinov. Could that…? No. No, he can’t let himself imagine…

Oh, God, Jon’s been kidnapped.

The thought must hit Martin at the same time, because he reaches over and grips Tim’s hand tightly. Tim squeezes back as hard as he can. It seems like an eternity before Jon Prime whispers, “All right. All right.”

He eases back from Martin Prime, straightens up, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Static fills the little room, softly at first, then louder and louder. Tim isn’t trying to look, he isn’t, but apparently the Eye’s power is too strong with Jon Prime calling on it like this, because he sees the glow, Jon Prime’s closed eyes and a third eye on his forehead and another on the back of each hand, all glowing green, faintly at first, then a bit stronger. Not as strong as Tim might have expected if he’d been expecting it at all, but bright anyway.

Jon Prime’s eyebrows knit in a frown. The static fizzles out, the glow fades, and when Jon Prime opens his eyes, they’re perfectly normal, if worried. “I can’t See him.”

“The tunnels—” Martin Prime begins, his own expression worried.

“Make it more difficult, but not impossible. And I’m a bit…hungry, I suppose, so that might—but I should at least be able to see something.” Jon Prime looks up at Tim and Martin. “He’s not dead. I’d Know that. But—but I don’t have anything more than that. I’m sorry.”

Martin makes a small sound of distress, then screws his face up tightly for a moment before huffing out a sigh and squaring his shoulders. His eyes are wet when he opens them. “But you know—he’s been kidnapped, hasn’t he. Orsinov’s got him.” It’s not a question.

“I—I don’t know that for sure,” Jon Prime stammers. “I—it’s possible, but I—but we can’t know that for sure. Not right now.”

“F-fine. Fine! We don’t know, but we’re pretty sure, right? So—so where would she be holding him?”

“I told you, I can’t—”

“I’m not asking you to use the Eye! I’m asking where she was holding you.”

Jon Prime inhales sharply, but Martin Prime wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close and answers first. “What could you do with that knowledge, Martin? The police aren’t going to do a raid based on your say-so. Not so soon after the Brodie operation, not with so little to go on. Not for a missing adult. Especially if Elias has a good story to spin them about where he is.”

Martin sputters. Tim clenches his jaw. “Yeah, but we can go after him.”

“No!” the Primes shout in near-unison. Tim and Martin both jerk back in surprise.

“First of all, we don’t know for sure that’s where he is, or who has him,” Jon Prime says, a bit more calmly. “If you walk into the Stranger’s domain and he’s not there, what then? You’ve tipped your hand, again, that you know where they are. The Unknowing isn’t going to be ready for another five months, and where I was held was where they planned to do it. Gertrude had a—a reputation for stopping rituals, by the end, so the Stranger might move the site to somewhere else, and it might be harder to find.”

“And that’s assuming,” Martin Prime adds sharply, “that they let you leave at all. You’ve managed to escape them twice, Tim, there’s no way they’ll let you walk away a third time unchallenged. And if the Not-Diana left the memory of the original Diana in your mind, Martin, you’re marked by the Stranger, too. It’s going to be that much harder for you to get in unnoticed, let alone get out unnoticed, especially not with the Archivist. If he’s there.”

“We’ve got to try,” Martin says angrily. “We can’t just let him suffer because—”

“You think he’ll suffer less if you get hurt? Or killed?” Martin Prime interrupts. “And—okay, fine, say you don’t. Say you get in and out unscathed. If he’s not there, you really think they’ll risk holding him for another five months? They’ll kill him then and there rather than risk you finding him and disrupting her plans for the Unknowing.”

“Martin,” Jon Prime says, sounding pained. He lays a hand on Martin Prime’s arm, but Martin Prime shrugs him off.

“Do you honestly think I don’t know how much it hurts?” Martin Prime’s voice cracks at that. “What it’s like not knowing where he is but knowing he’s probably in danger and you can’t do anything about it? You think I wouldn’t have given everything to know where to find him? But if you’re wrong and he dies, I know what it’ll do to you.”

Jon Prime wraps his arms around Martin Prime; Martin Prime resists for a moment, then slumps and clings to Jon Prime in return. Tim, slightly numb and feeling like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach, sees a few tears squeeze their way out of the corners of Martin Prime’s eyes.

He’s not wrong, that’s the hell of it. As badly as Tim wants to storm…wherever it is, as much as he desperately wants Jon to come home, he knows Martin Prime is right. They can’t risk putting Jon in danger by going to the wrong place to rescue him, and the Stranger is probably almost as bad as the Spiral about misdirection and concealment. Until they’re sure, or as close to sure as they can be, they can’t chance it. And more than that, Tim knows he can’t risk putting Martin in danger. He hadn’t thought about Martin being marked by the Stranger, but now that the thought’s in his mind…he refuses to lose anyone else to that thing. Refuses. Scylla and Charybdis for sure.

“At least wait until we’re sure,” Jon Prime says. He looks over at Tim and Martin, and Tim can see how much pain he’s in, how utterly scared he is. He knows, more than the rest of them, what Jon might be going through and he probably feels it down to his toes, as much as he feels their pain. And that’s assuming the Eye isn’t channeling all their fear through him also. “Once the Institute is closed for the weekend. Maybe I can get better…reception aboveground, in the Archives, closer to the Eye. Consume a statement or two or something, but—please. Don’t risk it until we know exactly where he is.”

Tim looks over at Martin, sees the conflicted look and the suspiciously wet brightness in his eyes, his lips pressed tightly together in an evident bid to stop them from shaking. He’s going to follow Martin’s lead on this one. Martin stares at the Primes for a long moment, then nods once and hisses out a single word. “Fine.”

“Okay,” Jon Prime says softly. “Okay.” He closes his eyes and drops his head onto Martin Prime’s shoulder.

“We’ll see you after hours then,” Tim manages. He reaches for Martin’s arm, but Martin jerks away and simply leads the way out of the tunnels without speaking. He’s pale and shaking and way more upset than even Tim would expect, even knowing how Martin feels about Jon, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Sasha looks up when they come out of the trapdoor, but evidently they don’t need to say anything, because a series of emotions plays over her face and her shoulders slump. Tim shakes his head anyway. Martin stops at his desk long enough to set the heavy-duty torch on it. “I need to—I’ll be back.”

“Martin—” Tim’s heart seizes. He grabs Martin’s arm, fear coursing through him. He let Jon go out alone and Jon—

“I’m not leaving the building, Tim, I just—I need to walk for a minute.” Martin looks at him and his face softens. He squeezes Tim’s arm with his other hand before removing it from his own. “I promise. Not going outside.”

“Okay,” Tim says softly. “I’ll wait for you.”

As soon as Martin leaves, Tim drops to his seat and sighs. “They’re not sure where he is. Jon Prime said he’d come up after we close and see what he can do.”

Sasha glances at her computer. “That won’t be long.”

The door to the Archives opens, and Tim looks up, preparing to try and tease Martin about his short walk. It’s not Martin who comes in, though, but Basira. She raises an eyebrow at Sasha. “Hey. What’s with your friend?”

“Martin? He’s…it’s a long story.” Sasha gestures at Jon’s closed office door. “Jon’s been missing for a couple weeks now.”

“Hm. Wouldn’t have figured him for the flaky type.” Basira slips her hands into her pockets. “Came to see if you wanted to grab a drink. Been a hell of a week.”

“You, too, huh?” Sasha glances hesitantly at Tim. “I’d love to, but you mind waiting a bit? We’re technically here another twenty minutes.”

“Nah, you go ahead,” Tim tells her. “Martin and I can close down here. Take some time. You deserve it.”

Basira grunts. “You think he’ll be back in time? Where’s he heading?”

Tim rubs his forehead. “Probably up to the library to torture himself by dealing with the Not-Diana. I love him, but he’s so damn prone to punishing himself for things he doesn’t need to.”

Sasha gives Tim a funny look that he’s too tired and stressed to really parse out, but only says, “If you’re sure. Might want to make sure those kids are out of here by closing time if the others are coming up.”

“What—oh, right.” Tim honestly forgot about the pair of students back in the stacks doing research for some joint project. They first came the day before, but several of the cases they need are on tape and one or two of them are live statements; Tim keeps meaning to do transcripts of those, but hasn’t got around to it yet. They’ve been so quiet he honestly hasn’t thought about them since they walked in earlier that afternoon. “Didn’t realize they were still here, but yeah, don’t worry. Have fun.”

“Sure. Have a good weekend, Tim.” Sasha pats his shoulder, shrugs into her jacket, and heads out the door with Basira. Tim watches them go, glad Sasha has a friend, then heads back into the shelves looking for the students.

They’re not hard to find, seated at one of the tables tucked in an odd bend in the Archives, which is scattered with books, papers, and a small stack of cassette tapes. Sitting on the table between them is a battered white plastic tape player that looks exactly like the one Tim had when he was three—rounded at the edges, with a soft rubber grip at the handle, brightly-colored buttons on top, and two tiny microphones with coiled cords, one on either side. Plugged into the headphone jack is an adapter, then a splitter, then two pairs of headphones leading to the two students, who are listening intently and alternately scribbling in a notebook they’re passing back and forth.

One of them looks up and spots Tim coming closer, then pokes the other and points at him. The other sees Tim and hits the big red button on top of the recorder, stopping the playback with a loud CLUNK.

“Getting close to closing time, guys,” Tim says.

“Aww, it’s just getting to the good part,” one of them complains with a humorous texture to her voice. Tim’s pretty sure she introduced herself as Helena.

The other one gives him pleading puppy dog eyes. “Can we just finish listening to this tape? I don’t know how much we have left in it, but it’s the last one that—um, Martin—pulled for us. We’re almost done. Please?”

Jaz, Tim remembers. With one Z. He’ll be the first to admit he was a hair distracted when they turned up yesterday, but Jaz is a distinct enough name that it’s stuck in his mind. “Sure, no problem. We can wait around until you’re finished.”

“Thanks.” Jaz flashes him a grin and returns to the notebook. Helena pushes the bright green PLAY button and they go back to listening.

As Tim turns away, he happens to catch a glimpse of the last note in the shared notebook—judging by the color of the ink, Jaz is the one who wrote it. Bet this guy’s as hot as his voice.

He suppresses a smile, even as his heart aches, as he heads back to his desk.

Martin’s still not back, and Sasha didn’t finish putting her files away before she left, so Tim busies himself for a minute neatening everyone’s stacks. After a moment’s thought, he tucks the files into their drawers. It will make things easier in the long run. He hopes.

He packs up his laptop and is about to start on Martin’s when something…twists. It’s the best way he can phrase it. It’s like the worst tinnitus he’s ever had, but outside his head rather than inside his ear, and it makes his head pound. He looks up in time to see a glowing yellow door in the wall suddenly open and Martin comes stumbling out, chased by warped, weirdly echoing laughter that makes the headache worse.

“Tim. Run,” Martin gasps. “We have to—go.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Tim’s stomach lurches, even as his headache subsides.

“The Not-Diana. It’s coming, Tim.”

“This way.” Tim grabs Martin’s arm and starts towards the door leading directly to the grounds, then pulls up short. “Shit. Those kids.”

“Wh—oh, God.” Martin turns pale. “They’re still here?”

Tim takes off in the direction of the two students, Martin hard on his heels. “Jaz! Helena!”

They don’t answer, but Tim rounds the corner just as their tape player shuts off. Jaz pulls off their headphones and looks up. “Oh, hey, we just finished—”

“Time to go,” Tim cuts them off.

“Yeah, just let us pack up—”

“No, now. You can come back and get all this later, but right now, we’ve got to evacuate.”

Helena’s eyebrows go up. “Is there a fire? I didn’t hear the alarm.”

“No, just—” Tim begins.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaartiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin…”

The voice from the direction of the stairs sounds like Diana’s—or at least the Diana Tim remembers, which means it’s the Not-Diana—but distorted, warped. Martin turns, somehow, even paler.

Jaz’s eyes widen. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, going. Going sounds good.” Helena starts to push back from the table, then stops and mutters something that sounds very much like “Horror Movie 101” before slithering out of her seat and sliding under the table.

“Good girl,” Tim mutters. “Let’s go. Quietly.”

Jaz grabs Helena’s arm as she crawls out from under the table. Tim leads them as quickly and quietly as he can towards the exit. They can probably get there, and if they’re outside, they’ve got a better chance, but down here without cameras, he doesn’t want to risk whatever might happen.

“Maaaaaartiiiiiiiiin,” the Not-Diana sings out again. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…I just want to thank you, that’s all.”

There’s a rustle from up ahead. Tim checks and shoos the others in a different direction, which means Martin is leading now, the two students still between them. Maybe they’ve got a better chance with Martin in the lead, him having lived in the Archives for so long…Tim sincerely hopes that Martin’s still got his mental map of escape routes. Surely he has one.

“It’s okay, Martin, it’s just Diana,” the Not-Diana calls, voice gooey with insincere reassurance. “Kind old Diana. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Helena is muttering under her breath, something Tim can’t quite catch or understand, but it’s probably a mantra or a prayer given the panicked look in her eyes. Martin halts at a gap in the shelves, looks both ways, then indicates for the others to come with him.

“You seem tense, dear.” The Not-Diana’s voice is impossibly close, coming from absolutely the wrong direction to have been where it was before. “You should have a nice cup of tea. You like tea, don’t you? Always the tea.”

They’re at one of the intersections where the shelves branch off, the gap between the nineteenth and twentieth century statements. Martin glances over his shoulder, then points to the left. “Go. That way. Should be able to get out. I’ll draw it off, it’s me it wants—”

“Absolutely not!” Tim hisses through clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving you to that thing—”

“I’m going to wear you, Martin,” the Not Diana calls. Ice water runs down Tim’s spine. “I’m going to wear everything you are. Like you never existed. Nobody will even know. And it will hurt, oh, yes. It hurt Diana.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Jaz whispers, clutching Helena’s arm hard enough it has to hurt.

“Yeah, definitely not leaving you to it now. Come on.” Tim grabs Martin’s arm and drags him with them to the left.

A tall, twisted figure suddenly looms up at the end of the row they’re running down. To Tim’s eyes, it’s bathed in a glow of indigo light, almost bright enough to drown out the green on the shelves around it. “There you are. And you brought friends.”

Helena screams. Tim skids to a halt, pivots, and shoves the other three ahead of him. “Run, run, run!”

Menacing laughter follows them as they try to flee. Tim’s mind whirls as they stumble desperately towards what he hopes is freedom. Diana never comes down to the Archives, unless the Not-Them has been exploring when nobody else is around. It might be at a disadvantage, not knowing the place like they do. Or maybe not. Beholder versus Stranger, the known versus the unknown…something with centuries of experience versus two people with eight months’ worth of knowledge and two university kids who’ve barely scratched the surface of all of this. He honestly can’t say which way this is going to go.

“I’m glad we’re getting to run, Martin,” the Not-Diana says. “It makes this so much more…satisfying.”

Document Storage is up ahead, but Tim’s not about to lead them in there; if that thing follows them, they’ll be trapped in there, and it kills Martin. Of course, it’s perfectly possible, even logical, that it will kill Tim and the two students too, but he’s not sure if it would feel worse to have to watch it tear Martin to pieces and then live with that for the rest of his life. Actually, screw that, he knows that will be infinitely worse and he isn’t going to risk it. Instead, he steers them towards the steps. It’s not optimal, he really doesn’t want to lead this thing up to the main floor if people are still up there, especially since he has no idea how this thing got past them all (oh, God, he hopes it was too intent on going after Martin to worry about anyone else), but it’s better than nothing.

Except there’s an open expanse between the end of the shelves and the steps, no cover, and Tim hesitates three rows back, not sure if they can make it.

“I knew it would be you, in the end.” The Not-Diana sounds satisfied and delighted, its voice somewhat distant, and Tim fervently hopes it stays away. “Always so helpful, always so eager. Anything to get approval, to show you deserve to be there…”

“Shut up,” Tim grinds out. Martin shushes him.

“It’s a shame you’ll miss the Unknowing,” the Not-Diana says. “You would have loved to see it. But oh, maybe you will be there after all. Won’t you be a lovely partner for the Dance?”

Anything is better than nothing. Tim gets the other three moving again.

“And I can wear you to find your Archivist.” The Not-Diana laughs, cruel and malicious. “Oh, yes, I know where he is, and of course he hopes for a rescue. Won’t he be surprised when kind, helpful Martin is the one to skin him in the end?”

Martin lets out a frightened half-gasp, half-sob. Jaz’s chest heaves with panicked, stuttering breaths. Fear and fury mingle in Tim’s chest and he starts wishing he had a weapon of some kind, but he’ll tear this thing apart with his bare hands if he has to. For right now, though, his primary focus is on getting Martin, Helena, and Jaz away.

“Tunnels,” he gasps to Martin. It’s their last hope. Not a great one, but it’s better than nothing.

They break from the shelves and dash for the trapdoor. Martin flings it open and shoos the others down it; Tim grabs his arm as he passes, forcing him to come with. “Not leaving you behind,” he grinds out.

Their terrified breathing echoes in the tight confines of the stairwell, and somebody swears in what Tim thinks might be Portuguese as they evidently miss their step. He fumbles for his phone, thinking any light is better than nothing, when a torchlight beam suddenly sweeps the ground in front of them. Helena screams, louder this time.

“Tim? Martin? What’s going on?” Jon Prime sounds concerned.

“You can’t escape me now.” Not-Diana’s voice floats down from behind them. Tim throws a frightened glance over his shoulder and sees the shaft of light from the Archives, blocked by a shadow, spill down the steps; the light abruptly vanishes. “Nowhere left to hide.”

“Shit,” Martin Prime hisses.

“Get behind me, all of you.” Jon Prime strides past Tim, sounding determined.

Tim grabs Martin and drags him forward, then finds the two students and pulls them all into a tight huddle. He and Martin do their best to shield Jaz and Helena from the Not-Diana, and Tim can only hope it will be enough.

“I see you,” the Not-Diana sing-songs, then hisses. “You!”

“Leave them alone.” Jon Prime’s voice is low and laden with menace, the way it was when Breekon and Hope first came to the Archives.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be—” The Not-Diana sucks in a breath. “You’re not Jon. What are you? What have you done?”

“Feel the pain of your victims.” Static builds as Jon Prime speaks, and the green glow builds. Like before, it starts with eyes, but not just Jon’s real ones, not just two or three extra ones—eye upon eye, popping into existence around him, all glowing brighter and brighter green and staring directly at the Not-Diana with an intensity that makes Tim’s entire being hurt. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds onto Martin and the students tighter.

“No, please,” the Not-Diana begs. “I’m sorry—”

“Understand it,” Jon Prime continues. The static is growing in intensity. “You have drawn out so much despair, and now, finally, it is your turn.”

“Don’t—I’m sorry,” the Not-Diana says. Then its voice changes, something higher, softer-pitched, with a roll to the R’s. “Please—don’t hurt me, please!”

Martin gasps again, and Tim realizes it’s the original Diana’s voice. The thing that stole her life is using her last words to plead for mercy, or perhaps to get one last taste of fear from them. It fills him with rage, and he guesses, from the intensity of Jon Prime’s next words that he’s thinking the same. “You have never truly understood. So much more suffering than you have ever known, and now—you will know. Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing.”

There’s a loud, high-pitched, discordant squeal that Tim can feel in his teeth. The green glow is so bright, so intense, that Tim can see it in detail even with his eyes—his real eyes, anyway—closed: hundreds of eyes forming the shape of a person, some floating around the head like a crown, others hovering around it like an arch, and one huge one appearing from behind, like a giant peering through the window of a house, and in between them, stretching and shifting and twisting into all sorts of humanoid shapes, a rapidly dimming glow of indigo. A roar mingled with a scream echoes through the tunnels, and then—

Silence. Darkness. Nothing but the ringing in Tim’s ears and someone hyperventilating.

He opens his eyes and eases up his grip on the others. Jon Prime stands where he was, unmoving, shoulders stiff, staring at the spot where—Tim assumes—the Not-Diana was a moment before.

“What,” Jaz says, voice shaking, “and I cannot stress this enough, the fuck.”

“We’re alive, we’re alive, oh, my God, we’re alive, I thought we were dead,” Helena whispers.

Jon Prime relaxes, at least marginally, and turns around to look at them. He seems…normal is the best way Tim can think of it. There’s nothing in his eyes but concern. “Is everyone all right?”

“I think so,” Tim says, uncertainly. His body aches like he’s been kayaking all day, and he’s still definitely more than a little terrified. The mental image of Jon being skinned alive by something pretending to be Martin isn’t going to leave his mind for a good long while. But, as Helena said, they’re alive. And nobody appears to be injured.

“Is it, um, is it safe to get our stuff and go now?” Jaz asks.

“Yes,” Jon Prime says without hesitation. “There’s nothing else out there. Not now.”

“Um. Good? Thank you?”

Jon Prime leads them out of the tunnels; Martin Prime brings up the rear. Once they’ve all emerged into the Archives, Helena turns to Tim and Martin, looking a bit hesitant. “I…think we got everything we need? We’ll, um, we’ll be back to let you know how the project goes, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” Martin says softly. “We’d like to hear about it.”

“Okay. Cool. We’ll just—get our stuff and go then.” Helena pauses. “We didn’t rewind the last tape, but—”

Tim can’t help the bark of laughter that slips out. “We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

Helena nods and turns away. Jaz starts to follow, then stops and looks back. “Thank you. For saving us.”

“Of course,” Jon Prime says quietly.

The two students head back into the shelves to get their things. As they go, Tim hears Helena whisper, “You were right, he is hot.”

“Oh, my God, Helena, shut up,” Jaz hisses, elbowing Helena sharply.

None of them speak, or indeed move, except for Martin Prime stepping over and resting his hand on Jon Prime’s back. Once the door closes behind the two students, though, Jon Prime whirls on Tim and Martin. “What did you do?”

Tim is about to deny that he did anything, then decides to accept blame; after all, it’s logical that it would be him, and while he doesn’t know what precipitated all of this, it can’t be that bad. Before he can, Martin speaks up in a small voice. “It wasn’t Tim. It was me.”

“Martin?” Jon Prime says in amazement, turning to look at him.

Martin crosses his arms over his chest. “It just—I know I shouldn’t have, I know what you said, but I was just—I was so angry. I felt so helpless. Knowing Jon’s in danger and we can’t do anything about it, a-and just, just the not knowing, it’s getting to me. And all I could think about was just—everything the Stranger’s done. What it did to Tim, what it’s doing to Jon, what it did to your Sasha—what it did to you. It just all boiled up. I-I went up to Artifact Storage and…and the table was there, and…”

“We told you what happened when I destroyed it,” Jon Prime says.

“I know! I just—I thought maybe if I did something different, it would…” Martin takes a deep breath. “I had Jon’s lighter, the one with the spiderweb design on it, I-I don’t know how it got in my pocket, but it was there. I thought it was a recorder at first. Then I pulled it out and—and I lit it and…it went up so fast. It was weird, it just—it caught and it burned and I had to jump back, and I was just thinking God, that was stupid when the fire went out and it was just a pile of ash and…”

“Martin.”

“I know. I know. It was stupid. You should be angry.” Martin isn’t looking at Jon Prime, though. He’s looking at Tim.

And he’s right, Tim should be angry. He wants to be angry. Martin’s expression says he wants Tim to be angry, too—no, he expects Tim to be angry.

Instead of yelling, Tim steps forward and pulls Martin into a hug.

Martin clings to him tightly, burying his face in Tim’s shoulder. Tim feels hot tears soaking into his shirt as Martin cries silently and gathers him closer, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other at the small of his back. He starts crying, too, as it finally sinks in how close a call it was. How close they both came to dying—worse, how close Martin came to dying.

“Non posso perderti anche io,” he whispers. “Please, Martin.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Martin half-sobs, half-gasps. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Martin doesn’t speak Italian, but he probably doesn’t need to. And Tim doesn’t say it’s okay, because it isn’t. It isn’t and they both know it. But what he does say, and what is equally true, is, “I forgive you.”

After a few minutes, they pull themselves together and separate. Tim’s face feels sticky and hot, and Martin’s is still blotchy, but they’re mostly okay. Martin snags a couple tissues off his desk and tentatively offers one to Tim, who accepts and turns to see the Primes holding one another, their foreheads resting together. Jon Prime looks…conflicted is the best way Tim can think of to phrase it. He guesses it has to do with Martin having destroyed the table and unthinkingly freed the Not-Them.

Martin evidently thinks the same thing, because he clears his throat. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon Prime murmurs. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Well…maybe it is. This time. But I’m starting to think a lot more things are inevitable than we previously thought. Someone would have let it out eventually.” He lets his hands slide off Martin Prime’s shoulders and takes a half-step back.

Martin Prime lets him go with obvious reluctance. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Martin. Honest.” Jon Prime gives him a fond smile, then squares his shoulders. “Right. Let’s see about finding your Jon now.”

A guilty look crosses Martin’s face. “You don’t—I mean, after—you’re not tired or—or drained?”

“No,” Jon Prime says quietly. “I’m feeling rather…full, actually.”

“You—oh.” Tim swallows. “That was, ah—that was pretty—it was a lot. Did you know you could do that?”

“Yes and no. I’ve done it before, just…not here. The first time was Peter Lukas, and it was actually in the Lonely’s domain rather than, well, the real world. All the other times I’ve done that were after the world ended.” Jon Prime huffs. “To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure it would work. Especially down in the tunnels, even with the trapdoor still open.”

“It was looking over the Not-Diana’s shoulder,” Tim says slowly, remembering the light show. “It was—it Saw, all right.”

Martin touches Tim’s shoulder softly, almost hesitantly; Tim reaches up to grab it and holds on tight. Martin Prime’s lips are in a flat line. “What would you have done if it hadn’t worked, Jon?”

“Tried to lure it deeper into the tunnels,” Jon Prime says, obviously trying for casual, but there’s a worried look in his eyes again, like he knows Martin Prime isn’t going to like his answer, which he probably isn’t. “Draw it away from all of you, give you a chance to escape. Leitner’s still down there somewhere with that damned book of his, he’d—probably have trapped it in the end. It would have been all right.”

Martin shivers. “She—it said it was going to wear me for the Dance.”

“It said what?” Jon Prime growls.

Tim hesitates. “Do—actually, do you want our statements?”

For a second, Jon Prime looks like he’s considering that, then shakes his head. “No. No, not right now. I don’t want to overdo it, and that was…a lot, considering I’m not quite as close to the Eye as I was. I at least need to siphon off a bit of power first. Let me take a look for your Jon.”

He rolls his head from one side to another, squares his shoulders, and takes another deep breath, closing his eyes. Again there’s the rush of static, again the glow, sudden, swift, and bright. Tim tries to stop himself from seeing it, but it’s too much and he’s too tired, and then it’s not just the Eye glowing on Jon Prime but all his other marks as well, some barely visible beneath the green and others impossible to miss. Faint hints of old marks still cling to Martin Prime, and Tim doesn’t want to look at Martin, doesn’t want to expose his trauma, but Martin wraps his arms around Tim from behind like he knows Tim’s about to collapse, which he probably does because it’s Martin, and Tim clings to his arms and closes his eyes tightly, but he can still see the green…

And then the static rushes out, as suddenly as it came, and the glow fades. Tim gasps as the last of his energy drains away, and he sags against Martin’s chest. God, he’s worn out.

“So?” he says tiredly. “Where is he?”

The look in Jon Prime’s eyes—mingled sympathy and fear—tells Tim the answer, even before he says, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Tim repeats. “After all that—you still don’t know?”

“I’m not omnipotent, Tim. I never was, even after the world ended. There will always be things that are beyond my knowledge, things I can’t just see. Blind spots.” Jon Prime hesitates. “I can—there are four that I can see. He’s in one of them, I can guess that much, I just—don’t know which one. He might be at the Waxworks, the one I was held at. He might also be in the Trophy Room—it’s shielded from the Eye, they’re still using it. They may have only stopped in our time because I questioned Sarah Baldwin directly. He might be in Wales—the Gwydir Forest—h-have you listened to that tape yet?”

“No,” Tim and Martin say in unison.

“I suppose it’s in the ones Basira gave you. Somewhere. Or Elias may have had it, I suppose, he’s the one who sent it to me, but…anyway. That’s a blind spot as well. I-I thought it had burned to the ground, but evidently something survived.”

Tim waits for a moment for him to continue, then prompts, “And?”

“Hmm?”

“You said there were four you could see. Or—not see. Where’s the fourth?”

Jon Prime winces. “You won’t like it.”

The bottom drops out of Tim’s stomach, and he’s even more thankful for Martin holding him up. “Covent Garden Theater.”

“Yes. It—th-they must still be using it, Tim. I’m so sorry.”

Martin’s arms tighten around Tim, and he gives a ragged sigh. “We—we can’t. It’s too dangerous, you’re right. W-we can’t take the risk. If we pick the wrong one…either he dies, or we do.”

Tim closes his eyes for a moment. He wonders how he has any tears left after the evening he’s just had. “But you can’t—is he okay?”

“He’s…alive.” Jon Prime inhales quickly. “Scared. M-maybe not the most scared he’s ever been, but definitely in the top five. I know what they did to me, but I can’t tell you for sure if that’s what they’re doing to him. It’s too…muted. Hidden. I have a strong suspicion that the only reason I can see as much as I can is because in some ways, he is still me. We’ve still got some connection, so it’s like looking for a part of myself. But I can tell you he’s alive.”

“I guess that’ll have to do,” Tim mutters.

“At least for the weekend,” Martin says. “We—we can regroup on Monday. Ask Sasha—oh, God, Sasha—”

“Left just after you did,” Tim assures him. “Basira invited her out for drinks.”

Martin Prime, who’s been unusually silent, gives a small laugh. “I always kind of wondered if they’d have been friends.”

Tim tries to stand on his own, but his knees buckle and Martin catches him. “Ugh. Think we can take one of those unmarked tapes home?”

“Yeah, sit down and I’ll grab a couple.” Martin eases Tim into his chair and brushes a light kiss against his forehead, seemingly without noticing, before heading over to the neatly sorted piles of tapes. A moment later he comes back and offers Tim his hand like nothing happened. “Come on. Let’s go home. You need food, a statement, and bed, not necessarily in that order.”

“No, that order sounds perfect, actually,” Tim mumbles. He lets Martin pull him to his feet and leans against him heavily, then looks at the Primes. “Thank you, by the way. For…everything.”

Jon Prime gives him a look of understanding. “I only wish it could have been more.”

[haro-whumps]

Intermission VIII: The Highly Anticipated “Evan Masturbates”

Pr0n beneath cut.

CW: references to past noncon, slavery, internalized homophobia, fucky relationships

I’ll go ahead and tag people but just like, don’t read if this isn’t of your interests:  

 @bleeding-demon-teeth @theycomeinthrees @redwingedwhump @whimperwoods @inpainandsuffering @whole-and-apart-and-between @whump-whump-whump-it-up @whumpingupastorm @newandfiguringitout @lonesome--hunter @looptheloup @icannotweave  @deluxewhump @whumping-every-day @yeet-me-out-a-window @what-a-whumpy-world @burtlederp @swordkallya @finder-of-rings @fairybean101 @adventuresofacreesty @arlennil @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @lumpofwhump-deactivated20200826 @thatsthewhump @pinkdiamondprince @shameless-whumper  @whump-only @kiretto-laorentze @eatyourdamnpears @whumpzone @bluebadgerwhump @fanastywhump @jo-castle @muffindaddy @whumpsy-daisies @whumpcollector 

I can’t fucking get these three to tag so OH WELL I’ll try to dm y’all | @constellationwhump @infested-with-bloodv2 @b-d-able

Masterlist

When Evan was a kid, he and Julio had pulled on the ponytails of their fellow trainees and made pubescent comments about their hot motorcyclist trainer with tits out to here. He had, far more often than his better-behaved peers, indulged in the off-color shenanigans of fresh adolescents. 

Living with Mistress Bethany had been a different story, his teenage years spent in a mire of confused feelings and sensations that all collectively just left him angry. Then he’d turned 18, and was never in want of a sexual encounter. He’d had altogether too fucking many of them, actually. 

But Mistress was dead, now, and Evan felt… not safe. Safe wasn’t the right word. But not-unsafe-enough that his body decided he could feel horny again, for the first time since he was 14. Which was stupid. For the record, for all the records, this was dumb. Horny feelings were stupid idiot feelings and he hated them.

He flipped the lock on “his” room’s door. Master had been weird (as he always fucking was), insistent that Evan have access to a room that locked. Why? More mindgames. Master Galo had to want them to have locked doors for a reason, right? Was it a test? What would he do, if he caught them with the lock flipped? Probably the same thing that would happen if he caught Evan with his pants down. Which was probably nothing. This was stupid.

This was Master Galo’s fault anyway, Evan thought, as he settled his crutches to the side of “his” couch in “his” room. He was the one who’d been talking to them about sex and attraction. His speech-presentation was responsible for Evan’s stupid dumbass horny hindbrain. Fuck him. 

“Fuck him,” Evan whispered into the empty, locked room, shivering at the fact that he’d said it out loud. He grinned, leaned his head against the back of the futon. “Fuck Master Galo,” he said, scarcely any louder. 

He laughed, breathy and quiet, and laid down on his back.

It occurred to him that he’d never masturbated before. Well, okay, yeah, he knew that; he hadn’t been that brave during training and afterwards he’d been in the family bed or Mistress Bethany’s. But now he was face to face with his own inexperience, and considered just ditching the whole idea. Except he had “his own room” with a locked door so fuck that noise. He was doing this. Himself. Doing himself. Okay.

He glared at the ceiling, one arm dangling off the couch next to his equally-off-couch leg. He dropped a hand to his crotch and--oh. A tight, electric heat pulsed beneath his belly and his dick came right to attention.

“Stupid fucking presentation,” Evan muttered, unbuttoning his fly. “Stupid fucking, ah--attraction!” He shimmied his pands down and shoved his underwear far enough that he could get his dick out, his chub still half-flaccid but growing harder. He wasn’t doing this for anyone else’s enjoyment, so he didn’t bother undressing, or monitoring his expression, or arching his body uncomfortably for the sake of being “attractive.” When he wrapped a hand around his dick, his whole body tensed up, shooting pain flaring from his stab wound, and he grit his teeth and forced that leg to relax.

It felt better, like this. Maybe (well, probably) because he’d feared and hated Mistress Bethany and he hadn’t wanted it even a single time, but this time around he hardened quickly, hand stroking slowly, fingers dragging lightly against the texture of his own skin before closing into a fist and dragging back down. He felt his breathing go… weird, and observed that little wobble with interest, cataloguing his own reactions. It was also sorta uncomfortable. Fucking the old hag, he’d had lube. This was sorta, uh, frictiony? His hand felt good but he was pretty damn sure he couldn’t go until he came unless he got something wet on there.

Maybe he should’ve washed his hands, he thought as he lifted his hand from his dick to his face. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, but then thought “fuck it” and stuck his fingers in his mouth. This was weird, right? It felt weird if nothing else. He wiped the saliva on his dick, and had to try that again twice more before he got frustrated and called it good enough. The spit did help though. Not as much as lube would’ve, but he was working with what he had.

He reached his other hand down and cupped his balls, rubbing his thumb in short circles and giving himself a little squeeze. It felt good. He closed his eyes, tried to force the over-stiff muscles in his neck and jaw to relax, which involved leaving his mouth open to keep from grinding his teeth.

It was good, but different too, without another body. He couldn’t anchor his thoughts on just the sensation of his own touch. And also his thoughts kept drifting back to his actual sexual experience, which was decidedly unsexy. 

He was not unfamiliar with fantasizing about Nyla or Sasha. He’d actually done it as often as he could, whenever he got the chance to close his eyes and visualize someone other than his Mistress underneath him. But they were always under him before, and now he was the one on his back. Trying to picture Sasha on top, her soft hips and big tits and pretty hair, just didn’t quite work in his brain. Nyla was easier to imagine on top, but he wouldn’t make her put in that kind of effort and wouldn’t that be difficult for her and yes Nyla’s naked body was nice but now his thoughts were hung up on technicalities which also were not helping the stupid horny jerkoff he was trying to do.

His brain then promptly supplied that if it was positioning that he was so hung up on, Greyson had plenty of experience on top and was super easy to imagine. He pumped the fucking breaks on that one, even as his dick jumped in his hand at the mental image of Grey’s half-undressed body crouched over his own. No, no no no, Evan was not thinking about Greyson naked--or with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and buttons undone--while he jerked off. No. He had gotten over himself enough that he interacted normally with the girls the mornings after he thought about them but if he did this he would not be able to look Grey in the eye. Also he wasn’t gay.

Maybe god was real and punishing him for errant sexual behavior, because his next thought was of Lilah. Not on him, but perched mischievously on the back of the couch, looking down at him, fully clothed. She’d probably make some sort of rude remark about the size of his dick, or mock him for squirreling away to jerk off in the first place. Oh god, did he like that? No, he hated being insulted, it was humiliating and decidedly not arousing, whatever his dick had to say about that particular line of thought just right then. Also that was his baby sister for fuck’s sake! This was weird and uncomfortable and he didn’t fucking appreciate this, brain! God, why was jerking off such a fucking ordeal? He just wanted to wank!

The only other person in Evan’s life was Master Galo. It was very, very easy to picture Master Galo, shirtless, smiling gently down at Evan while he laid there on his back. He could pluck that image right from his hospital memories. Shit, what if instead of just sitting there and holding his hand, Master Galo had crawled up on the bed with him and nudged his legs apart and--

Evan wouldn’ve bitten his nose off is what! Why was he thinking about this!? He wasn’t gay! And he wasn’t, he wasn’t, fucking attracted to Master Galo! Fuck this, he should either just quit entirely and wait for his dick to deflate or think about one of the girls.

About ten seconds later he caught himself stroking his cock and thinking about how good Master Galo’s big, fucking warm hand would feel on him. Ugh, fuck this! He wasn’t doing this! He wasn’t thinking about his Master, who he hated on principle, while he jerked off! No! No no no! Bad brain! He grit his teeth (and when had he closed his mouth?) and resolved to just take his hand off his cock and wait until he was soft enough to tuck back into his pants. He wasn’t doing this.

But then he thought about his Master placing his hand on top of Evan’s and saying, in that specific fucking voice of his, “It’s okay. You don’t need to be embarrassed.” Evan grit his teeth somehow harder and whistled heavy breaths through them, muscles tense and left leg painful again. He didn’t want to do this; but so much more of him did.

“Master,” he breathed, forcing his jaw open once again, then immediately cursed his stupid horny weakness with a “Fuck!” He was doing this. Shit, he was doing this.

It didn’t mean anything! It was just a fantasy--besides, he’d come to an uglier owner than Master Galo and it wasn’t like he was attracted to her. It was fine. Just a fantasy. He wasn’t gay, he was just, he just, this was a one-time thing. And all fictional! None of this was real or mattered or meant anything.

He bet Master Galo would brush his bangs away from his forehead. His hand would feel so warm against Evan’s skin. Evan carefully moved his leg farther, opening as he imagined the massive bulk of his Master settling weight into the couch. Master Galo’s chest hair, his heavy arms, his stupid fucking charming goddamn smile, they were all so quick to conjure in his mind, and easy portrait of the man who’d knocked his life so far from its original course. Would kissing him feel soft?

Evan got another wave of weird discomfort, but shoved it aside. It wasn’t gay. And even if it was, Evan could easily imagine Master Galo bending down close to his ear and murmuring, “It’s okay, Evan, you’re doing good.”

Evan’s hand instinctively clenched around his cock, toes curling. His breathing picked up. Master Galo had stubble, how would that feel? Rough? Probably kinda scratchy against his face, and the thought of that, that it’d feel bristly against his face and neck--fuck, his dick twitched again in his hand, precum starting to leak out the tip. What if Master Galo kissed his neck? Fuck, would it tickle? Probably, but Evan also bet it’d feel so fucking good. He could slide a massive hand into Evan’s hair and pull his head to the side with it, kiss his neck and send those pleasantly sharp little stings down his scalp. Lean on that elbow and grab Evan’s dick in his other hand.

Evan thumbed around the tip, wide circles that forced him to consciously keep his mouth open, to keep from biting his lip or making some stupid whine. Master Galo was a methodical person, Evan could just as easily bed he’d have slow, practiced strokes up and down the length of his cock.

If Evan muttered “Please,” Master Galo would probably take care of him. Fuck him. Fuck him but fuck him. God, he’d be so heavy, too, immovable, he totally dwarfed Evan in size. He’d be so solid, but Evan’s fantasy didn’t involve feeling trapped, just held.

He could feel his thighs tighten again, and forced his left to stay slack. His breathing was coming shorter, and he felt his balls rise tight in against the underside of his dick. He turned his head against the soft fabric of the futon, imagined how it’d sting so nice if his hair was being tugged on. Then, with perfect clarity, Evan’s brain had the image of Master Galo press his lips close to Evan’s ear again and praise, “Good boy, Evan.”

He came, probably the hardest he ever had in his life. He lied there, panting, flushed, too hot, with his dick softening in his hand and his limbs loose and jelly-like.

“Oh, fuck that!” Evan growled, now that bloodflow had returned to the rest of his brain. That was stupid. He shoved off his sweaty shirt, pants, and underwear, hissing as the fabric burned too-fast against his wound. He was bleeding, but nothing pressing. “Fuck this, this was stupid, this was bullshit,” he muttered furiously as he snatched a vest up off the floor and used it to clean the cum off his hand and crotch. Just about the only good use the damn things had. He did, uh, turn it inside out, though. Didn’t need Greyson finding out about this.

“Fuck!” Evan pulled on clean, non-swampy underwear and pressed a tissue to the wound, which clotted over pretty quick. It had just been a minor aggravation. “Shit hell!”

Dressed again, Evan finger combed his hair and refastened his ponytail, stormily muttering every curse and swear word under his breath that he knew. Then he sat with an elbow on his knee and mouth in his hand, face flushed so hot he felt near-feverish. This was a mistake. He hated this. This was stupid, and dumb, and no one could ever know what he just thought about, and oh god how the fuck was he supposed to exist in the same room as his Master now?

[k-writesthings]

What about a little something for Eren and Armin? Doesn’t have to be romantic, but I like to think their friendship is just a bit under rated

This was honestly a joy to write! Thank you for being my very first request! @cagedpandababe

Platonic! Eren x Armin

Warnings: Mild drinking (By horse face🐴)

!!No Manga Spoilers!!

   

It was official. This was the first-ever successful trip outside the walls. They had made it; the seven surviving members of the 104th Cadet Corps and the last two veteran Survey Corps soldiers… 

   They made it to the ocean. 

   The vast blue abyss that stretched out beyond the horizon. Which held so many secrets. And even further stood Marley. A civilization, much like the one within the Walls, but with two major differences. They had knowledge, and the citizens of the Walls had man-eating Titans. Marley wanted to wipe out the people within the walls as some sort of mass racial cleansing. They were a threat. A massive, powerful threat. And the only information they had on this threat came from one long-dead man.

   Yet, as grim as their current situation sounded, Armin couldn’t be bothered with it for the moment. He was at the sea. The sea! The place he had longed to find from the moment he set eyes on the book in his grandpa’s attic. From the moment he flipped to that page and drank in the words describing the body of water. The words fell short, however (as words often do), to describe what he saw in the first moment he laid eyes on it. Because as he stood, staring across the expanse of blue, Armin knew he could have never been prepared for the beauty before him.

  So he stood, ankle deep in water he had only touched in his dreams, watching the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen.   

   A sudden splash and a feminine screech reminded Armin that he was the only one still taking the scene in. Sasha had tired of the beautiful horizon about a few hours ago, so she roped Mikasa into a game that consisted of jumping over the rolling waves as they approached the sandy beach. (And while Armin knew that she was just playing along, she kept it up because of how happy it made Sasha.) Jean had been rifling through various saddle bags to wash the taste of sea water out of his mouth. He found some mysterious liquor about an hour before the sun had set, so he was completely shit-faced by the time the light began to fade. Hange and Levi had gone off down the beach, claiming to be looking for test samples (Armin only half believed that). And Connie, on the other hand, had tired himself out and laid down in the warm afternoon sun to rest. Needless to say, he was asleep. 

  So that left Eren. Humanity’s most unlikely savior. The boy who got eaten by a Titan, only to become a Titan. 

  Eren had sat himself against the base of the cliff that overlooked the beach when the sunset began. He briefly said something to Armin about feeling cold and went to sit alone. But, Armin knew what he was thinking about. Marley. Their next big enemy. Ever since that day in the basement, the day their world grew monumentally, Eren was always thinking about Marley. Armin had caught him making attack plans and strategies, even before there was any word on a journey to the ocean. He was obsessed, even the freedom of finally leaving the walls wasn’t enough to quench his thirst for long. He had to defeat Marley.

   Armin understood Eren’s wishes for complete and utter freedom from all things that threatened their way of life, but he also couldn’t help but feel a little sad. Eren had been called to Wall Maria in the weeks leading up to this expedition to try and scout out a safe way to the ocean. He had been staying in a temporary military encampment near Wall Maria for those weeks, so Armin hadn’t seen him for almost a month by the time they gathered for the journey. And while Armin hadn’t been at all bored, what with daily training to control the Colossus Titan, he still missed his best friend. There was no one to talk to about the soreness he felt when he transformed and stayed in his Titan body for too long. No one who had experienced the same trauma he went through (and had nightmares about). And of course there was Mikasa, but she was usually too tired from training with Levi to talk to him or entertain his theories like Eren did. 

    So when the date of departure was released, Armin was very excited to see Eren again. And what he found was a person he hardly recognized. But he knew what this stranger would talk to him about. 

   Armin stepped out of the chilly water, completely aware of how numb his feet were from standing there for so long. Eren seemed to be lost in thought as Armin made his way towards him. His turquoise eyes had a far-away look in them, his lips were slightly parted, and his breathing was quicker than normal. Armin sitting down next to him seemed to be the thing that pulled Eren out of his stupor.

   “Nice night.” Armin drawled casually, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

   Eren glanced at his childhood friend quickly, making a guttural sound that Armin took as an agreement. The air felt tense between the two boys, like two dogs about to brawl. But the “dogs” were thoughts and feelings, and the “fight” was talking about them. 

   And Armin knew he had to let the fight break-out.

   “I wonder what Reiner and Zeke said to the Marley official-,” Armin was cut off before he could finish voicing his pondering. 

   “What are you doing over here, Armin?” Eren’s voice was husky from sitting silently for so long. He fully turned his head to face Armin, who met Eren’s steely gaze calmly.

   “Talking to you.” Armin told the suicidal maniac next to him as he sat up a little straighter. “ We haven’t seen each other in a month; we should catch up.”

   “I don’t want to talk about Marley.” Eren turned away from Armin once again. 

   “I know Marley has been the only thing on your mind since we got here. Since we got to see the ocean...” Armin breathed out a small chuckle, the sound barely escaping his lips. “We wanted to see this, be here, for so long. And now, here we are. I haven’t been able to fully wrap my mind around it yet.” 

   Eren sighed slowly, running a hand through his slightly grown out hair. “Of course I’ve been thinking about Marley, Armin.” He admitted, evidently choosing to ignore the comment about the beautiful scenery. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

   “It?” 

  Eren paused for a moment.  “...The war we are going to wage against them. We know they won’t stop, that much was clear when Reiner and Zeke retreated. So the only way to ensure the people of the Walls true freedom is to eradicate the threat… and I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Armin nodded absentmindedly, processing Eren’s words. Armin knew that they would eventually have to take a stand against Marley, especially with all the Titan-Shifter power they held. They were a threat, viewing the people inside the Walls as the spawn of the devil. A sickness to be cured. Armin also knew that he and Eren were likely to be spearheading the mission to Marley, whenever it would take place. There was no way to infer what the Marleyan world looked like, save for the pictures brought over by Grisha Jaeger. Was it widely military operated? Or was it more like the citizens of the Walls, a large percentage of their population being civilian lives? Was the eventual war going to kill innocent people who had nothing to do with the threat? Did it matter? There were so many unanswered questions, so much they didn’t know. Talking about Marley just confirmed the necessity of the war, regardless of how ethical it might be. And they didn’t need to worry about that, not for a while. 

   But there was one question Armin did have. One that could be answered. “Eren?”

   Eren’s gaze was still fixated on the horizon. “Hmm?”

   “Do you think you’re brave?” The question hung in the air for a moment, and then two.

   But then, Eren spoke again. “You know me better than anyone else, Armin. What do you think?”  

    What did he think? Armin studied Eren’s side profile, though his features didn’t give any answer away.  “I think,” He brushed his bangs away from his eyes. “That bravery is relative. For people like Mikasa and Levi, it relates to what is happening in the moment. They know their goal, they know how to achieve it, and they will stop at nothing to carry it through. And while I respect them both immensely, they don’t think ahead. I’m not particularly battle-savvy, but when I’m calm, I can think and make a clear plan. Commander Erwin was the same way. But you…” Armin almost struggled for the correct words. “You fight for freedom. Total and utter freedom. You’re like Mikasa and Levi that way. But freedom isn’t a short-term goal. It’s a rat race. First against the Titans, now against Marley. And because it’s so tough to earn freedom, you are able to think ahead as well. You analyze the situation, find your most immediate threat, get rid of them, and repeat. Regardless of the obstacles, you’ve learned to never give up. Not until you are truly free.” Eren had turned to look at Armin halfway through his speech. His once solemn expression was traded for that same look of cocky defiance he used to always wear. Armin met his eyes. “So yes, you are brave.” 

   “I’ve missed your monologues.” Eren told him, a small smile creeping onto his face.

   “I do not monologue!” Armin protested, annoyed that that was the first thing Eren decided to say.

   “Hell yes you do! It happens all the time, how don’t you notice?” 

   “Probably the same way you don’t notice Mikasa’s feelings…” Armin mumbled under his breath.

   “What was that?” Eren snapped.

   “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Armin teased him, shoving the taller boy’s shoulder. Eren scoffed and returned the shove, knocking Armin over. Armin’s body thudded softly against the sand on the ground before breaking into a laughing fit. Eren joined him, until the two teenagers were clutching their sides from laughing so hard.

      ★

      “Oi brats, time to go.” A voice called from above as Eren stirred from his sleep. He and Armin had fallen asleep after their giggle fit, completely exhausted by the amount of tension they both had dispelled. Eren couldn’t remember the last time he laughed that hard, even if it was over something as trivial as Armin’s “monologues”.

Eren moved to sit up, but a pressure on his chest stopped him. Armin was still sprawled halfway on top of Eren, completely unconscious. Eren looked up to see the frowning face of Captain Levi staring down at him.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he looked down at Eren’s helpless face. “Look, I don’t care if you have to drag Arlert up here by his ears. We have to leave before sunrise or risk whatever is left of those damn Titan bastards showing up.”  

  “Yes, sir.” Eren told his superior, before trying to shake Armin awake. “Armin? We have to go now.” Armin just groaned and nestled against Eren’s chest. ‘Alright then. Looks like I'm carrying him.’ Eren thought with a sigh.

   The years Eren trained had prepared him for this moment. Carrying his sleeping best friend up a cliff. Surprisingly, Armin wasn’t super heavy. The climb up to the horses was easy enough, but Mikasa had to help situate Armin on top of Eren’s horse. Eren had no idea Armin could sleep so deeply like this. Their entire adolescence had been plagued with the fear of Titans, and now they had almost nothing to worry about. No wonder Armin was so calm.

   They rode for home, then. Eren gripped Armin’s unconscious body to his chest and smiled. 

   He had really missed his best friend. 

[catgirlthecrazy]

To Love and To Cherish

After being extremely mean to Jon and Martin in my last fic, I had to make it up to them with 2,000 words of domestic softness (and a side helping of character development)

AO3

Summary: What if the Scottish Honeymoon lasted through retirement? 

***

Martin was washing dishes when the fog rolled in. He didn't notice it right away. He was bent over the kitchen sink and didn't see much beyond the plates and soapy water. It wasn't until Martin straightened to work a kink out of his back that he saw the soft white curtains of vapor drifting across the yard. And Jon was down in the village at the moment, and hadn't said when he planned to come home.

When he'd first come to Scotland for years ago, that had been enough to send him into a panic attack. Slumped against the kitchen counter, knees hugged to his chest, sweating and struggling to breathe for god knew how long until Jon came home and found him like that. He'd held Martin's hand, softly rubbing circles in his palm. Come on Martin, breathe with me, he'd said, voice soft and steady as a highland cow. Breathe in to a count of ten. 

Decades had passed since then. Somewhat less since his last real panic attack. Martin knew now, with a rock solid certainty, that Jon would come back. He knew he had friends waiting for him.

Still. Martin Blackwood might not be Lonely anymore, but that didn't mean the scars couldn't ache in the wrong weather. He stared out the window into the fog, hands still dripping with suds. He could remember the day when that fog had filled his eyes and lungs and heart and mind. When he'd been certain that no one in the world cared if he lived or died, and that he would spend the rest of eternity with that numbing fog. Without even the mercy of death to look forward to.

Martin closed his eyes and breathed in. One. Two. He thought of Sophie and Rasheed, who ran the chemist's shop down in the village and invited them to dinner every once a week. Three. Four. Their children, Maryam and Noah, who Martin had known since they came home from the hospital and were now graduated from university. Five. Six. Robin and Daniel, who ran the pub that Jon and Martin went to every Wednesday, and had done so ever since taking it over from Robin's father ten years ago. Seven. Eight. Georgie and Melanie, who hosted Christmas every year down in London. Nine. Ten. Daisy and Basira, who came up to visit for two weeks every summer. Now hold.

Jon. Who woke up beside him every morning. Who could go on and on about the strangest things. Whose brusque demeanor hid a surprising depth of kindness that still delighted Martin even to this day. Who'd plunged himself into that cold and numbing fog to save Martin, and pulled him out again with love. Who'd given up his own sight for a life with Martin, away from eyes and fear. Martin breathed out to another count of ten. He opened his eyes, and the fog was just fog. Just water vapor brought about by a closeness of air temperature and dew point. He went back to washing dishes.

Some time later, something meowed at his feet. Martin looked down and smiled. "Hello Percy," he said to the regal ball of fluff twining itself around his ankles. Percy looked up and meowed again.

"Don't give me that. It's not dinner time for another hour."

Percy gave him a withering look and meowed again, as if to say You are most certainly mistaken. Your clocks must be running slow.

"I think you'll find it's your clock that needs winding, not mine."

Another plaintive meow. You must make an exception! Can you not see how I am malnourished and dying?

"Not falling for that one either."

Percy gave him a look of pure pleading, and mewed.

"That won't work on me. Jon's the cat person, not me."

Percy's expression grew more plaintive. He mewed pitifully. Martin turned back to his dishwashing before he could give into weakness.

Percy's full name was Sergeant Major Percival Pike. The naming of cats was one thing Jon and Martin had never really been able to see eye to eye on. One day many years ago, Jon had come home with a stray kitten and informed Martin that they were calling her The Commandant. Martin hadn't had the heart to argue at the time. Jon had been so adorably besotted with the tiny thing, how could he tell him no? But Martin always felt a little ridiculous calling such a squeaky little fuzzball by such a weighty title. So he'd nicknamed her Manda, and called her that until she passed away from old age in front of the fireplace. Jon had only lightly teased him for it, and Manda didn't seem to mind answering to two different names.

When they adopted their second cat, three years after rescuing Manda, Jon had wanted to name him Lord Chancellor. This time, Martin put his foot down.

Please Jon, can't we give the cat a normal name?

Jon scoffed. What self respecting cat would accept a normal name?

You think a cat's going to care if it's called Whiskers? Or Mittens? Or Fluffy?

Yes, and their owners should be hanged for lack of creativity.

In the end, they compromised, and the cat was dubbed Lord Chancellor Reginald Roberts III. Martin called him Reggie. And so it continued for every subsequent cat they owned, down to their current pair. In addition to the Sergeant Major aka Percy, they were also graced with the presence of Brigadier General Eleanor Evans, aka Ellie. People who didn't know them well sometimes assumed they actually had four cats instead of two.

The scraping of a white cane on concrete announced Jon coming up the front walk. Percy alerted to the sound and trotted over to the front door to wait. A moment later Jon came in, Ellie following closely on his heels like a mother shepherding a slow kitten. She did that often these days. There had been a time some years ago when Jon had been clipped by a drunk driver while walking up the lane, fallen into a ditch, and broken his leg. Ellie had found him on her daily ramble outside, then gone home to Martin and refused to stop screeching until he followed her to see what the problem was. She had appointed herself Jon's official outdoor chaperone ever since. Jon didn't put up with overprotectiveness from humans, but apparently he could tolerate it in cats just fine.

"Sophie and Rasheed say hello," Jon said. He shuffled over to the counter and set down two bags. One had the logo of the chemist's shop, containing the month's assorted prescriptions (arthritis medications for Jon, blood pressure and thyroid medications for Martin). The other had a container of something thick and brown and spicy-smelling. "They insisted on giving us some of their leftover curry, so I think we're having that tonight, unless you have any objections."

Martin smiled. Percy leaned his front paws on the counter walls and meowed insistently, as if to say Yes, that is clearly meant for me, please serve it up straight away. "Sounds better than omelettes. I'll go put on some rice." He leaned in to kiss Jon on the cheek.

***

The curry was excellent. Rich and warm and exactly as spicy as Jon liked it. After dinner found him and Martin on the couch, Jon leaning sleepily into Martin's shoulder. The fabric of Martin's sweater was soft against Jon's cheek, and it smelled faintly of lavender scented soap. Somewhere close by, the Sergeant Major was purring like a well oiled car engine. No doubt he was using Martin's lap as his own personal heated cat bed. Good taste in laps, that cat.

"Let's see, where did we leave off," Martin said. Jon heard the distinctive paper scrape of flipping pages. Real paper books were something of a rarity these days, but Martin wouldn't hear of replacing his collection with more convenient electronic versions. Jon couldn't afford to be as picky. Paper books were satisfying to hold, but they didn't come with built in text-to-speech software. Except when Martin owned those books, then they sort of did.

"Ah, here we are." Martin cleared his throat.

"Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days—

to travel home and see the dawn of my return.

And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,

I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure."

Martin read in a calm, gentle voice. A slight shift in the cushions told him the Brigadier General was settling herself down above them on top of the couch. Aloof, but still part of things. With care, Jon reached up, found her chin, and offered scritches. The Brigadier General graciously accepted. What a picture they must make.

Jon didn't actually know what Martin looked like anymore. That was a statement that was true on a couple of different levels. Jon's mental image of Martin was still of a smiling, round-faced man with freckles in his late twenties. Jon knew Martin couldn't look like that anymore. His skin was dry and papery, his arms soft and flabby his hair thin and wispy and bald on top. And that was before considering the visual changes that other people (including Martin) commented on, like white hair and liver spots. Jon tried to overlay those facts onto his mental image of Martin, like a police artist trying to age up a photo of a long-missing person. But Jon would never know how closely that image matched the real thing.

On a deeper level though, Jon wasn't even sure if his image of young Martin was still accurate anymore. He'd made a point of memorizing every feature of Martin's face the day he'd decided to take his own sight. Every night for weeks after that, he'd conjured up the image in his mind, gone over every single detail with a mental microscope. He'd hoped that by sheer repetition Martin's face would wear a groove on his memory that could not be wiped away. But memory didn't work like that. Like an image that had been through the photocopier too many times, each act of recall changed the memory, altering and embellishing it until it was a caricature of its original form.

Once, that would have horrified Jon. He'd already had Sasha's face stolen from him, and no amount of terrible eldritch knowing power had been able to retrieve that knowledge for him. The thought of losing Martin's face? That had kept him up nights in a cold sweat. But if the decades since had taught him anything, it was this: the Not Them might have stolen Sasha's face from him, but it had also stolen every other part of her. Her voice, her laugh, even her manner. Jon still had every other part of Martin, waking up beside him each morning.

Jon awoke to gentle shaking. "Jon? Jon, you'll get a crick in your back if you fall asleep like that."

Jon grumbled and sat up. His spine screeched at him for forcing it back into a normal alignment. He grimaced. "What time is it?"

"Half past nine. You want to go to bed? Or I could make Percy let you have my lap."

Half past nine. In his younger days that barely counted as night. One of the lesser known adjustments of old age was the way it had completely obliterated his night owl tendencies. Jon considered Martin's offer. One last nap on his beloved's lap before moving to bed? "Tempting. But I think if I stay much longer I'll stick to it permanently."

With some considerable effort, Jon levered himself out of the couch. He offered a hand to help Martin up, which he readily took. "C'mere a minute," Martin said, tugging Jon gently back before Jon could turn towards the bedroom. Martin placed a hand under Jon's chin and tilted it up slightly. The gesture was both invitation and request, codified through decades of habit together. If the answer was no, Jon just needed to pull away, and that would be that.

Instead, Jon leaned in. There was the subtle but unmistakeable crackle of electricity that came before their lips met. Martin pressed his mouth into Jon's with a somewhat surprising level of intensity. Had something happened while he'd been out that day? Well, if it had, Martin would tell him. Or he wouldn't, if he didn't want to. Either way, it wasn't something Jon needed to know. Jon reached up to caress one cheek. It was dry and cracked, but covered in a soft peach fuzz he'd always been fond of. His other hand stretched around Martin's back, still soft and warm and huggable as an overlarge teddy bear. Jon might not know what Martin looked like anymore. But he didn't need to.

[comfy-whumpee]

Jack 11: Finale

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10] CN: mention of minor whump, mouth gore.

The routine was easy, which he was grateful for, because it kept things simple for him. He was expected to recite the names, the apologies, what he’d done, how he would never do it again, and the litany of insults they’d taught him to believe. In return, they fed him when he was right. If he was wrong, he was punished. He hadn’t made any mistakes in a long time. Lindsey was totally, utterly bored of him, and Cat knew the job was finished.

 So it was time to bring in the client and demonstrate how they’d earned their pay.

Mrs Grover was Ronald’s mother. She’d been trying to curb her son’s behavioural issues for years, and had grown extremely suspicious when they’d abruptly cleared up. When the whole situation about Kiera had been revealed, she’d reached out. Not for revenge, she said, though Cat had her doubts. She just wanted to make sure the man never hurt anyone again.

 She was a dumpy blonde, pretty and mild, but Cat recognised the kind of deep, fierce protectiveness she saw in Lindsey and understood how such a normal woman could pay for something like this. She accepted a cup of tea in Cat’s office and they chatted a little about Ronald and the other kids’ recoveries.

 “It’s just such a relief, you know? They thought she might not be able to, but with some physio... God, listen to me. At least it’s only physio. I can’t believe I’m saying that about a child.”

 Cat nodded, all sympathy.

 “I just - I still worry, about them, you know. About trauma.” She said the word like it was sacrilegious. “That’s why...if that man was able to do anything...” She glanced hopefully at Cat. An invitation.

 “Let me put your mind at ease,” Cat said. She flipped her laptop around on her desk, keeping the mouse in her hand. The picture on the screen was of Jack on the first day, the defiant leer and stubbornly jutted chin, shortly after Lindsey had cut him the first time and they’d put him in the chains. “This is how we found him,” Cat said. “That attitude was the first thing to go. We don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour. He lashed out and was appropriately punished.”

 She scrolled to the next image. The stitched cuts on his chest.

 “Let me know if you’d rather not see these,” she said, but Mrs Grover shook her head, eyes tearful but fierce. She needed this.

 “This is how we left him,” Cat said. “He was immobile, barely able to stand. His mouth was too full of congealed blood for him to speak. We didn’t give him food or much water until his attitude was better. Once he was compliant, we rebuilt him.”

 She scrolled again, to the video. In the centre of the shot was Jack, under the bulb, hands strung over his head. He stared dead into the camera, too exhausted to feel shame, and he said. “Kiera. Ronald. Nelson. Jennifer. Safia. Ramon.”

 “We made him say their names,” Cat explained. “He learned by heart who they were and what he did to them. We reminded him when he needed correction that he deserved pain because he had inflicted it. He internalised this rule fairly quickly. We don’t believe he’ll hurt someone again until he’s fully recovered from this. Certainly, he’ll be too physically weak to do so for a couple of months.”

 Mrs Grover didn’t look away from the screen, eyes glued to his bloodied face. She was leaning forwards in her chair, hands tight on its arms. She didn’t blink as she said, “After that?”

 Cat shrugged. “Depends on the person, circumstances, causes for relapse...it’s impossible to say. People change.”

 Mrs Grover sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. I just...I wish there was a way to make sure, you know? So that he could never do to others what he did to...”

 Cat remained patient as the mother rambled. There was always an outpouring of evidence before a confession.

 She cut off her own rambling with a wince. “Never mind me. You can...I think there’s something I’d like you to do.”

 -

 After the negotiation of medical treatment, extra pay, the in-house doctor’s requirements, Cat had agreed. Mrs Grover had followed her down to the cellar. Lindsey was already there, checking on the cuts for the last time now that Sasha had taken out the stitches. She smiled at Mrs Grover and took off her gloves to shake the woman’s hand.

 “My partner,” Cat explained. “Lindsey, our client has an extra request for you to take care of.”

 Lindsey nodded, her expression all business, but Cat could clearly see she was excited, her eyes focused and a smile dancing around the edges of her mouth. Lindsey knew that if Cat was going to ask her to do something, it would be because she’d enjoy it. Ever since they’d started this business Cat had only ever given Lindsey jobs that appealed to her. It was like getting presents every day.

 “Cut out his tongue,” Mrs Grover said. The words burst out of her with a desperate kind of need. “Cut out his tongue so he can’t talk, so - so he can’t use - manipulate - other people like he did.”

 Lindsey’s mouth pressed together to hide her grin. Her eyes went to Cat briefly, and Cat smiled back. Lindsey didn’t say it in front of the client, but Cat knew she would have been thanking Cat with all her loving glee right now. This was as good as Christmas.

 She drew her stiletto knife. Jack was only half-conscious, and clearly hadn’t been able to process the conversation, because he wasn’t resisting yet. Lindsey touched her fingers to his jaw and said, “Jack, open your mouth for me.”

 He did, even though it reopened the cuts at the corners of his lips, and his eyes glazed over with tears. “A little wider,” Lindsey coaxed him. “That’s it. Now, I need you to put your tongue out for me. That’s it. That’s it.”

 That was humiliating in itself, of course, seeing a grown man put his tongue out like a dog on command. But Lindsey was too fixated on the upcoming mutilation to pause and savour it how Cat would have done. She took the tweezers from the table and squeezed them around the tip of Jack’s tongue. He made a soft noise of pain but didn’t resist as they dug in hard enough to pierce the skin.

 Then, the knife.

 Jack howled. The noise erupted from him so hard and so loudly that there was no other way to describe it; it ripped from his chest like a wounded animal, a ragged, keening noise that only gave a glimpse of the pain he was in. He didn’t thrash, would never thrash again, but he did stretch himself out as if to tear the scream from deeper inside him, head lifting towards the ceiling, back arched, fists clenched and pulling on the chains.

 Then he gagged and jerked, and Lindsey grabbed his head and pulled it down, so that the blood didn’t choke him. He coughed hard, spluttering scarlet across her overalls, and tried to pull his head from her grip, but she fisted her fingers into his hair. He continued coughing until he’d hacked up all the blood, convulsing as the metallic taste burned his throat; once the liquid was clear he was heaving breath, falling, gradually, to be still, mouth hanging open, blood pouring down his face, head resting against Lindsey’s chest as she stroked his hair.

“Good boy,” she murmured, running her fingers through the matted locks at the nape of his neck.

He tried to speak, to beg by the tone of it, but all that emerged was an indistinct whine of pain.

The realisation seemed only to hit him then. His eyes widened and he tried again to speak, and no words came. He probed his mouth with the stump, figuring out what felt wrong, what Lindsey had done. "Uhhnnn,” he moaned out, blood pouring from his lips with the gutteral noise. “Whhhnnnnnnnnnn!”

“Yeah,” Lindsey said, as if she knew what the wailing meant. She kept stroking, soothing. “You deserved it, though, didn’t you?”

Now in tears of frustration, he gave up with a defeated whimper. His head drooped, an exhausted nod of agreement. He knew this.

Lindsey released her hands. He didn’t move. He hung again, limp as a carcass, eyelids sagging. His breath rattled still in his throat but he didn’t otherwise respond to the sound of the camera.

 He was finished.

 Cat turned to Mrs Grover, who nodded shakily. She opened her handbag and passed Cat the thick envelope of cash. Then she turned and almost ran up the cellar stairs, as if terrified that she would regret it if she thought about what she’d done any longer.

 As for Jack, Sasha would cauterise the stump of his tongue, rinse him down, and then they’d drive him out to the country and dump him somewhere he’d probably be found. They’d keep tabs on him for a little while, make sure he didn’t tell, that he was going to behave. If he made any move to come back for them, Lindsey would bring him back to the cellar, and Cat would make sure he never left again.

-

Thank you for everyone who stuck with this arc, it sure was a long one. The next arc will be half this long because why did I do this to myself and you.

[alexiarexia-blog]

04.13.2019

Please be aware that I will not be responding to any messages, asks, or replies at this time, or for the foreseeable future. Please respect our privacy and need to grieve. Thank you.

This is not an easy post. Our journey does not have a happy ending.

At 2:08PM on Saturday, April 13, 2019, our beautiful Camryn Rose made a very early debut into the world. She died in my arms at 2:13PM without ever taking a single breath.

Camryn Rose was born a full 21 weeks early. They don’t even call it a live birth at that point. Even though her heart was still beating until they cut the cord, it’s considered a second trimester miscarriage.

Regardless of what they call it, I call it heartbreak. I call it impossible.

I call it agony.

Camryn Rose. She was a girl. I don’t think I had even publicly announced that yet on Tumblr. Only a select few knew that detail. Only a select few knew I was experiencing complications. To those few, I am eternally grateful for your positivity and being there when I needed you. Especially @randomgirlusername. You were definitely my virtual rock when I needed to be completely honest with where my head was as we were playing that torturous waiting game, and in the weeks since.

To others, I need to tell my story. I know I don’t owe it to anyone, and I have a right to keep it private, but writing it out has been cathartic, and I want you all who have been so supportive and encouraging to know.

So, here’s my story.

WARNING: This story contains frank, graphic descriptions of a second trimester miscarriage. I can’t sugarcoat any of the details. If you’re at all squeamish, this may be hard for you to read. Proceed at your own risk.

On Thursday (April 11), I stayed home from work because I was feeling a bit off. But I’d been having trouble sleeping because of my asthma and allergies (both made worse by the pregnancy), so I figured I just needed a day or two to rest and catch up on my sleep. The morning was pretty smooth, just some mild discomfort that wasn’t usual for me. Mostly lower back pain that I typically attribute to the weight of my chest. I’ve felt that pain since my teenage years, so it wasn’t unusual.

Claire was still home. She’d cancelled her late morning office hours, but was still planning on heading to work for her two afternoon classes. We’d planned on ordering Chinese food for lunch and watching Lost Girl on Netflix.

Around noon, I began feeling a bit worse. My lower back pain had morphed into what felt very similar to bad period cramps. When I went to pee, there was spotting. Spotting during pregnancy isn’t unusual, but combined with the lower abdominal cramps that were continuing to worsen, we made the decision to call my OB and see about getting a same-day appointment to get everything checked out. The receptionist told us to hold for a moment, then she was back on the line in two minutes and told us to go straight to the emergency room as quick as we could. Claire drove like a mad woman and got us there in under fifteen minutes.

I was admitted fairly quickly and they did a pelvic exam where it was discovered that my cervix was extremely short. An incompetent cervix is the technical term. A normal cervix length at 17.5 weeks is about 3.5cm, but it can vary for each pregnancy. Anything less than 2.2cm is considered in the danger zone. My cervix was 1.1cm upon admittance. Essentially, my body was preparing for labor. I was only 17 weeks and 4 days. The earliest viability for a fetus is 22 weeks, and survival rates at that point are still incredibly low. There was zero chance she’d make it if they didn’t stop it.

I was given IV medication to try and stop active labor, but it didn’t work and by the following morning, my cervix was 0.8cm long. The next step was a cervical cerclage, which is a procedure where they literally sew your cervix shut with a thick suture. It sounds painful because it is. I was given an epidural to numb me, but when that wore off, I was in so much pain that I passed out from it a few times. I could only receive so much pain medication to help because of the baby. But it was worth it, all the pain and agony was worth it, to save our baby.

But it didn’t work. I developed a pretty nasty infection quickly (expected with this procedure) and it was being resistant to antibiotics. And then, at just past noon on April 13, 2019, my body gave up and my water broke. The force of it ripped the stitch from my cervix, and it felt like a red hot poker was being pushed out of my vagina. I’ve never felt anything more painful in my entire life. Physically, at least. What happened next was easily the single most painful experience, physical or emotional, I’ve ever had to endure.

There was nothing more to do to stop my body from labor. They gave me another epidural to numb me, then they delivered sweet little Camryn Rose. She was so tiny; I didn’t even have to push. She was already crowning. She weighed just over 6.5 ounces and was only 5.4 inches long. I held her as I cried. As Claire cried with me.

In all the years I’ve known Claire, I’ve only seen her cry from sadness two other times. Once was when her mother died last summer, the other when the grad student she was mentoring died in a horrific car accident several years ago. It seems death is the common denominator here. Claire is a solitary crier. I know she’s had more moments than I’ve been privy to than just what I’ve seen. It’s not that she doesn’t want me to see her break down. Or, well, that’s exactly what it is, actually. She’s stoic and a protector. She feels the need to be my rock, so she has to always be strong.

But she was crying freely as she held me the entire time, uncaring that all the medical personnel could see her. That my mom could see her. (My mother had flown out as soon as I’d been admitted to the hospital the day before.) She didn’t care, and for that I am grateful. I needed her to be vulnerable in that moment, just as she needed herself to be vulnerable.

My heart hurts for the loss of our baby, but it hurts even more for the pain it causes my incredible wife. She’s been through so much and I just don’t understand how she can keep going after all of it. But she does, and for that I am so utterly grateful and in complete awe.

Camryn Rose. We decided on the name as I held her. “We should pick a name.” Claire spoke those words as she brushed a finger across our daughter’s paper-thin cheek. We’d discussed a few names, but Camryn really stuck out in that moment. She felt like a Camryn. And Rose in honor of Mama Rocío, Claire’s mother’s, memory.

After we said our goodbyes, I had to be taken to the OR for a cervical repair. It’s as nasty as it sounds. They stitched my cervix back into place, but only after they had to perform a D&C (where they remove the placenta). I was thankfully still numb from the epidural, but after that wore off, it was more pain.

The physical pain, as bad as it was, was nothing compared to the emotional pain I felt. The emotional pain I still feel, and will for a long, long time.

I can’t become pregnant again. There was too much damage to my cervix. I’d never be able to carry a baby to term, no matter how much precaution was taken. That’s something I have to make peace with, but that’s also going to take a long, long time.

The mental trauma of this miscarriage has left me raw and sensitive. The smallest thing can set me off into a sobbing mess. The thing that gets me most right now? Mirrors. Yes, mirrors. Or photographs of myself. Because, even 3+ weeks later, I still look pregnant. The body doesn’t magically morph back to its pre-pregnancy state after miscarriage. I still have the rounded belly (not quite as much now, but still there) and puffy cheeks. That will take a while to go away. So for now, mirrors/pictures of myself are the sworn enemy.

Claire is incredible. She’s grieving as much as I am, yet she’s been my rock this entire time. Her and my mother. And my dog. Sasha the GSD has not left my side since I returned home from the hospital. Dogs are incredible, and we don’t deserve them.

Therapy has been a godsend. I’m nowhere near okay or ‘back to normal,’ but I can function day-to-day, and that’s a huge improvement for me compared to two weeks ago. It seems like it’s been so much longer than just over two weeks. It seems like it’s been a lifetime. Getting through the next days, weeks, months, years… seems impossible at times.

My saving grace is my support system. In particular, five people. Claire, my mom, Sarah, my therapist, and @randomgirlusername (seriously, y’all, if you didn’t know how incredible she is, take my word for it--she’s been a literal life-saver and I cannot thank her enough). I have my bad days and I have my good days. All days are emotionally trying, but some are less painful than others. Those good days are all because of this support system that I have.

And on the bad days, my support system knows exactly how to help me cope. And for them, I’m eternally grateful. I don’t know where I’d be, mentally, without them.

I’m okay. Or, I will be, at least. Even though this is the most difficult thing I’ve ever gone through, I have the support system to get through it. And because of that, I know I’ll be okay. I know there will be hard days and not-so-hard days. I know it won’t be all rainbows and sunshine, but it also won’t be all stormy weather. I remind myself in those bad times that it won’t remain like this. I will feel joy and happiness again.

It will just take time to heal, physically and emotionally.

[saint-jaeger]

sympathique

a jearmin fic

Jean is forced to move from france and transfer to an american high school, but he sucks at english. Armin has the hots for the enigmatic new student. i can't do summaries

Transferring to a new school in the middle of Junior year was hard enough, made much harder by the fact that Jean had only just moved to the States a few weeks prior, with less than a moments notice. He had a good life in France, a great life in fact, but having to drop everything for his Dads fancy new job left a bitter sting of resentment. America was stuffy, the people were abrasive, the cities were muggy, he desperately longed for the cool sea air of the French countryside, but it was all irrelevant now. 

    He was lingering outside the school building, smoking his 3rd cigarette since he had arrived, maybe it was his 4th? Who cares. It was an attempt to soothe his anxiety, but he was only left with nausea in the pit of his stomach, unsure if it was due to the nicotine or nerves. With a melodramatic sigh, he stomped out the cigarette and resigned himself to his new life at Trost High. 

    Thankfully the halls had cleared out by then, most students had already found their way to homeroom, Jean wasn't sure he could handle the chaos of hundreds of teenagers just yet. he fished out a crumpled bit of paper from his satchel and looked for his first period: Ms. Ral, room 104, English. Fan-fucking- tastic. He couldn't help but scoff at the irony. He had learned the basics of conversational English in primary school but never bothered to become proficient. If he could time travel, he’d kick his own ass. His grasp of the language already had proved less than sufficient and inwardly cringed at the vulnerable position he was in. 

    This was nothing like home. At home he went to a small school with kids he’d known his whole life, he’d made friends easily, he was charming even, now he could hardly get through a sentence without some stupid comment about his accent. Well, there wasn't shit he could do about it now. 

    Jean had hoped he could slip into the back of the class without being noticed, but this quickly proved to be in vain. 

 “Ah Jean, is it? We’ve been expected you!”

    “Merde” he cursed under his breath before turned towards his teacher, doing his best to give a genuine smile. (it ended up more like an awkward grimace.)

    His teacher was a petite redhead with large kind eyes, he might have found her to be a comforting presence until she asked what he’d dreaded since he’d arrived. 

“Why don’t you come up and introduce yourself to the class?”

    He shot her a pleading look, but she only returned a small smile and reassuring nod. 

“Euh, hello. My name is Jean Kirschtein, and I moved here from France....it is nice to meet you.”

    Real fucking smooth. 

“Well we’re happy to have you here Jean, go ahead sit down we’ll start class in a moment.”

    Jean did his best to ignore the curious stares and whispers as he made his way to the back of the classroom. The only available seat was next to a girl with a messy brown ponytail and soft brown eyes to match. 

    Before he even got the chance to pull out his notebook she leaned over, ogling him like he was some rare species. 

“So France huh? I've always wanted to go to Paris!” he barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at that. 

“You know I think the French have the best food in the whole world, no one does it like you guys, and oh man the pastries!”  

    With that she seemed to get lost in her own thoughts, Jean could swear he could see her starting to drool a bit. Gross.

“Anyways I'm Sasha, nice to meet ya Frenchie!”

    Oh hell no. Here's hoping that one doesn't stick. 

    Jean gave up pretty quickly trying to follow the lesson, English confused him enough without trying to decipher Shakespearian prose. Instead, he busied himself with his sketchbook. It was one of the few things that he was able to comfort himself with, art didn't need a language. the pictures spoke for themselves. 

    The rest of the morning continued the same way. More invasive stares, more fragmented sentences. He couldn’t help but sigh in relief when the bell rang for the lunch. There was no way in hell he was going to attempt navigating cafeteria, sitting alone would be another embarrassment he couldn't suffer that day. After wandering aimlessly around the halls for a bit, he came across the library. A quick look around and no one seemed to be in there. Perfect. 

Armin

    The first time Armin saw him it was a dreary Monday in November. Now, he was smart enough to know that your heart couldn’t actually stop beating, but God, if he wasn't the most beautiful boy Armin had ever seen. 

    He was leaning up against the brick wall of the school building, his long neck and sharp jaw exposed as he breathed out a cloud of smoke. Armin was also smart enough to know that smoking would kill you, but God if it wasn't sexy. 

    There was just something about him, the way that his grey turtleneck clung to his broad shoulders, his long legs in jeans so tight it should be a sin. He felt as if his gay little heart might combust.

   He nudged his best friend, “Hey Eren... who is that? I’ve never seen him before.” 

“Huh?” Erens bright green eyes whipped around obviously before spotting the boy. “Pshhh, I don't know, he looks like a prick though.”

   Armin sighed, deciding it not worth it to respond. His gaze lingered though, his mind swimming with curiosity. 

    The second time Armin saw him was later that day. He didn't share lunch with Eren or Mikasa, so the library had become his usual hangout. The last thing he expected to see was those same broad shoulders hunched over a desk in the otherwise deserted library. 

   His breath hitched when he saw him, this mystery boy that had filled Armin's head without so much as a word spoken. He made his way towards an empty chair, far enough away to not seem creepy, but close enough to get a better glimpse at his face. If he noticed Armin come in, he didn't react, his brows furrowed in concentration at whatever he was doing in his notebook. If only he had the courage to say hello, he was just a person right? But no, he wasn't just anyone. He’d managed to steal the air from Armin's lungs without even acknowledging he existed. 

      So he resigned himself to admire from afar. He could see his face more clearly know, he had sharp features that seemed to be fixed in a scowl, hazel eyes that bore down on the page with characteristic intensity. What was it that held him so deep thought? He assumed it wasn’t homework, he didn’t seem the bookish type like Armin. What was he doing alone in the library anyway? Who was he? The sharp sound of the bell ringing brought him out of his thoughts and then the boy was gone, all of his questions still unanswered. 

     Gathering his books he headed towards his next class, Chemistry. Normally one of his favorite subjects, but he couldn't bring himself to pay attention to the lecture, his thoughts consumed with the boy. He didn't realize how distracted he was until Eren leaned over and started snapping in his face.

“Hellooo? Earth to Armin. You in there?”

“Mmm? Oh yeah what?” he responded still recovering from his daze.

“Geez, what's gotten into you? Have you heard anything I just said?”

    Armin felt his cheeks getting warm, flushed with embarrassment. “Oh sorry, I was just thinking. I saw that guy from the morning again.”

    At that Eren snorted. “Oh yeah, he was in my second period. His names John or something, apparently he's new, fresh of the boat from France. Definitely a prick though. why do you care?”

“Huh? I don't care. I mean, I just- um, I-” Armin babbled in a poor attempt to seem nonchalant.

    Erens eyes widened with understanding, “Oh, ooooh, you’ve got the hots from the new kid.” he sniggered.

Armin cheeks were definitely red now.

“Look, he seems like a jerk, don’t get your hopes up.” 

   Armin sighed at that, Eren always trying to intervene so he wouldn't get his feelings hurt. Could that be true? Was he actually just a jerk? He didn't want to believe it. Perhaps he was a loner, a little intense maybe, but Armin couldn’t help but think there was more to him than that, and he desperately wanted to find out. 

[wallsinner]

Title: Toy Soldiers Pairing: Reiner Braun x Female Reader Warnings: None, I don’t think. Summary: “Of course I remembered.” You said with a shrug, pleased that he seemed so thrilled with such a small token of your love for him. “My warrior boy.”  Notes: Old, Unbeta’d.

You hear the low hum of the TV from the living room as you close the door behind you, so you don’t call out his name and instead turn right and push the door open. Sure enough, yes, the TV is on low in the background but he isn’t watching it or paying any attention to it. Reiner has his eyes closed, looking peaceful as he naps on the couch. Actually, it’s really, really cute and it isn’t that often that you find your handsome, well-built boyfriend cute. Handsome? Yes. Hot? Absolutely. Sexy? Hell yeah, but it isn’t often you could use the word ‘cute’ to describe him. You can’t help yourself, you pull out your iPhone and snap a picture so you can ‘awww’ over it as often as you want to, but it doesn’t disturb him, his eyes remain closed. Part of you wants to leave him there to rest, because you know he’s going on a business trip tomorrow and you don’t know how much rest he’ll be getting on that. The selfish part of you, however, wants to wake him so that you can spend as much time with him as you possibly can before you go without seeing him for a few days and you’ve spent part of the afternoon out shopping with your friends Christa and Sasha to give him some space to get sorted and pack afterall…

It’s the selfish part that wins out. You drop the shopping bags onto the couch next to him and lean in to press your lips gently against his.

“Hmmm?” Reiner’s eyes flutter open and you pull away, giggling at the adorable expression on his face. “Oh, you’re home. I guess I fell asleep.” Another yawn, you feel kind of bad for waking him up. “How was shopping?” he asks as he casts a look at the bags on the sofa. “…Doesn’t seem like it was as successful as usual.” He opens his arms out to you and slide into his lap, nuzzling your head into his shoulder.

“It was okay.” You shrug. “We didn’t really do that much or go as many places as normal, Sasha had to pee and eat every ten minutes or so and so we ended up cutting it short.” You won’t admit it, but it was your idea to cut it short, partly because you wanted Sasha to go home and rest, but mostly because you wanted to go home and spend time with Reiner. “I love her, I really do, but I’ll be so glad when this baby is out of her. I didn’t know it was humanly possible to need the bathroom so often.”

“You say that now…” Reiner chuckles. “But at the end of it you’ll just have a baby with you when you all go out and instead of just feeding Sasha, you’ll be stopping even more often so that she can feed and change the baby too. Unless she’s going to leave it at home with Connie in which case…”

“Don’t!” You laugh at the expression on his face as you scold him. “He’s going to be the greatest Dad ever, infact, I believe you were the one to tell him that when he was complaining about how nervous he was.” Reiner just laughs and you open your mouth to speak again, as you remember the dumb little gift you have nestled in among the bags you’d bought home with you. “Oh! I got you something.”

It had been Christa who’d dragged you and Sasha into the little toy store so that she could purchase yet another gift for Baby Braus-Springer (who still wouldn’t be arriving for two months and you swore, already owned more possessions that you did, mainly thanks to Christa) and as soon as you’d laid eyes on the little box, you’d had to purchase it for him. You’d remembered right back to the beginning of your relationship, when you were still in the stage of needing to know every tiny detail about each other’s lives and pasts. You’d been lying in bed, having a discussion about childhood and growing up and nostalgia in general and he’d told you how much he’d loved them. That had stuck with you. You leaned over to search for the little bag and presented it to him. You knew it was kind of lame, but you were sure he’d love it and appreciate that you’d remembered.

You pushed the bags to the side and climbed off his lap so that he could examine it. “For me? You shouldn’t have?” He laughed and his eyes lit up as he saw the box nestled inside the bag. He pulled out the little box of toy soldiers and leaned in to press his lips to yours. “I can’t believe you actually remembered about this.” He told you fondly, opening the box and pulling out one of the green, plastic figures that were inside. “I love these things.”

“Of course I remembered.” You said with a shrug, pleased that he seemed so thrilled with such a small token of your love for him. “My warrior boy.”

Reiner doesn’t speak again, just takes each soldier out of the box, taking his time to examine each one in each pose.

Sunlight streams in through the window and you open your eyes groggily. Wait, what? Why was it light outside? Your alarm didn’t go off, why didn’t your alarm go of? You’d told Reiner that you wanted to be awake to say goodbye before he left, you weren’t going to see each other for a few days after all. You groaned in frustration as your eyes focused enough to look at the clock, post-it note stuck to it. You pulled it off, taking in a sharp intake of breath when you realized that you’d wanted to awaken four hours previously and looked down at the note. “Didn’t want you to wake, you looked so peaceful. I’ll call you when we land, love you – Reiner.” You read aloud and cursed under your breath. You appreciated the sentiment, you really did but you’d really wanted to see him before he’d left.

You stretched, throwing the comforter off your body and turned to face his empty side of the bed. Something green caught your eye and you frowned, reaching out and retrieving the small, toy soldier that had invaded your bed. For a second, you entertained the idea that maybe they were sentient like the toys in Toy Story, until you embarrassedly realized that it was more likely that Reiner had left it there.

Why though?

You put the little solider down on your bedside table and yawned, walking into the bathroom and turning the shower on. You threw your pj’s into the laundry basket and stepped in, allowing the water to beat down onto your tired body and wake you up a little. You slid out, dried yourself off a little and walked back into your bedroom to dress and dry your hair. You came back into the bathroom after though and opened the cupboard above the sink to grab your toothpaste.

There was another of the little plastic soldiers sitting behind it.

No. Seriously. What?

You frowned at it as you brushed your teeth. What exactly was going on here? Was Reiner leaving these around for some reason or had you accidentally awoken in a Pixar movie? You shook it off, assuming that it was down to Reiner like playing about with them and forgetting where he’d put them while he was getting ready to leave. You washed your mouth out, put the toothpaste back into the cupboard and headed down the stairs into the kitchen.

Coffee. You needed coffee. And cereal. But coffee first. You filled the coffee maker, hitting the button so that it would spring to life while you dealt with sorting out what you were going to eat for breakfast. You couldn’t help but groan and roll your eyes as you saw yet another one of the green plastic toys sitting on top of the container of sugar by the coffee maker. Okay, you could understand he maybe forgetting and leaving two of them around, but this one seemed to have been carefully positioned.

You walked over to the cupboard to deal with the cereal, shaking your head in confusion and… oh look, yeah, sure enough, sitting in the cupboard where most of the food was stored on the shelf above the cereal was yet another one of those green plastic men. For serious, maybe you shouldn’t have made that purchase because those toys seemed to have made your boyfriend transition back into a child, he was literally leaving them everywhere.

You prepared your cereal and then finished the cup of coffee, bemused by what the heck was going on all the while and planning on bringing it up to Reiner as soon as he called, because this behaviour was a little weird to you. You walked into the living room, planning on spending the rest of your Sunday morning watching catching up on the stuff you’d recorded to the TiVo box during the week, while surfing the internet, afterall there was nobody home with you to judge you on being unproductive (though to be fair, Reiner would never do that anyway). And oh, of course, on the coffee table you’d gone to set you cup and bowl down on was yet another one of the green plastic toys. Just… why?

You shook your head to yourself and flicked on the TV, opened your laptop and let yourself get immersed in your distractions. You hardly noticed that two hours had passed since you began your little TV marathon and ASOS surfing, but the ringing of your phone alerted you to your lost hours. Reiner. He must have landed. You picked up the phone, happy to be able to hear his voice. “Hello?”

“Hey!” Reiner’s voice was far too perky for a Sunday morning, but then again he had been awake since five and had probably drank like… a whole lot of coffee in that time. Or he’d napped on the plane. “We landed, we’re here in one piece.”

“I’m glad.” You replied with a smile. “Even if I’m a little mad at you for not letting me wake up this morning.”

Reiner chuckled. “You’re not really mad are you? You just looked so peaceful and I didn’t want to ruin you.”

“Maybe just a little.” You replied, asking how his flight had been and making small talk about the meetings he was going to have to attend. You reached out to pick the cup of half-drunk coffee on the table in front of you. It had long, long since gone cold but hey, going and getting another cup involved moving and it was Sunday, you could be as lazy as you wanted. You took a sip, pulling a face and listened to what Reiner was telling you about his conference as he waited for his cab to the hotel they’d be staying at, when you caught sight of the shaped green plastic on the table out of the corner of your eye. “Hey, Reiner?” You cut him off. “What’s with your soldiers being, you know, everywhere they shouldn’t be?”  

Reiner went silent for a second on the other end of the phone and then laughed. “You’ve found them then?”

“Well… they weren’t exactly hidden. You put them…” Realization washed over you. “You basically put them where you knew I’d see them.”

Reiner laughed again. “No, I put them where they’d see you. You know, so that I know something’s looking out for you while I’m gone.”

Your slight frustration at them being littered about the place immediately dispersed. You were so wrong when you’d thought that cute wasn’t the right word to use to describe your boyfriend. Because that was absolutely the cutest thing you’d heard this past weekend, including all the talk about Sasha’s baby.

No. Cute was definitely the right word to describe him.

Really fucking cute.

[sunson]

you were a dream last night

He is so, very gentle; but with a tongue so, very wicked. //Genderbent eremika. nsfw.

ao3

It starts like most of these things usually do; in the middle of the night. However, unlike most things, it starts off with the gossip of Hannah, finally having slept with Franz, and her going in great detail about the ordeal.

“And what else?” Mina Carolina tries to cajole out of her, her blush rising from her neck to her face. “Did it… hurt?”

Hannah shakes her head shyly, her own blush overtaking her as she places her hands on her face, as though it might stop the redness from engulfing her. “No… well, yes. It did, but only a little bit! Afterwards it was… it was so nice and perfect and,” Here she sighs, as if reliving the memory, which Eren undoubtedly expects that she is.

“What did it look like?” Sasha asks from her side. “I’ve heard that it looks like a slug.”

“Eh?!” Hannah exclaims, mortified by the suggestion. “No! No, it did – it did not look like a slug. It looked – well, it looked,” And here Hannah looks side to side, searching for the words to come to her. Suddenly, her shoulders slump into defeat. “I… I guess it kinda looked like a slug. But it was a pretty one.”

“A pretty slug?” Ymir cuts in, dryly. “Ugh, you know what, I don’t even want to know. I’ve had enough of this.” She turns onto her side, flipping over the covers onto her. “You guys should sleep too, unless you still want to hear Hannah talk about Franz’s slug – excuse me, pretty slug. We have an early day tomorrow.”

And the talk ends there, more out of mortification and embarrassment than anything else. Although it ends, Eren can’t help but keep thinking about it. She hasn’t seen one, per say, but it doesn’t mean that she isn’t curious. She recalls Hannah’s words in her mind; soft, velvety, hard, and full of life. Eren can’t quite imagine that to be so. Genitals are just… genitals. Eren knows of her own, and she isn’t blind to others. But that’s mostly because sometimes the girls would… touch themselves in the middle of the night when they would think no one was awake. But male genitals…

She’s on the cusp of sleep when she hears the rustling of blankets and a soft whisper.

“Sasha are you awake?” It’s Mina’s voice, Eren notices.

Another rustle and Eren hears Sasha whisper quietly back. “I’m awake, yeah?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Because of… well, you know.”

“…Oh, that. Why is it bothering you?”

“I don’t know, I just,” Mina sighs in exasperation. “It’s making me feel weird.”

“Do you need me to put cotton in my ears?” Sasha asks hesitantly.

“What? No!” Mina almost shouts, but coughs afterwards. “I’m not feeling that weird. Just… I just want to talk about it a little more.”

“Okay, what do you wanna say?”

“Well,” And Eren can practically hear Mina blushing furiously. “I don’t know… which one of the boys do you think has a nice… penis?” Mina says the word so quickly that Eren would have lost it had she not been listening so intensely.

“Hmm… hard to say. Maybe Reiner? He’s very muscular. Or Betholdt? He’s tall, and well, apparently tall guys have… longer ones.”

“I agree, and you know that’s true actually. I’ve also heard that men with big hands have larger ones as well.”

“Well, who do you think has a nice one?”

“Um… maybe Mikasa?”

Eren almost chokes.

“… Or Marco. Who knows, not like I’d ever see either of theirs.” Mina says, almost sulkily.

And the conversation is distant in Eren’s ears. Of course, Eren isn’t blind to the attraction that Mikasa pulls to him. She’s heard enough about the girls in the dorms talking about him when they would think Eren wasn’t looking. They would talk about his face first, stating his exotic features that, for some reason, made Eren sick to hear. The first time she heard one of the girls’ comment on that, Eren almost yelled at her. As it was, she glared at her and shut the door extremely loud behind her. Everyone got the memo ever since then.

And then they would talk about his hair; saying how they had never seen that exact shade of black before, or how silky it seemed, and how it gleamed in the sunlight. She heard the crude remark from Hitch Dreyse, how Mikasa’s hair made her want to run her fingers through it as he rode her, just to see if it was as soft and silky as it looked. The implication almost made Eren throw up.

Of course, they would talk about his body as well. In the afternoon heat, during training, when jackets had been discarded to the side and sleeves were rolled up, it was impossible not to notice the fine lines of Mikasa’s muscles. His white, button-up shirt sticking to his skin, showing a set of abdominal muscles through it. Eren would notice, of course, but only because everyone else noticed. It didn’t help that Mikasa would never once remove his scarf, causing him to perspire even more, letting the sweat run from his skin almost sensually.

It’s… the first time she’s ever thought about Mikasa like that. Hell, it’s the first time Eren has allowed herself the indulgence of thinking about anyone like that. Of course, she notices attractiveness; it’s not as is she’s blind. But it’s just that… she’s never had the time to think about anyone like that. Always too consumed with thoughts of fighting and survival.

She recalls Hannah, before she bravely stated that tonight was the night she would sleep with Franz. When asked why, she blushed and stammered, saying that who knew if they were to die tomorrow? That she wanted to experience this, just in case anything happened to her or him. The speech had inspired some of the other girls, but Eren was not one of them at the time. She thought it silly that Hannah would want to waste her time doing something as frivolous as that. It didn’t make snese when she could be training instead. But to each their own, Eren had thought.

I am such a hypocrite, Eren thinks, screwing her eyes shut to make the mental picture of Mikasa shirtless vanish from her head.

Because, if Eren were telling the truth… then deep down, she also wants to experience the thing that Hannah did. She wants to be held by strong arms and have someone touch her in the most intimate way that she can think of. And now, those strong arms have a face. Midnight hair and inky black eyes; it’s Mikasa’s face that stares down at her, holding her thigh up in the air as his fingers work through her, thrusting in and out.

The last thing Eren sees before she succumbs to sleep, is the image of Mikasa zipping down his pants, pulling them down and revealing himself to her; bare and naked.

Come next day, and Eren cannot look at Mikasa. She avoids him during breakfast, throughout training, and even during cleaning duty. No doubt that he’s puzzled by this, but Eren can’t find it in her to look at him and not have last night’s thoughts written out on her face. Even Armin notices, and during dinner, asks her about it.

“Eren, are you mad at Mikasa?” He asks, taking a sip of his soup.

“What? No, what gave you that idea?” She says, vehemently.

“Well, mostly because you haven’t talked to him at all today.”

���I haven’t talked to anyone today.”

“Not true, you’re talking to me.”

“Armin!” Eren snaps, throwing her spoon down in her bowl out of frustration. She takes a breath and picks it up again. “I’m not in the mood today.”

He shrugs. “Alright, but just to let you know, Mikasa’s really upset. He thinks he’s done something wrong. You’re never this quiet you know.”

And Eren scoffs, turning her head to the side, thinking through the chatter and sounds of people eating in the dining hall. She’s about to turn to Armin, say that she’s sorry for snapping, until she sees someone’s crotch. To put it more accurately, she sees Mikasa’s crotch. She can’t pull her eyes away from it as it comes closer and closer to her, and if Eren can focus a little bit more, she can see the faint outline of his –

“Eren, are you okay?” Mikasa’s voice cuts in, laced with concern.

And she yelps, jumping in her seat and accidentally having her the top of her head hit Mikasa’s chin. “Ow,” She says, rubbing the top of her head just as Mikasa does with the underside of his chin.

“Eren – “Mikasa begins, setting aside his tray and moving his hand to her head in order to soothe her pain, but Eren slaps it away. The hurt on Mikasa’s face is enough to make her stomach churn with guilt.

“What’s wrong with you?” She says out loud, not sure if she’s speaking to herself or him. She stands up quickly from her seat, and walking away from the table, feeling the gazes of both Mikasa and Armin’s lingering on her back as she vanishes from their sight.

She walks outside, not caring if anyone were to see her and punish her. She sits on the stairs to of the entrance, her face in her hands as the moon shines her surrounding blue.

It’s quiet enough that Eren is able to think properly. She knows that she’s been an absolute bitch to Mikasa. Not just today, but almost every day. She doesn’t even know why she acts the way she does in regards to him. Perhaps it’s jealousy. Eren will fully admit that Mikasa’s natural over-powering strength has always been a place of envy for her. What Mikasa can do in a single movement, it takes Eren hours upon hours to try and do recreate it.

And it doesn’t help that she’s finding herself attracted to him. It’s all Mina and Sasha’s fault, what with their talk of the boys’ penises and whatnot. If not for their conversation, Eren wouldn’t be in this situation. Her life would be going on normally without having the intense desire of wondering what Mikasa would look like naked.

She sighs, the cold of the night making her wrap her arms around herself. She stays there, silent and quiet, until she hears footsteps approaching.

At first, she thinks it’s Shadis, or one of the other soldiers coming out to scold her. But suddenly, a blanket is thrown over her from behind, and she knows without having to look that it’s Mikasa.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” He says, taking a seat next to her. “You could get into trouble.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Eren says. It’s still between them two. As though time has stopped and there’s nothing but the beating of their hearts and the moon shining down at them. She sits up straight, an apology ready on her lips and then –

“I’m sorry,” She hears Mikasa say, his head looking down at the ground. “I… I don’t know what I did, but if you tell me, I’ll try not to do it ever again.”

And here Eren sighs, more out of frustration than anything else. “You didn’t do anything wrong Mikasa. I was just being a bitch to you for no reason.”

Eren sees Mikasa visibly cringe at the word she uses to describe herself. “It’s true,” She continues. “I was being a bitch and I don’t have any explanation for it. I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She pulls his hand into her lap, stroking the smooth skin in apology. These hands that have become a source of comfort to her over the years. Hands that have helped Eren through her worse. She thinks about Mikasa and suddenly, Eren realizes. She cannot ever live without him. This boy, this strange, quiet boy who still keeps the scarf she gave to him so long ago, who’s eyes search for her out of a sea of everyone else. This boy for whom she would die for. Whom she would protect, forever.

She starts first, resting her head onto his shoulder, taking in his scent as she does so. He nestles his head onto hers afterwards, his hand thrown over her shoulder, squeezing her to him even closer. They are both so close, the closest they have ever held each other. Her head moves from the crook of his shoulder to his chest, cheek sliding against the fabric of his shirt. She looks up at him, and if she tries hard enough, she can count each individual, long eyelash of his. Her gaze turns to his nose; she’s always had a sort of fascination with it. When they were both still young, Eren would take her finger up to his nose, pressing it softly as if it was a button, and Mikasa would smile when she’d say, ‘There, I turned you off Mikasa.’ She chuckles silently at the memory, and enacting the situation, she brings her finger up to his face, pressing softly at the tip of his nose. He scrunches up his eyebrows slightly at her, but as if remembering the memory, he smiles and brings the hand that Eren held in her lap to his face, fingers placing themselves on top of her own.

“I turned you off, Mikasa.” She whispers.

“Yeah,” He says, so close that she can feel his breath on her face. “You did.”

Her fingers start to move, from his nose to his cheek and then into his hair, and oh, Eren realizes. His hair really is satiny and soft, just like everyone expected it to be. It’s a shame that it’s so short. Had the strands been longer, Eren has no doubt that they would slip through her fingers like silk.

She sits up, abandoning the blanket, and the air has turned heavier in the past few moments. Mikasa, as though realizing the situation himself, sits up straight too, eyes wide with curiosity, and – Eren notices – hope.

She moves; slowly. She closes her eyes and tip her face, copying it the way her parents did. Her hand still in his hair, pulls at the fine strands, pulling him towards her, and abandoning all sense and fear, she leans in and she kisses him.

It leaves her wanting; the kiss. Her lips on his bring a fire to her stomach, one that Eren has never known. It makes her – gentle, dizzy. Makes her feel – loved. Mikasa lips are soft and sweet on hers and suddenly, Eren knows.

Mikasa is the only person that has ever made Eren like this. Teasing out emotions she never knew she had. Protection, jealousy, happiness… she has only ever wanted with him. He is the only one she has ever wanted to touch like this; the only one she wants to touch her.

She kisses him harder, to tell him this. Kisses him to let her know that she’s sorry, that she never wants him gone from her life. Mostly, she kisses him to let him feel the love she has for him. The love she wants him to know, and the one for him to keep in the pocket of his heart.

She knows what she has to do know; with him, it has never been more clear.

She pulls away slightly, and he looks at her with cheeks tinted pink and a gaze in his eyes that says to never have this end. She looks at him, and if she could, Eren would take him right here, right now. As it stands, however, she says, “We need to go somewhere else.”

And as if snapped backed to reality, Mikasa looks around. “Follow me,” He says, taking ahold of her hand. “I know a place.”

They walk to the back of the compound, to where the horses were usually kept. He ushers her into the shed, closing it slowly behind her. As he does so, Eren spreads out the blanket he gave to her onto the ground, hands pressing onto the creases, pushing them out. She lays down onto it, in a hopefully seductive manner; legs spread out and sitting up slightly for her chest to be on display. He turns to her as he locks the inside with a plank of wood, watching her with something akin to bewilderment; as if he’s in a dream.

He moves to her slowly, sinking down onto his knees as he approaches her. Their lips meet each other once again, but it’s different this time. The inside is burning, and Eren feels herself growing hot and aching for something. Their mouths part open, and Mikasa licks her lips in a downwards swipe, eventually entering it into her mouth. Their tongues stroke the other, just as their hands stroke their bodies. Eren feels the strong muscle of Mikasa’s arms, caressing them through the shirt that Eren wants gone.

His scarf still hangs snug around his neck, and with a carefulness she has never known before, begins to peel it away. Her hands shake as she does so, pulling herself away from the heated kiss; her forehead resting on his. She places the scarf gently to her side, letting it lay in a lumpy pile.

“That’s okay?” She whispers, looking for confirmation.

He smiles at her; a sweet, heartbreaking smile. It’s his rarest one; the one where his lips quirk up slightly, and his eyes crinkle and it’s like she’s looking at him for the first time. As if she’s looking at the boy who used to be there, the boy she didn’t get the chance to know. The boy who was… a boy.

“That’s okay.” He says to her. “With you, it’s always okay.”

She loves him still. She loves him everywhere, and every time. His eyes look like the night sky and she understands this; that she could not live without him.

She tries to calm her heart and tries to keep her fingers still as she undoes the buttons of his shirt; unfastening them one by one, as quickly as she can. He shrugs it off of him when she’s finished, and let’s her hands roam around his –

Oh. Eren realizes. Oh.

His abdominals are rock hard under her fingers, a fine set of eight or even more. Her own stomach is set ablaze and there is a quiet tension in her; a feeling that she is overcome.

It becomes his turn now, with his hands slipping up from underneath her shirt up to her chest. He stops, almost hesitant, but Eren urges him, rocking her body closer to his hands and he removes away the shirt from her, discarding it to the side. He parts from her mouth, leaning back to see her with the help of the faint moonlight that seeps through the open window.

She doesn’t wear a bra; Eren never has had the need to. She isn’t particularly well-endowed as compared to the other girls, but it saves her from the trouble of having to suffer in the confines of wires. Mikasa stares at her chest, and Eren feels herself growing shy. She turns away from his look, but then, he has his hands on her breast, encompassing them and feeling them through; stroking and massaging, pinching her nipple in between his fingers which leads out a soft gasp from Eren.

He brings his head down, level to her left breast, and kisses the areola. He then slowly takes her breast into his mouth, tongue lapping over the nipple. Days ago, when Eren had touched herself there to wash herself, she had felt nothing. There was no excitement, no heat, no overwhelming urge then. But she feels it now, and the feeling becomes tenfold when Mikasa stretches onto her, his hardness expectant through his pants.

She moans as he moves to her other breast; nipping and tugging at the teat. His mouth is hot on her chest, and Eren can’t help the sounds that escape from her throat. It doesn’t sound like her, she dully realizes. She has never sounded like this; needing and wanting. Another situation occurs, one that has only ever happened on the rarest of occasions. Eren can feel herself getting wet, and it gets to the point where she can’t take it anymore. She pushes Mikasa away from her breast as she tries to tug away her pants.

He notices; of course he does. He replaces her hands with his own, and frees her legs away from the trousers, hands ghosting over her underwear and she groans.

“Oh, Mikasa,” She says, not caring how much of a beggar she sounds. “Mikasa please,” She rocks her pelvis up to his hand.

It’s silent for a moment, and then a quiet, “Okay,” from Mikasa and he disappears.

It takes Eren a while to find out where he is. Once he is face to face with her Venus, his tongue is almost immediately on the fabric of her underwear, Eren swears that she almost sees stars. He kisses her core through her panties which are already drenched, buries his nose in a little, taking in her scent, and then, with one of his fingers, he discards her underwear and spreads her legs even further apart.

She is dizzy with emotion and almost yells in relief when Mikasa finally presses his tongue against her. She almost buckles and loses control, but she takes it back, trying her best to breathe as normally as she can.

“You’re perfect,” She hears Mikasa say. “You’re so perfect, Eren. You’re beautiful, especially like this.”

“Heh,” Eren says, almost coyly. “Really?”

“You taste,” and Mikasa takes one long lick, stretching up all the way to the bud that makes her go hazy. “You taste good.”

“Oh?” She says, fighting off the redness that threatens to engulf her.

“So, good,” and it’s as though he isn’t speaking to her. Lost in this world of his tongue on her pussy.

He does something different, and inserts his tongue into her, making little thrusts in and out of her as his hand makes it to her clit, rubbing the bud in slow circles. He doesn’t stop once and Eren has to grab a hold of his hair to keep her from losing herself. She doesn’t know what she says, all she knows is that it is Mikasa’s name on her lips, begging him to never stop, to allow her blissful release.

“Please, I’m so close,” she weeps. And then –

Her orgasm comes down onto her, rippling through her body in large waves. She pressing Mikasa faces to her pussy, riding out the effects until she is nothing left but a heaving mess. Her body still shakes afterwards, and she feels the after-effects as she stretches her legs; trying desperately to relive the pleasure.

She collapses down on the blanket, her breathing coming in short pants. Her hair is matted to her forehead, stuck by sweat and Mikasa moves to gently sweep them aside, caressing her cheek and leaving long, sweet kisses all over her face as she sighs.

“Love you,” He says, murmuring between kisses. “Love you, so, so much.”

“Yeah,” Eren says, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. “I love you too.”

The information given to her is not new, but the implication of it is. She never thought about love in its romantic concepts, but now her stomach flutters as she thinks about Mikasa and the love they both created today. The love that they have revealed to each other.

She caresses his arms, hand moving down to his thigh where his hardness is still present. She gently touches; encompassing his length through the barrier of his trousers, moving up and down very slowly.

“You don’t have to do that,” she hears him say, turning his gaze away from her shyly. “I’ll be fine. Being here with you… that’s enough for me. You’ve given me so much.”

“But I want to give you more,” she protests, mouth pressing against the hollow base of his throat. “This is what I want. I want you, Mikasa. You’re so beautiful and I want you.”

It’s changed, somehow. The atmosphere that had once been set a flame is now – tamer. Calm. She knows what she wants now, and it’s not just Mikasa’s body. It’s him. Him in all his glory, in all his shame.

“Okay,” He says, quietly. “Okay.”

She lets him push her down, laying on her back as she looks up to him, and she swears that for a moment, he was made of moonlight.

He’s unzipping his pants, and she notices how his hands tremble and shake. It gives her relief in a way. He is just as nervous as she is. She brings her foot up to his thigh, moving up and down his legs to provide him a comfort of some sort.

‘Don’t be nervous.’ She wants to say. ‘Don’t ever be nervous.’

He places his hand on her raised leg, stroking it in appreciation. Time doesn’t stop then, as much as she wishes for it to, and in a few moments his pants and his underwear are shoved away unremembered, and Eren comes face to face with his penis.

With the help of the moonlight that illuminates the dark room, she can see it completely clearly. It stands rigid and long, with the tip leaking out a bead of come, and Eren can only think of one thing.

‘Wow. That is a really pretty slug.’

He moves towards her, hovering just a few inches above, fingers grabbing her face delicately. She can feel him at her entrance, and she’s already wet, already aching. Her legs have draped themselves over the back of his thighs and her hands move from his neck to his back; feeling the strong, steady muscles that lay beneath the skin. They keep moving downwards, until the muscles turn soft – yet firm. His ass, Eren observes, is smooth and pert, and it is probably her favourite thing about him.

He enters into her with a groan that he tries to quiet down by mouthing at her shoulder. Eren gives a small gasp; the feeling is so unusual, so foreign to her, but it feels nice. Like she’s being filled, she remarks. She thinks about how the girls were so wrong in their theories; how Hannah must not have done it right because this, it doesn’t hurt. It’s the opposite really. She’s filled with Mikasa and Eren feels lovely.

“Am I hurting you?” He immediately asks, his expression turning to one of concern.

It takes a beat of silence for her to answer. “No,” She says, completely dazed down; so much so that she can’t be bothered about how her voice sounds. It sounds – dirty, like how a prostitute might sound. “Feels good.”

He takes her answer for what it is, and starts moving. It’s slow at first; as if he’s controlling himself, but they both make due during that time; tongues touching the other, his warm, skillful mouth on her breast. The heat rises again, and Eren is in awe of his movements, the ones that cause that friction in her that makes her so needy, so deprived.

His thrusts in her turn fast, and all she can think of is finally, finally, finally. She grabs onto his back, leaving welts and crescents on the skin, and mumbling out words she has never said. At least, not in this context.

“Mmhhm, perfect, perfect Mikasa, keep going like this. Just like that.” The sound of skin slapping skin; the obscenity that’s fresh in the air, she doesn’t care. Eren has never known how much she has wanted this, how good this feels. She wonders why she deprived herself of this for so long.

“Eren- “Mikasa bites out, head digging into the crook of her shoulder. “So warm… Eren… I’m so close. So close…”

“Fuck, Mikasa,” she throws her head back. “Fuck, come in me, come in me, come in me please!”

He makes a sound she has never heard before. A whimper, a little whine that escape from his mouth, and he starts going in hard. Harder than she expected; as hard as she ever wanted him to be.

She doesn’t know when her orgasm hits her until she feels her body rise, stretch and shake. Her internal wall clamping against Mikasa’s cock, taking a hold of everything in its way. She doesn’t know how loud she shouts; her ears deaf and without tune. All she knows is that she had said Mikasa’s name over and over again; a whisper of her lips, a kiss with tongue.

Somewhere in between, he comes too. She knows because she feels his seed inside of her, spreading to her core. He’s exceptionally beautiful when he comes; ruthless and uninhibited. She has never seen him like this. Cool, calm Mikasa, now a mess at her feet. She can’t talk about that though, there are many things that she has done tonight that have made her question herself. But alas, those are thoughts for another day.

They keep still like this for a long time. All that is left is them; the mingling of their breaths, the rise and fall of their chests.

“Eren,” Mikasa says, still a bit disoriented. “I love you.”

She smiles tenderly, her hands buried in the softness of his hair. “I love you more.” It’s a true statement, and it doesn’t make her feel afraid to say it out loud. She loves this weird, unusual boy. She’ll shout it to the world if she has to.

“Not possible.” he mumbles, picking up his head and rolling over to his side.

“Hey,” She says.

“Yeah?”

“You have a nice cock.”

“Eren!” He turns away from her, embarrassed.

“What? It’s true. By the way, where did you learn to do… all of this? Especially the thing with your mouth?”

He looks up at the ceiling, as if remembering something he’d rather forget. “Armin’s curiosity knows no boundaries.”

Eren scrunches up her nose; half weirded out and half shocked. “Thanks. I’m never going to be able to look at Armin in the eyes ever again.”

“You’re telling me,” he says, moving closer to her and resting his head right above her breast. “I think I went through a crisis when I found out.”

“Awh, poor Mikasa,” she laughs, breathlessly. “Well, better you than me.”

“Hmm, that’s true. Hey,”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want this to end.”

“It won’t,” she assures him, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll make sure it won’t.”

They both know that they aren’t talking about this moment. They’re talking about the moments to come in the future. The moments that will remain a constant in both their lives; something Eren will make sure of.

They lay in each other’s arms, legs tangled and fingers intertwined. They watch on silently as the blue hue of the room vanishes, replaced with the yellow beginnings of dawn. But in between that moment, where twilight began; she swears that he was made of moonlight.

[echelonlab-blog]

Reigning Madness – Chapter 75

Masterlist

Disclaimer: Fiction.

Warnings: Smut

Tagging: @hazeleyedleto @msroxyblog @letojokerownsme @miss-shannanigans @snewsome756   @maliciousalishious   @nikkitasevoli@meghan12151977 @mindlessselfindulgence88 @sanellv@ambolton@jayded-reality @bradlea23@spillinginkwithlove@alexis7215@dezmarz@pezziecoyote@whoistheprettiest@avaj99@iridescxntsolitude@pheenixpeterson@guccilowell@blondiefrommars @rowen1976​

Caroline’s POV:

When we got to the hotel Emma met us in the lobby and quickly ushered Sasha and me off to our suite where she had everything set up to get the two brides ready. The dresses she had assembled were breathtaking, far more formal and extravagant than I had pictured but Sasha and I were both able to find pieces we were happy with. There was a woman there to do our hair and makeup and by the time we were ready it was beginning to feel like a fairy tale. I couldn't stop dabbing at my eyes. How on earth had I gotten so lucky, to fall so deeply in love with someone that had been right under my nose all these years?

My dad and Sasha's brother Rob showed up to usher us downstairs when we were ready. They were in matching tuxes and looked so handsome. My father gave me a big hug and told me how proud he was of me, what an amazing woman I had grown into, and we both had a short cry as we stood outsisde the doors of the small ballroom that had been reserved for us. We heard music starting inside and then the doors parted and I let out an audible gasp. The small room was awash in white bunting, fairy lights and garland and our families were gathered around in a big circle with Jason and Jared and the officiant in the center. Suddenly my heart was in my throat and the only thing I could see was Jared, standing there in a white tuxedo, as dumbstruck with me as I was with him. He mouthed a “Wow” as I stepped in front of him I could feel my eyes moistening again. I hoped that makeup artist had used good mascara or I was going to be a mess.

I couldn't tell you a word of what was said during the ceremony. Someone handed me a wedding band, and nudged me when it was time to say “I do,” but for those few minutes, my whole world existed in Jared's eyes. He had started off as a friend, driven me to blind fury and, in the end, captured my heart completely. Being with him felt as natural as breathing, and I couldn't even begin to imagine being without him now that we had found out how good we were together.

   Once the ceremony concluded we all hugged and laughed and posed for endless pictures as things were rearranged and dinner was brought in. Everyone seemed to be having a great time and got along very well and as I looked around our table my heart warmed with the realization that this was my family now. My father kept clapping Jared on the back and our mothers cried and laughed and reminisced. I had to pull Shannon off my sister three times, every time he'd get a little drunker he'd forget he had been told not to touch and finally Rob dragged hi+m out into the hallway and had a “chat” with him and that was the end of it. I thin+k Christina enjoyed the attention, even if she was making eyes at Rob most of +the time. She'd nursed a crush on him since middle school and when he ca+me to her rescue it didn't exactly dampen the flame. As soon as the dancing s+tarted Jared took advantage of the commotion to slip us into the hallway.+

   “Jared, th+ey're going to notice we're gone,” I protested as he cupped my cheek in his han+d.

   “Shhh,” he said as he brushed his mouth against mine. “It's our wedding night. They expect us to disappear.”

   “They expect us to leave, not sneak off without even saying goodnight.”

   “You want to go back in there?” he asked, making another pass against my lips. I groaned. Of course, he knew once he started kissing me I would melt like I always did. Still, my father was just on the other side of those doors...

   “At least let me tell my parents good night,” I suggested. Jared sighed but held the door open for me.

   Thankfully they didn't keep us with long goodbyes and in minutes we were resuming our getaway, wrapped around each other in the elevator while the floors dinged past. I was so worried someone would join us in the tiny space and recognize Jared, blowing our chance at an incognito weekend but we remained uninterrupted and before I knew it Jared was jamming his key card into the slot and carrying me through the door into the honeymoon suite.

   “Oh, Jared,” I gasped once I had tumbled loose from his grasp. The room was palatial, much like that first suite we had shared on tour, the one that had captivated me the minute we set foot in it. There were enormous floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the city below and it twinkled back at us in all its glory. From this far away it lost that gaudy glare that I had always associated with Las Vegas and softened into something warmer and more magical, like Christmas lights during an early snow. I stood in the middle of the room taking it all in as Jared stepped up behind me, his hand at the small of my back.

   “I'm glad you like it,” he said as he nibbled at the curve of my neck. “Only the best for Mrs. Leto.”

   I turned in his embrace and clasped my arms around his neck. “Thank you, Mr. Leto. Not just for the room, but for everything. It was perfect.”

   Jared just smiled and kissed me again, drawing my lip softly between his while he cradled my face in his hands. I thought briefly it would have been nice to have the photographer up here, just for a moment, to capture us still in our wedding finery in front of those beautiful windows, but then Jared's  hands were traveling down my back and I realized I needed to get out of that gown now, before lust clouded my head and something happened to ruin it.

   I thought it had taken forever to get into it but it seemed like it took an eternity and a half to undo all the little pearl buttons down the back and step out of yards of silver embroidered lace and crinoline. I carefully laid It over the back of the sofa and Jared quickly shed the fussier bits of his tux and placed them alongside my gown. Without a word he scooped me up again, carrying me out of the living area and into the bedroom, lying me across the bed with a sigh.

   He first removed his shirt then settled himself over me, nestling himself between my legs and smoothing my hair from my face. My stomach fluttered and suddenly I felt like a shy teenager again, being touched for the first time. I had never had a romanticized notion of marriage, I hadn't been one of those girls that collected bridal magazines and fantasized about walking down the aisle into domestic bliss. I was a bit more matter of fact than that, so it surprised me now how differently I felt knowing that this man who's mouth was currently nibbling its way across my collarbone was my husband. This brilliant, funny, kind, charming, gorgeous man had stood up with me in front of our families and friends and pledged to make a life with me, to stand by my side and weather whatever comes, and I loved him impossibly for it.

   “I love you,” I whispered as his mouth drifted lower, his fingers hooking in the lace of my bra and pulling it aside so his teeth could graze against my nipple. My stomach knotted with lust at the sensation and I let out a deep moan and arched my back. “I hope you know how completely, totally, hopelessly in love with you I am, Mr. Leto,” I purred as I knotted my fingers into his hair, pulling it loose from the slicked back attempt at normality he made today, pomegranate tips spilling across my skin.

   “I love you more,” he said, coming back to my mouth, his tongue pressing forward to find my own before pulling away with a sigh. “You are the most miraculous thing that has ever happened to me, Mrs. Leto.”

   Our fingers found their way through buttons and clasps, peeling away the last of our clothing until we were pressed together, flesh to flesh, Jared's hands at the small of my back pulling me against him, my legs locked together behind him. Our mouths explored each others as he circled his hips slowly, his hard shaft sliding through my slick folds, rubbing across my clit and driving me insane with need. “Jared, please,” I whimpered, raising my hips up until I was coming off the bed. “

   Jared lifted himself enough to reach between us and guide his rigid length into my waiting depths before stretching against me again, one hand coming up to tangle with my own, the other cupping my breast. His forehead fell against mine as he slowly pushed forward, filling me completely before he withdrew with a shudder, his breath measured in time with his thrusts. It was a perfect union of our bodies and I breathed him in as my flesh pebbled and my muscles began to quake. I knew we had a lifetime to make our bed together now, and there were so many sinful, base, delicious things I wanted to do with this man, but for now, I needed this, I needed to connect with him, and he needed that too.

   We allowed time for everything to build slowly, our bodies lost in that overall caress, but eventually there was no holding back the dam and I shattered around him, my body gripping his even more tightly as I cried out his name over and over. He followed me over the edge at almost the same moment, swelling and emptying himself inside me with a groan, professing his love for me again as he breathed raggedly against my throat.

   After everything said in the heat of passion, we were content to lie together quietly afterward, our hands twined together across his chest, rings catching the soft light coming in from the next room. It had been a long journey to this moment, and a long day to celebrate that journey and the one to come, and I slipped off to sleep, to dream of the magic of the mundane, morning coffee, and rainy Sundays, washing dishes and sorting laundry, holiday dinners and late night refrigerator raids, all permanently changed by virtue of being shared with the man beside me.

[justanoutlawfic]

Dimples Queen + 163 :)

Thank you for sending this in! This is a prequel to I Wanna Hold Your Hand.

“Whyare you up so early?”

This was submitted to me from this prompt post I reblogged. Send me a line&a ship and I’ll write a ficlet. :)

Also on AO3/FF

Regina was always a light sleeper. Whether it was fromher days as a feared queen who had potential threats coming at her left andright or from the ones as a mother, she could never quite figure out. However,this morning she knew it couldn’t be Henry, he was off on a vacation with theCharmings. Sasha was nestled in between her and Robin, still soundly sleeping.Even her boyfriend was snoring lightly. That had to mean only one other personcould be making the ruckus downstairs.

Getting out of bed and throwing on her robe, Reginadescended the stair case and headed into the kitchen. Roland stood on thecounter, grabbing the bag of coffee from the cabinets.

“A little young for coffee, aren’t you?” Reginaquestioned, cocking an eyebrow.

Roland turned around a bit, giving her his littlegrin. He had recently lost one of his two front teeth, making it more adorablethan usual. “Morning, Gina.”

“Morning,” she said, her stance not changing. Sheglanced over at the clock. It was 6:30, around the time she would get up.Roland, however, was not such an early riser. Normally, they were lucky to gethim out of bed before 8. “Why are you up so early?”

“I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“I make that for you every morning.”

“You and Papa have been busy with Peanut. Henry saidwe have to help out more, so I’m helpin’.”

A small smile replaced Regina’s bewildered look. Shewalked over to the countertop and took Roland off of it, placing him onto herhip and kissing his cheek. The boys had really stepped up since their returnfrom the Underworld. Things had been so hectic with the baby and they justseemed to be more independent.

“Well, I appreciate it, but how about some help?”Roland looked a bit skeptical.  “We couldmake pancakes.”

“Apple ones?”

“What other kind do I make?”

Regina went about gathering the ingredients withRoland still on her hip. He made sure to point out the cinnamon and flour. Sheallowed him to count out the eggs for her, praising him when he got the rightamount without any help. She lowered him back onto the counter so she could mixeverything together.

“I like cooking with you, Gina,” he told her.

Regina briefly smiled at him. “Really?”

“Uh huh. It’s fun. I like spending time with you.”

She paused for a moment upon the realization that thiswas the first thing she had done with Roland since they returned from theUnderworld. Between trying to get the town back to normal and helping Robinwith the baby, along with regular mayoral duties, she hadn’t really had amoment to breathe. Before the whole Zelena incident, they had been able to bondand spend time with one another. It had been the same with Henry. She couldn’t rememberthe last time they had just sat down and talked.

She had to start making time for her boys again, noexcuses.

“I like spending time with you too, Roland,” she toldhim, meeting his eye. “We’ll be able to do it more soon, I promise.”

Roland brightened up at that idea. “Really?”

“Really. How about today we go get ice cream, justlike old times?”

“Okay!” He replied happily.

Regina’s smile returned, nodding. “Okay.”

Robin woke up to the sound of his daughter crying. Hetook her into his arms, gently cradling her to calm her down. He let out a yawnas he leaned over to kiss Regina awake, only to find her side of the bed empty.He could smell something good coming from downstairs, tipping him off that theyhad quite the feast awaiting them.

After getting Sasha and himself ready, he headed downthe stairs. Regina and Roland were setting plates around the table, a platterof apple pancakes and bacon sat in the center of the table. Roland looked up athis father with a grin.

“Papa, Gina and I made breakfast!”

“I can see that,” Robin ducked his head to kiss thetop of his son’s, a little perplexed. “You’re up early.”

“He decided to be my little helper,” Regina informedhim, kissing his lips before doing the same to the baby’s head.

At that moment, the back door to the head open. Henry appearedin the doorway, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He grinned at the sightof his family and the food.

“Looks like I came home right on time,” he said.

Regina walked over, wrapping her arms tightly aroundhim, which only made the teen hug her tighter. He loved spending time with hisother mom and grandparents, but he had really missed this part of his familytoo.

“Apple pancakes, Henry,” Roland told him, taking himby the hand to drag him to the table. Henry listened as he filled him in on allhe had missed while he was away. Robin crossed to the fridge, trying to slip inquestions to Henry in between his son’s ramblings while he also grabbed abottle for Sasha.

Regina hung back, sippinga rather large cup of coffee that she had brewed for herself. She took in thepicture before her and took a mental of snapshot. Yes, things were always goingto be hectic for their family, but that was what she’d remember to get throughit.