#and Peter's mention of 'that one time you tried to drill a hole in your head' to Egon

[moreaugriffins]

Imagine Peter getting a call in the middle of the night

him thinking it's probably Ray getting excited about a definitely haunted hairbrush, and letting it ring

eventually picking it up as it continues to ring for a few minutes, only to find out it's Egon's wife

She's stressed, and worried, and Peter isn't sure why she's ringing him

But Winston isn't picking up the phone, and she knows that Egon and Ray have been arguing a lot recently so...

But she's worried

Because Egon's not doing well. He hasn't been sleeping much, or taking care of himself much (which Peter had noticed every time they went on call together), he's been muttering weird stuff, and obsessed with his notes and books, and usually she can help stop him spiralling but he's been pulling away recently, and spending less time and home and-

"He hasn't come home yet"

Egon always comes home, they made an agreement years ago. He's never broken the agreement before

So she's worried

And Peter is too

He knew Egon wasn't doing well, but they were men in their 40s, Egon wasn't a child, he could look after himself, and it was not Peter's job to monitor him. If Egon was struggling, he could speak up. He knew he could come to his friends for help

Then his mind casts back to the time in uni when Egon tried to drill a hole in his own head, how it all started just like this: the sleepless nights and obsessive studies, and pulling away from everyone, even skipping his lectures.. Peter and Ray just about got there on time.. Though Peter joked about the incident now, he's still rattled by it

He's still pretty rattled by many of Egon's vaguely suicidal experiments

He says he'll go look for Egon (after all, she's got a toddler to keep an eye on)

Reassures her that he's fine, that it'll all be fine, he probably just hyperfocused on the proton packs or something, you know how he is

It doesn't reassure her much - he doesn't even believe his own words either, but what else can he say

After the call, he heads to the Firehouse, knowing that if Egon was anywhere, it would likely be in the lab. It was practically the scientist's second home

He storms up to the lab (the place felt eerily quiet. Janine doesn't work at night anymore, Winston has his own home, and Ray has his flat above his shop)

the light is on

that's something

He opens the door, expecting to see Egon in a chaotic state (or god forbid...), and to be fair, the room is an utter mess, with books open, numbers and scripture written on the whiteboard, a pile of empty Twinkies packets around the bin stuffed full of crumpled papers

and in the middle of this mess, is Egon, head in hands, book open in front of him. It's subtle, but he can see the rise and fall of his shoulders

at least he isn't dead (he ignores how worrying that thought is)

He goes over to Egon and whacks him over the top of his head - usually an affectionate gesture from Peter (the affection is slightly lost)

"Come on Spengs, you really leaving your wife at home?"

Egon looks up at him, brows furrowed, and a practised guarded expression, though his eyes gave away the deep exhaustion and paranoia the scientist must be feeling

If it were Winston, he'd know the exact thing to say to Egon, a talk on how his actions are making his (Egon's) wife feel, and to get his act together, with the reminder that everyone was here for him

If it were Ray, despite all the arguments the two had recently, Ray would comfort him, know the exact words to calm the man and ground him back in some sense of reality - those two understood each other on a level like no other

But it was Peter here, right now

And he's not good at emotional conversations or situations. A serious conversation makes him feel like he's going to break out in hives. It's easier to joke than deal with emotions. (that's why he and Egon got on well. Neither liked talking about how they feel)

So when Egon replies with ramblings about Gozer, clearly lost and not in his right mind, Peter makes a couple jokes, he deflects from Egon's worries and brings the man down to the kitchen to make a hot chocolate to calm Egon's mind (that's what they used to do, right?)

There's more talk, mostly from Peter, about some studies he's working on (that are mostly accurate), and how Dana and Oscar are doing, and the show because oh boy does he have a story about that one man who believed he could communicate with fish-

Egon is barely engaging, Peter could see, his mind is elsewhere, running at a million miles an hour, doing complex calculations and making connections. Peter didn't envy the man really - it must be difficult having a mind so clever and loud.

So when he can tell the talking isn't working, he asks "We defeated Gozer, remember? when my girlfriend was turned into a dog, and Stay Puft got the biggest commercial for free, and we crossed the streams. He's gone forever, right?"

Egon seems to come back to reality for a moment, and they stare at each other, before Egon nods slightly and finally takes a sip of his hot chocolate.

Peter eventually drives Egon home, selfishly because he wants to keep an eye on his friend for a little longer, but Egon doesn't utter a word. That's fine. The silence makes Peter's skin itch but it seems to be doing Egon some good.

They arrive at the house (the living room lights are still on), and Egon goes to leave the car, but Peter reaches over last minute, his mouth moving faster than his brain, "All you gotta do is ask, if you need help. We're still your mates, yeah? I don't know what goes on in that brain of yours but you aren't alone."

Egon seems to be mulling something over in his head, then pulls away from Peter's grip - "Goodnight Peter." - and heads inside.

Over the next few weeks, Peter keeps an eye on Egon

He seems to slowly get better

There are no more phone calls from Egon's wife (except one to talk about what happened that night), his eyebags seem to fade away, he talks less about Gozer, the notes disappear and the books are put neatly away or are packed up, and most importantly he seems to be arguing less with the group and making an effort to spend time with them

Then he's gone

and all the equipment and Echo 1 are gone too.

[wlntrsldler]

treacherous (j.p one shot)

PROMPT: based on treacherous by taylor swift. slight enemies to lovers? James Potter and Y/N can’t stand each other until they get to know each other. 

A/N: does not follow the timeline at all. the events are not accurate but let’s pretend for the sake of the fic lol. 

WARNINGS: mentions of death, a bit of wolfstar, and some sexual tension (brief)

WC: 5.6K+ (this is my longest fic yet omg) 

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST

-

treacherous (j.p one shot)

“You’re so goddamn reckless.” James hissed, slamming his fists down on the kitchen table. “You need to wait for my command. This wasn’t a solo mission, Y/N/N. We work as a fucking team around here.”

“If I waited for your command, Prongs,” you replied, rising from your seat. You acknowledged his nickname with a bitter taste in your mouth. You knew you had to listen to James because everyone listens to James but you knew your plan would work. “We wouldn’t have gotten the mission done.”

“You went rogue!”

“But we got it done, right?” you seethed, eye drilling holes in Prongs’ skull. You felt Sirius offer a comforting hand, placing his on top of yours. Your eyes flickered to look at your best friend, features visibly softening. You sighed, slowly feeling yourself come down from your anger. “That’s the important thing, Prongs. I’m done talking about this.”

“Yeah we got it finished but at what cost?” James pushed, not backing down from his dominant exterior. “You could’ve died, Y/N. We don’t trade lives around here.”

“You don’t have to act like you care about my well-being, Potter,” you spat, starting to limp away from the briefing. You sustained some minor injuries because of your decision but you knew you’d do it again if it came down to it. “We all know you just don’t want another person’s blood on your hands.”

It was a low blow. Everyone in the house knew that James was feeling guiltier and guiltier everyday because of the events that happened over the past few months. The McKinnons, the Prewetts, his fight with some Order members— all of it was finally taking a toll on James. Maybe it always did take a toll on him and he just never showed that it did. Nobody really knew what the last straw was but now it was obvious— James Potter was tired, worn out, almost defeated in nature. 

Yeah, what you said was a low blow.

James gulped, demeanor changing after your words rattled the room. Remus looked at James apologetically, not really knowing what to say. He didn’t expect that from you, nobody did. Lily cleared her throat, fixing the scattered parchment on her side of the table. Sirius stood up and patted James on the back, giving his shoulder a slight squeeze. 

“Right, uhm..” he started, blinking back the effect of your words. “We can revisit this some other time. Great job today.”

James left the room without another word, your voice taunting him as he walked further and further away from the team. Is that what you really think of him? A leader, if that, who only cared about not being the person responsible for another death? Did you think that he didn’t care about you? That you were just a number to him? 

Obviously you didn’t. You knew James Potter was a good man, deep down. You could see it in the way he put everyone’s needs before his. He wakes up every morning and gets everything done so the rest of you wouldn’t be burdened with such mundane things. James Potter cooked meals, cleaned the house you all shared, and bought groceries on the weekends because he thinks that you all fighting with him is something he can never repay you for. James Potter thinks that your trust as a team— as a family— is the most important thing in the universe and he’s so thankful that he has you all by his side, even if the whole world disagrees with your cause. James Potter is a good man. 

You had a loud mouth. You found yourself, more times than you’d like to admit, scolding yourself after you let your mouth run amuck. This was one of those times. You let your anger get the best of you. The only reason why you even got angry with James in the first place was his lack of trust in you. Did he not think you could complete the task successfully? 

“Y/N?” A voice from outside of your room called. You tried to get up from your bed, cursing as the pain shot through your right leg. “Hey, you in there?”

“Yeah,” you yelled out, realizing that it would be better for them to let themselves in rather than you try to open it for them. “Come in.”

Sirius entered, chuckling at your pained expression as you sat up in your bed. You glared at him, propping your injured leg on top of a pillow. “You good there, sweetheart?”

“Just dandy.” 

He sat next to you, careful not to touch your leg. He smiled at you, sadly, and you knew what was coming next. A lecture as to why you should apologize to James or at the very least take his point of view under consideration. This was almost normal, and it was definitely expected. You and Sirius grew close, attached to the hip at times, and he was the one who would typically talk some sense into you. You knew that he and James were the blueprint of what an everlasting friendship should look like so you listened to him. Rarely were you ever the first one to apologize, though, but you knew this time was going to be one of those times. 

“What you said to James..” he trailed off, eyebrows furrowing in worry. “I think he kinda took it to heart, Y/N.”

“I know,” you sighed, acknowledging your mistake. “I don’t know why I even said that.” 

“You don’t like to use your brain when you’re angry.” Sirius responds, laughing slightly. You push his shoulder playfully. “Just apologize to him, Y/N. You know he means well.”

“I know he does.”  

“So I’ll leave you to it then,” he announced, getting up to leave your room. “He’s in his room, locked himself in there since the meeting.”

Ouch. You felt the guilt start to eat you up. Sirius shot you a warm smile before shutting the door behind him. Groaning, you lifted yourself up, trying to ignore the swelling in your leg. Was it the smartest idea to walk on an injured leg? No, but you were never one to have smart ideas anyway and today’s events made that clear.

You started to make your way down to James’ room but stopped when you saw him exiting the bathroom. You began to walk towards him, gasping in pain when your foot landed the wrong way. 

“Goddamnit, James!” you shuffled towards him, gaining some speed. He stopped to see who was calling him. His face paled when he realized it was you and continued to walk towards his room. “Will you wait for me?”

James stopped in his tracks, feeling bad that you were chasing him with a bad leg. He waited patiently as you limped towards him, an annoyed look on his face. “What do you want, Y/N?”

You blinked, not expecting the harsh tone he was using. No matter how many times you and James argued and were at each other’s throats, his harsh tone always surprised you. He raised his voice, yeah, sure, but this— this was different. You tried to ignore it, knowing that you probably deserved this. “I just wanted to say sorry for what I said earlier.”

He froze up, looking down at his feet. He glanced over at your leg, red with bruises littered over your skin. God you were lucky you didn’t die, he thought. James shrugged, “I don’t care, Y/N. Is that all?”

“Well, blimey,” you snorted, already putting up your harsh exterior, “I was trying to be nice. Get that stick out your ass.”

“Are you done?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” 

That was it. 

James walked away and entered his room before you even moved. You were left to crawl your way back to your room, quite literally. Half way through, the pain in your leg traveled to your hip and you gave up on walking. Remus found you dragging your body across the carpet and took it upon himself to carry you back to your bedroom. You thanked him, half-heartedly, not being able to forget James’ hurt expression from your sorry-excuse of an apology. 

-

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were all supposed to win the fight. You were supposed to reconcile and have a drink at the house, continuing to dance the night away. You weren’t supposed to lose. 

Half of the people you knew were gone. Poof. Like they never existed. 

You, Lily, and James stayed in the Potters’ home, resting after a long day of fighting. Dumbledore left to check on the Order, or what was left of them. Molly and Arthur joined him. Peter was— Merlin knows where. Sirius left to check on Remus. The world seemed so quiet. Empty. 

“It’s not the end,” Lily tried to say, looking between you and James. She paced the floor, unsure if she even believed her own words.

There hasn’t been much spoken between the ones who survived. You started to wonder if you were one of the lucky one who survived or if this fate was more unlucky given the circumstances. You lost people you called your family. You all did. 

This was a battle none of you expected. It was a surprise attack on the Order during a time when you all had your guards down. One minute, you were all in the backyard, excited as the Weasley’s announced another addition to their already large family. People were dancing, cheering, drinking, and for a moment it seemed normal. 

And then they came. They slaughtered everyone that they could. You were lucky enough to get out before it got too crazy. You ushered the young kids into the room, casting protective charms as you held onto Percy Weasley with your other hand. You watched people fall. You heard people scream in terror as they were being tortured. You shielded the kids from looking out the window, afraid that if they were to see something so traumatizing, they would never recover. You were sure it would take years before you would.

“I’m gonna help Euphemia out,” Lily announced, getting up from her seat. You knew there wasn’t much that Euphemia needed help with, Lily just felt restless and she wanted to do something that she could control. 

James nodded silently, staring at his shaking hands. There have only been a handful of moments where you’ve seen James Potter— confident, self-assured, James Potter— doubt himself or be nervous. 

The first time was when he put on the Sorting Hat in your first year and he pleaded the tattered hat to place him in Gryffindor, though the hat knew better than to place him anywhere else. Then, second year came around and you four found out that Remus was a werewolf. You accidentally overheard their conversation, and it confirmed the suspicions you’ve had for a year. The third time was in fifth year when Sirius made the stupidest mistake of his life and told Snape about the Whomping Willow. He was afraid he’d lose his second family because of it, and he knew that Remus’ anger was justified. And the last time, before today, that you’ve ever seen James Potter nervous was in seventh year. It was the day after his date with Lily— a date that took him years to convince her to go on— and he realized that they were not compatible at all. Poor bloke was afraid to hurt Lily’s feelings and when he finally told her, she laughed and said, “I know, Potter. I’m glad you see it now.” 

Now, you were alone with a terrified James Potter and you didn’t know what to do. You stared at him from across the room, unsure of your next step. You cleared your throat, “Do you need me to do anything, Potter?” 

“Huh?” he looked up, eyes weary and mind jumbled. He registered your question and he shook his head, “No, I’m alright. Um, are you going to be staying here tonight?” 

You gulped, “Yeah, if that’s alright. I-I don’t really have a place to stay, but if you want me to leave I’m sure I can stay with Remus and Sirius.” 

“No, no, it’s perfectly fine,” James replied, quickly, getting up from his seat, “I’m sure mum and dad won’t mind. Please, make yourself at home.” 

“I appreciate that,” you sent him a tight-lipped smile and rocked back and forth from your heels to your toes, ignoring the pain that shot up your leg with every move. 

“I’m gonna help mum.” 

“Okay.” 

He left you in the room, rushing to help his mother, but you had a feeling it was to save the both of you from the awkwardness of the situation. Sighing, you began to make your way to your room upstairs. You were half way out the room when suddenly, the room was filled with your friends. Some of the remaining members of the Order popped in, stopping you from completing your plans. 

“Well, welcome back everyone,” you remarked, sitting on the couch. “Nice to see you.”

James, Lily, and Euphemia all entered once they heard the commotion. James stayed by the doorframe, arms crossed as he watched Dumbledore take center. Lily and Euphemia sat beside you, on opposite sides. Euphemia gave your leg a light squeeze and a kiss on your temple. 

“As you all know, today’s attack caused mass casualty,” your old professor started, eyes flickering to empty spots in the room that the old members used to occupy. “To prevent such things, we will assign teams to designated areas. We can no longer put all our eggs in one basket. We need to prepare.” 

Dumbledore continued, “Euphemia, you and Fleamont stay with Mad-Eye. He needs your expertise. Remus and Sirius, your flat is near the Black family home, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Sirius replied, “Wanted to be close, just in case.” 

Regulus. Sirius wanted to be close to look after Regulus. 

The old wizard nodded, “Very well. You two stay there and make note of any movement. We suspect they’re having meetings there. Lily, Dorcas, and Peter, you three will be taking care of Hogwarts students who live in the muggle world. They’re in Hogwarts for sanctuary, but since Minerva and myself are going to be preoccupied, we need you to make sure they’re safe.” 

“What a reunion, aye gang?” Dorcas chuckled, though her laugh was empty. Lily snorted, shoving her lightly as a move of endearment. 

“James and Y/N, we need you two here. This will be our headquarters.” 

Sirius scoffed, “Professor, are you sure you’d want to pair Prongs and Y/N/N? We’ve already lost a lot of Order members and I’m afraid that if you pair them, we’ll lose one more. One of them will end up killing the other.” 

“Shut it, Pads,” you glared, scrunching your nose, “I’m sure Potter and I can be civil.” 

“I can be,” James added, side-eyeing you. 

“What does that mean?” you questioned, squinting your eyes at the boy by the door. You began to get up but Euphemia stopped you, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

“James,” she said, warningly. 

“Alright,” Dumbledore clapped his hands, calling the attention back to him, “I expect you all to be at your posts by tonight. Stay safe, everyone. Our numbers are dwindling by the hour.” 

By 11PM, the house was empty. It was only you and James left. You locked yourself in the comfort of your room, staring wordlessly at the ceiling. The house was unusually quiet. There was no loud laughter coming from the living room— four boys who had to grow up too fast. You sighed, swinging your legs down the side of your bed, wincing as you forgot about your injuries. 

“Fuck me,” you muttered, closing your eyes for a moment until the pain subsided. Once it became bearable, you slipped on your house shoes and made your way down the stairs. You tried to tiptoe down the stairs, not wanting to wake James and go through another awkward encounter. However, once you got to the entrance of the kitchen, you realized your efforts made no sense as James leaned against the cold counter, a cup of tea in hand, and his glasses fogged by the steam from his drink. 

His eyes flickered over to where you stood, suddenly making you feel self-conscious. You were wearing nothing but pajama shorts and a large t-shirt that you were sure once belonged to Sirius. James raised his cup a bit as a sign of acknowledgement. 

You smiled awkwardly and poured yourself a glass of water, “What are you doing up?” 

“I reckon for the same reason you are,” he replied, taking a sip from his tea. James snickered, “Nice shirt.” 

“It’s Padfoot’s,” you chuckled, “Don’t tell him I still have it.” 

“Actually,” James started, placing his drink down. He faced you, “It’s mine. I let him borrow it and I asked for it a few times now. He keeps telling me he’ll give it to me later but I had a feeling he was stalling because he lost it. Mystery solved.”

You blushed, “Sorry, did you want it back?” 

“No, it’s alright. Looks good on you,” he coughed, ducking his head to hide the slight blush on his cheeks, “Can’t sleep?” 

“No.”

James nodded, “Yeah, me either. You can sit with me for a bit, if you want.” 

You pondered it for a moment until you finally decided that a conversation with James Potter was better than staring at an empty ceiling for the rest of the night. You limped to the seat in front of him, clutching your glass of water like a lifeline. 

“Are you still hurt?” James questioned, getting up to help you to your seat. He held your arm as you sat on the chair. Once you were situated, he knelt beside you, inspecting your leg, “You are still hurt. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck in embarrassment. “We all had bigger things to worry about.”

“Why didn't you just cast a spell on it?”

“I’m not the best healer around,” you admitted, looking down at him. 

If it was any other circumstance, you would not have admitted your shortcomings to anyone— especially not James Potter. But perhaps it was the toll that the war had put upon you or the tiredness in your system… Or perhaps it was the way he was staring at you from his position on the floor, eyes wide with worry with the candlelight reflecting off his glasses and the look of absolute beauty on his face, that made you become so brutally honest. 

“And why didn’t you ask one of us to help you?” 

You scoffed, “Well, none of you are licensed healers, either. I figured I’d just live with it until it healed the muggle way.” 

“Always so prideful, you are,” he chuckled, pulling out his wand. He muttered a simple incantation and then studied your once injured limb. “There. Better?”

You looked down at it, pleasantly surprised that it was indeed better. You nodded, a skeptical look on your face. James dusted off his pajama pants and made his way over to the seat he occupied before. You tilted your head, “Where did you learn that?”

“I learned for Remus,” James said, “After his transformations, sometimes he would still be in pain from turning so I learned a few things to help him. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn’t but Remus always says that just the thought that I wanted to help him helped with his recovery. Load of rubbish, I say but who am I to decide that, right?”

“Wow.”

James laughed at your reaction, drinking from his tea once more. A playful smile appeared on his lips, “I do have a heart, you know. I’m sure everyone else can see that but you.”

You rolled your eyes, “I know you have a heart, Potter. That’s not why I can’t stand you.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“Well, Godric, where do I start?” you hummed, a laugh escaping your throat. Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, smirking at your answer. You bit your lip, “Let’s see… you’re arrogant, cocky, obnoxiously loud. You act like you know everything, all the time.”

His eyebrows shot up. James’ tongue poked out to dampen his cracked lips, “Don’t hold back, I guess.” 

“Shut up,” you chuckled, “Your turn. Why do you hate me?” 

“Because you hate me.”

“Come off it,” you stared at him, shaking your head. “Why do you really hate me?”

“Seriously, that’s it. I only act like I don’t like you because you don’t like me. I don’t actually hate you, you know.” 

You were in shock. Your voice came out as a whisper, “Really?”

“Really yeah,” he shrugged, as if his confession was nothing, “You love Sirius, Remus, Peter, Lily, and all our friends like they’re family to you. I can tell you’re a genuinely good person with how you treat the most important people in my life. I can’t hate a good person.”

You pursed your lips, “Well, I only dislike you because you act like I’m not a good witch.” 

“What?”

“Come on, James,” you gestured with your hands. “You act like I’m a bloody awful witch and an even worse person. Always have since we were in Hogwarts. I just always assumed you thought I wasn’t good enough.”

James was baffled, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I mean, yeah,” you began to explain, thinking back to the many moments in the past where he made you feel that way. “I remember when we first all found out about Remus. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone but you still followed me for two months to make sure I didn’t say anything because you didn’t trust me. Or whenever Sirius would tell you to ask me for help on a prank that required some advanced charms, you would refuse to let me participate like I couldn’t possibly be any help to you. Or more recently, when we had that task to do and you blew up on me for not following the intended plan. You don’t think I’m capable.”

“Y/N, I never thought I made you feel that way,” James frowned. “I was just really scared for Remus. Even as a second year, I knew that he was going to be my best friend for life and I just wanted to protect him. I didn’t let Sirius drag you into our pranks because I knew you were aiming for a spotless record at Hogwarts. I didn’t wanna get you in trouble because honestly, a prank that didn’t end with at least one of us in detention was a failed prank.”

“Oh,” you squeaked, “I didn’t know that was where your mind was.” 

“Yeah,” James continued, “A-and as for the last task, I just didn’t want you hurt. We’ve lost enough people already. I’d hate to lose you, too.” 

“Careful, Prongs,” you teased, swirling the water around in your glass, “You’re gonna make me think you actually like me.” 

“I do, yeah,” he admitted, “I’m quite fond of you.”

The both of you stayed silent after those words left his lips. It wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. It was the first time you two had a proper conversation and you learned things about each other that you never imagined. James continued to sip on his tea and you stared at each other from across the counter. You smiled at him, admiring the redness of his cheeks.

“Well,” you finally said, standing up. You placed the empty glass in the sink and made your way to the stairs, “I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

James smiled, showing off his perfect teeth, “Goodnight, Y/N/N.”

“Goodnight, Prongs,” you returned his smile, turning your back on him. Before you reached the first step, you turned back around, “James?”

“Mhm?” 

“I think I can grow quite fond of you too.”

James’ eyes flickered from his tea to your face, his cheeks completely flushed pink by now. He bit the corner of his bottom lip, trying to suppress his smile. He chuckled, shaking his head, making his curls bounce around. You willed yourself to remember that image because it was the first time that you truly saw James Potter for who he was. 

-

Over the next few weeks, you and James began to grow closer. Your late night conversations almost became mandatory. He began to leave a cup of tea for you across from him where you sat the first night. It took him precisely three nights to finally make your cup the way you liked it without being told. He started to light the fireplace in the living room after seeing goosebumps rise on your skin a week and a half after the first night. Then by the third week of your traditions, he began to walk you up to your bedroom door to wish you a goodnight there. 

Sirius and Remus didn’t come to check in until a month later. Sirius, as always, made himself feel at home by raiding the kitchen and eating the food that you and James made earlier. Remus laughed from the living room, muttering about how Sirius acts like he doesn’t feed him. 

Sirius sat beside James, peering over the pile of parchment on the side of his desk. He nudged his best friend’s shoulder, “Surprised you and Y/N haven’t killed each other yet.” 

James blushed, “She’s not so bad, Pads.”

“Oh, I know that,” he hummed, taking a bite out of the biscuit in his hand, “Glad you know it now, too.”

“I never thought she was bad,” James frowned, placing his quill down to properly talk to Sirius, “Why does everyone think that I do?”

“Prongsie, darling, you would always shut up whenever she’d walk in. You’d avoid her like the plague.” 

“I just knew she didn’t like me, that’s all. Figured that if I shut up, she’ll see that I’m not so bad.” 

“Huh… Why did you want her to like you so bad anyway?” Sirius asked, sitting on the desk now, disregarding the work that James had done. He waited patiently for James to answer, but the answer never came. Instead, James’ cheeks flushed pink and the boy tried to hide his flustered expression by pretending to massage his temples. Sirius’ eyes widened and he jumped off the desk with excitement plastered over his face, “You fancy her! Merlin, how did I not see it before?! You fancy Y/N/N!”

“Will you—” James shushed Sirius, pulling him down by the fabric of his shirt. He was starting to draw attention to himself. James saw Remus stare at the two boys, puzzled as to why Sirius was running around like a dog. James wouldn’t be surprised if he turned into Padfoot just to swing his tail around. “Will you calm down?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered, his lips still twisted in a large grin, “You fancy Y/N/N.”

“Yeah, I do,” James was embarrassed now. He didn’t expect to come clean to Sirius like this— not in the middle of a war. “I’ve always thought she was gorgeous, you know, even back in Hogwarts! I just never did anything about it because she hated me. I mean, really, genuinely, hated me. Then we got to know each other over this time and— I don’t know, Pads. She’s great.”

Sirius smiled so hard, James thought his lips would tear apart, “Yeah, she bloody is. Are you gonna tell her?”

His eyes widened at his best friend’s words as he frantically shook his head, “Merlin, no! Of course not! We’re in the middle of a war, Pads, and I’m sure she barely tolerates me. I doubt she’ll like me.” 

Before Sirius could reply, you appeared behind the two boys, an eyebrow raised, “What are we talking about gentlemen?” 

“Nothing!” James exclaimed, rubbing the back of his neck in fear, “Sirius was just saying how he needed to get home. Right now.” 

“Is this how you talk to your best friend that you haven’t seen in a month, Prongs?” 

Remus entered as well, laughing as he spoke, “Come on, Sirius. We do have to head home now. Nice to see you both.” 

“Always a pleasure, Moony,” you smiled, hugging them both before they apparated out of the house. You poked James’ cheek, “So what were you really talking about?” 

“Guy stuff,” he lied, returning his focus back to the parchment that Sirius messed up. 

“Guy stuff?” you snorted, grabbing his jaw and turning his head to look at you. James visibly gulped, all the color draining from his face. You cocked your head, not letting go of his face, “We’re lying to each other now, Potter? Shame.” 

“‘M not lying,” he said, voice shaky. You were so close to him. He could smell the strawberry chapstick you dabbed on your lips. Godric, your lips looked so kissable. 

“Yes you are,” you tutted, your palm now cupping his jaw. You didn’t even realize how intimate this move was, too busy looking into his eyes to notice your movements, “I can tell.” 

“How?”

“You can’t look me in the eye,” you stated, eyes flickering to the different features on his face. You never noticed the small freckle on the bridge of his nose or the small, fading scar on the left side of his lips. “Whenever a good man is lying, he can never look at someone in the eye. So tell me, James, what were you guys talking about?” 

James still refused to look at you in the eye. He couldn’t bring himself to because he knew you were right. The minute his eyes met yours, he would crack like an egg. Instead, he focused it on your parted lips, feeling your breath tickle the tip of his nose as you spoke. He mumbled, “I can’t tell you that.”

You didn’t know what came over you but when you spoke again, your voice came out as a sultry tone— breathy and slowly dragging your words, “Please.”

James’ eyes immediately jumped to look at yours once he heard the tone of your voice. He’d never heard you use that tone before and he would be lying if he said it didn’t make him weak in the knees. And for the sixth time in your life, you saw the nervous James Potter again. In a moment of weakness, he spoke, “You. We were talking about you.” 

“Me?” you asked, shocked by his revelation. Your hand that was once cupping his face was now hanging off his shoulder. You twirled a curl on the nape of his neck around your index finger, slightly tugging it. It took all of James’ willpower not to groan at the pressure. “What could you have possibly been saying about me?”

“How utterly insufferable you are,” James nudged his nose with yours, tilting his head the slightest bit. His tongue poked out of his lips, licking them in both nervousness and excitement. 

“I’m only insufferable because you make me this way,” you tilted your head the opposite direction. Your lips were moving towards each other with every breath you took. 

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” you whispered, closing your eyes. You let your lips ghost over his, before pulling away. You opened your eyes to taunt him, a mischievous smirk on your face. You pulled away from him, untangling his hair from your finger. 

“See, you’re proving my point. You’re insufferable,” James said. 

And with that, he pulled you by your waist, a surprised squeal left your mouth. He placed you on his lap before he kissed you. You instantly wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you. His lips melted with yours, tongues shying away from each other until he finally had the courage to caress yours with his. James squeezed your hips, pushing you down his lap. A soft moan escaped your throat and that brought James back to reality. 

Before things could escalate, he pulled away— lips bruised and completely out of breath. You smiled at him, biting your bottom lip. He returned the favor, running a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t want to continue without telling you,” James confessed, “I like you. A lot, actually. I don’t want you to think this means nothing to me because it does. I-I hope it means something to you, too. If it doesn’t, let me know because I don’t want to do this if I’m just setting myself up for failure here.” 

Your features softened at his words. You cupped his face in your hands, once again, and kissed the tip of his nose, then each cheek, then his forehead, and finally, his lips. It was an innocent one, less steamy and passionate than the first, but lovely regardless. You intertwined your fingers with his, “This means something to me, too, Potter. You’re not the only one who feels that way.” 

“Really?” he asked, now grinning widely. He connected his forehead with yours, chuckling, “Who would’ve thought we’d get here?”

“Not me,” you giggled, “However, don’t think I won’t bicker with you now that I know you’re an incredible kisser.” 

“I didn’t expect you to go easy on me,” James laughed, wrapping his arms around you. “But now, I can just kiss you to shut you up.” 

You pretended to think about it for a moment with a fond smile, “Hmm.. I suppose that’ll work.” 

James pulled you closer to his body, looking up at you as you sat on his lap. He murmured into the skin of your neck, “See? Insufferable.” 

[aliypop]

To The One Before

word count:  1,697

Warning: Mentions of panic attack

A/N : Heres a bit of backstory to my character I hope you guys Enjoy it!

"Family isn't who you're born with: it's who you'd die for."   Alexandra Morgan was 13 when she first heard that phrase from her best friend, Ray Stantz, "My family is like a tornado, Ray..." she sighed, taking a bite of Ray's Hershey bar. Ray knew what it was like to have parents who were perfectionists, after all: he was the product of a housewife and a doctor. "One day, I'm going to leave that house, and I'll never come back!" she laughed standing, on top of the hood. 

 "You don't mean that do you?"

"With my whole heart..." she smiled, sitting back down with him. Ray smiled back, saddened by the fact that she would say such a thing. "But what about me.. And.. and our ghost club!" he asked as Alexandra kept ranting on about her plan to leave home. 

"I couldn't forget my best friend." she took him by the hand and squeezed it,

 "Beside's, who's gonna protect you from Carl.." her thick glasses-covered eyes looked at him, 

"Well, promise me this, Alexandra..." he handed her a stay puft marshmallow. "That we'll always be friends even in college." 

"Why college?" she examined the marshmallow poking at the sugary treat. "Because... why not!"

"No talking to boys or looking at them, and if you do- " Dennis, Alexandra's, father was as nervous as most dads were when dropping their daughters off to college, but he wasn't as nervous as her mother, 

" If you get homesick, you can always call, and you know we're only 45 minutes away, and I got you one of those calculator things and!" 

"JEAN, you're scaring the girl! Dennis sighed, "What we're trying to say is strive for perfection ... anything less and.." 

"You'll pull me right out of this science jazz..." she sighed: ever since Alexandra had been little, her father never understood her passion for physics and doing experiments. He always knew that women got their brains from the pantry, not books, but Alexandra was different. When most girls played with easy bake ovens, she made nuclear reactors using antennas from their old tv set and jumper cables. Her inspiration came from some kid in Ohio who made one using chicken dung. "That's my girl... and remember.." 

"No boys," she sighed pushing, her glasses up, "As if any will ever like me.." she sassed. 

"That's not true, sweetheart," Jean said, lifting her daughter's chin. 

"Mother, must I remind you I went to prom with Ray!"

"And you two were a lovely pair." 

 Alexandra sat in her dorm, isolated from the rest of the world, which was how she liked it. A book in her hand and a pencil in another, she was ready to finish the first semester of work. As she listened to the radio, she began singing along with the Jackson 5. Ray, however, was wandering around with his new best friend, Peter Venkman, a Missouri native with the charm of a con man. Both Ray and Peter had been walking by the dorms in which the two had been talking about Atlantis. 

"It was just my imagination, running away with me. " a voice sang as the two were slowly approaching the women's dormitory.

  "Alexandra..." Ray gasped, running towards the sound of her voice. 

"Ray?!" she poked her head out from the door: as she saw the two men standing there, she couldn't take her eyes off of "This is Peter Venkman he's my.." 

"Friend replacing me already, aren't cha." she joked as she invited the two inside. There had already been notes on her wall as well as books on her floor. "I see you got busy..." Peter remarked, looking at the way her eyes sparkled through her glasses and how her lips curled. "Didn't class just start.." he thought to himself as Ray read behind her theories of time travel. 

" Because I know you didn't mean that in an innocuous way, I'll respond with Yes," she turned to look at him as her heart nearly skipped a beat, 

"Nerd much?" Peter whispered as Ray turned around in shock, he knew that that was a phrase that Alex never enjoyed hearing.

"I prefer to say an intellectual, but perhaps you wouldn't understand." she scoffed. "I beg to differ."Peter walked towards Alexandra, as he got closer towards her,

 "You're just a know it all.." he smirked, "Or a narcissist .." he said in a whisper, looking down at her lips. Alexandra laughed, noticing how close they were. She had never in her life been this close to anyone, especially a man such as Venkman. 

 "My father warned me to stay away from boys, you know.." 

" Well, I don't see your old man around..." he pulled her close to him as the heat from her face radiated fog from her glasses.

 " I'll pick you up, say 8 pm." 

"Should I bring my books?" 

"Sure, but I doubt you'll need them." he winked. 

As years passed and Ray and Peter grew closer as friends, so did Alexandra and Peter. It was a cold New York December morning, and sitting by the window wearing one of Peters shirts was Alexandra. Hot tears streamed down her face as she held her term papers in hand. In all her academic life, she had never gotten a D: her world was crumbling, "Hey, it's three in the morning.." Peter then looked at the half-empty bottle of brandy that he and Ray usually would split. 

"Do I need to wake Ray..."  

Alexandra shook her head, unresponsive to his question. "Wanna tell me about it.." he then asked, sitting in front of her. "I'm going to fail.." she repeated in heavy breaths, her hands nearly pulling at her thick curls. Peter had semi-studied this behavior before but to see it happen in person terrified him. "Breathe." he held her hand, Alexandra nodded, as she only breathed faster, nearly hyperventilating. "That's not what I meant, but breathing is breathing..." he mumbled. As the sun began to shine, the two were eating pizza and talking about their families. 

 "Try having a father who is not even proud about his son going to college. 

"Try being a music prodigy by age six and science prodigy at 9." she laughed, "I have so many expectations set on me and..." she looked at Peter, who gave her a look she knew too well. Peter, although now a part of the parapsychology world he still was great in psychology. "You did it again.." 

"I don't know what you mean.." he smirked. 

"Oh, I could just!" she stood up, falling into his arms. "Kiss me.." he suggested, kissing her lips ever so sweetly. There were days when Peter was a gentleman, sweet and caring, but there were days when Alexandra would throw curses his way and wish she'd never see him again, days where she'd cry in Ray's arms, and all he could say was " Peter didn't mean it this time did he..." he asked watching her stuff her face with pizza and ice cream. "We broke up again.." she cried, "Because I got offered to teach at the university.."  

"That's good!" Ray smiled, "I mean, it's what you've always wanted, right?" he then stopped talking. It was true that Alexandra wanted to teach quantum physics and engineering, but to see Peter move on so fast when she told him the news only made it worse. 

 As time went on and Alexandra had gotten adjusted to her new life as a professor, her date life only sunk worse. 

"Alright, class, I'm Dr. Morgan today we'll be talking about the theory of Relativity.." Alexandra turned towards her class in which she heard the protest of groans. The year was 1984, Alexandra: was 31 years old and living in Manhattan. " I assume you took Dr. Spengler's theory class, or else you wouldn't be in mine." she glared at a few students over her glasses. To say that Alexandra's quantum physics and engineering classes were easy was an understatement.

 From her labs to her assignments, there was nothing easy about her not since, "Can I help you, Dr. Venkman.." she glared at him, nearly wanting to set him on fire. "Just looking for a few students who'd want to do a few paid experiments," he smirked. When paid was involved, it meant Venkman rather than the students. "Make it quick, Venkman.. " she rolled her eyes. As her lecture progressed, she noticed a pair of eyes staring at her, they were stern, a bit cynical, and they were listening to her rant about the theory of being in a paradox. 

"So if you were to see yourself uh.. " she kept looking at him as her mind went blank, and her heart nearly pounding. "You could ruin the structure of the world." the voice in the back responded.

Sitting at her desk as her students left, Alexandra took it upon herself to stay behind and work on her UPC or more so known as an ecto camera. As she heard heavy footsteps run past her classroom, she knew that it was

 " Ray?" 

"We got one!" he shouted, ushering her to follow him.

"Is it a 1 or 5?" she asked him, following him around to their lab. 

"She wasn't very friendly..." 

"So a five it i-" she stood in front of their door, watching as the dean removed their gear from their lab space. "Well, that's unfortunate ..." she whispered under her breath, looking up at the man who was in her class earlier. 

"What am I supposed to tell my mother.." he mumbled. 

"What are we going to do now!" 

" I say drill a hole through Peter's head.." Alexandra said under her breath as Egon smiled, "So you're a fan of trepanation too." he asked as both Peter and Ray tried to get her to switch the subject. "I always say that if done right, could cure a disease if done wrong, a lobotomy or death. " she shrugged her shoulders, "Although I wouldn't advise it on a hamster," she added. 

"Why's that?" 

"Makes them go crazy..." she laughed, looking at him, "I'm Dr. Alexandra Morgan." 

"Dr. Egon Spengler."

[prettyboypeterparker]

Peter isn’t exactly sure where Tony got this outfit. Well he has an idea but part of Peter hopes that this isn’t from a sex shop but he knows it most definitely is. Peter picks up the fishnet stockings and fingers at the holes, he’s never worn stockings before. He’s actually never worn women’s clothing, if you don’t count the times he dressed in his Aunts dresses when he was a kid, he’s not against female clothes because he’s seen some of the stuff girls his age wear, mainly MJ, and all her stuff seems comfortable and he wouldn’t mind wearing tights but it’s been drilled in him to look masculine. It’s not his Aunts fault, she never cared what he wore but all the men in his life did and that influenced him a lot.

Peter shakes out of his thoughts and picks up the red velvet dress, it’s small and looks tight. Peter tugs at the voluminous black tulle underneath and notes that it’s not scratchy like most Halloween costumes are, there’s a corset attached at the torso and Peter is going to need help with that but it’s actually really pretty and there’s a bow where the dresses neckline dips. There’s a long silk cape to go with it and an expensive pair of Mary Janes laying in a soft pastel pink box with pink crepe paper, the heels on them look doable and Peter’s confident he’ll be able to walk in them. In a nondescript bag is a palette of make up that consists of blacks and reds to match the dress and in sitting at the bottom is a pair of silk black gloves. All he needs is a basket and he should be set.

Peter decides he’s going to need help and sends and S.O.S message to MJ, she’s over within twenty minutes not even questioning why he needs her.

“Red Riding Hood huh? Is he gonna be the Big Bad Wolf?” MJ asks as she helps Peter strip.

“I guess? He didn’t really say, just told me to watch out for a delivery and to enjoy the gift when I got it.” Peter drops his jeans and shirt onto the carpet and stands almost naked in front of MJ.

“Does he expect you to wear this as well?” Peter is confused for a moment when MJ turns around and holds out an oxidised blood red lace bodysuit.

It’s all lace at the top and a sheer panel around the bottom half and Peter blushes hard as MJ waggles it in front of him.

“I didn’t know he sent that. That’s so embarrassing.” Peter snatches the lingerie up and tries to shove it into the small bag he missed.

“I think it’s hot. You should totally wear it. I’m sure Tony would enjoy it a lot.” MJ winks.

“Whose side are you on!” Peter yells exasperated.

“Yours Pete, I’m just thinking about your sex life.” Peter frowns.

“Don’t ever think about my sex life. Please.”

“Anyways go get into that bodysuit and slip into the dress. I’ll help you from there.” Peter sighs but takes the lingerie and dress into his bathroom.

He drops his boxers and even though it takes him a hot minute to figure out how to get into the bodysuit (thank god for the snap shut crotch piece) he manages to get it on. The dress is easier all Peter has to do is slip it on over his head and pull it down and slot his arms into the puffy sleeves.

“You done?” MJ calls out.

“Yeah, I’m done.” Peter leaves the bathroom and walks back to MJ, she’s sitting on the bed playing with the make up palette.

“Holy shit, you look... wow.” MJ stands and smiles, her hands coming to rest on her hips.

“Thanks. I feel funny.” Peter reaches down and pulls the bottom of the dress until it sits mid thigh.

“Stop fussing, now get the stockings on.” Peter sits down and MJ helps him with the fishnets.

Afterwards Peter asks MJ to tighten the corset and he’s going to kill Tony when he sees him next. MJ instructs him to hold onto the post of the bed and to take a deep breath, she yanks on the ribbon of the corset and it crushes Peter’s ribs.

“Is it suppose to hurt like this?” Peter asks through gritted teeth.

“Yup, pain is beauty Parker.” MJ keeps tightening until she deems it done and ties the ribbon off into a neat bow.

It takes Peter nearly five minutes to get use to the feeling of not feeling his ribs.

“Make up next.” MJ says cheerfully.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this Jones.” Peter follows MJ into the bathroom and sits on the plush fluffy chair that usually resides under the marble counter top.

MJ does his makeup and they chat about school and how she’s going steady with a girl named Gwen. Peter wasn’t really shocked to find out that MJ was bisexual, she gave off the vibe when they were dating so he wasn’t exactly stunned when she told him. He’s happy for her all the same though.

“Alright makeup done, now it’s just your cape, gloves and shoes. Oh and hair, we can’t forget the hair.” Peter nods and lets MJ tousle his hair, going for artfully messy.

They head back into the bedroom and Peter slides into his heels while MJ ties his cape around his neck, the last piece is the gloves and they roll up to his inner elbow where they rest comfortably.

“All done Peter, you look amazing. I’m sure Tony’s going to enjoy this.” Peter looks at himself in the mirror and can’t help but admire himself.

For all the times MJ has told him she sucks at makeup she’s done a damn good job on his face, the bright red lipstick is perfect and the smoky eye really deepens his brown irises nicely. He’s got a rosy blush over his cheeks and nose and a hint of shine at the tip.

“It looks amazing MJ.” Peter turns around and hugs his best friend.

“No problem, just have fun tonight that’s all I ask.” Peter smiles and walks over to his phone that’s charging on his side table.

He texts Happy that he’s ready to leave. Peter unhooks his phone and places it in one of the many ties on the dress, tucking it in safely before walking with MJ to the elevator then down to the lobby. Happy is already waiting for them and greets Peter with a smile and offers to drive MJ home.

“That would be great thanks.” MJ says politely as Happy opens the car door for them.

The drive to the venue doesn’t take long but Peter suddenly grows nervous.

“This was a bad idea. I can’t do this.” Peter stresses.

“Dude chill, you’re okay, nothing is gonna happen beside maybe a little making out.” MJ reassures him with a soft smile.

“Are you sure?” MJ laughs.

“It’ll be fine, go break a leg or whatever.” Peter nods and takes a deep breath.

“Make sure she gets home safe Happy.” Peter tells the bodyguard/friend.

“Will do Mr Parker.” Peter smiles at the man and gets out of the car.

“Oh you forgot one thing Peter.” Happy calls out before he walks away.

Happy sticks an arm out the window and dangling from his hand is a wicker picnic basket.

“Thanks Happy.” Peter takes the basket and slides it down his arm to sit in the crook of his elbow.

Peter waves at the car before walking towards the doors, a bouncer is standing there with a clipboard and stops Peter before he can go in.

“Name?” He asks in a thick Scottish accent.

“Peter Parker. I’m Tony Starks Guest.” Peter says meekly.

“Ah right, go right on in. Sorry to keep you waiting.” The man says as he opens the door.

Peter walks past him and smiles, the inside of the venue is bubbling with life. Music plays heavily and it seems to be a bass boosted version of Monster Mash, Peter pushes through the sea of bodies in search of Tony. He finds said man standing on the bar dancing with Pepper, Tony’s dressed in tatty jeans with no shirt he’s got a pair of wolf ears perched on his head and there’s a belt around his waist that has a pretty good looking tail hanging off the back.

Peter can’t help but laugh as Tony starts doing the twist, he manages to get Pepper to join in before Peter decided to let himself be known.

“What great big eyes you have, Daddy!” Peter shouts up at the older man, it grabs his attention and he looks down.

His smile grows when he sees Peter and helps him up onto the bar.

“All the better to see you with, baby.” He replies, grin turning wolffish.

Peter leans forward and kisses Tony, makeup be damned.

“You look so fucking stunning kid.” Tony says into his ear, tongue licking the shell as he draws back.

“Not too bad yourself Mr Wolf.” Tony laughs then grabs Peter’s hands and shimmies with him and they dance on the bar top until the next song comes on.

Thriller blasts through the speakers and Tony mouths along with the words as him and Peter dance. It’s amazing and Peter feels light and carefree, his chest pulses with the beat of the song and seeing Tony look so laid back and relaxed was also amazing.

“Come with me to get a drink.” Peter steps down from the bar with Tony and they walk through the dancing bodies.

They arrive at an ice chest that’s filled with fizzy drinks and water.

“You want some pop sweetheart?” Peter nods and Tony hands him a can of grape soda.

He cracks the tab open and gulps down the syrupy drink, Tony chugs at his water bottle then throws it in the trash where Peter drops his can.

“I want some fresh air.” Peter agrees with Tony and they walk outside where it’s a lot quieter.

It’s not even a second before Tony’s pushing Peter up against the wall, mouth coming to his neck and licking at the salty skin there.

“Eager much?” Peter jokes as Tony laves at his throat.

“You look so good.” Tony flashes teeth and now that there’s no strobing lights Peter can see fake little fangs hanging from Tony’s incisors.

“Oh Daddy, what big teeth you have.” Peter says mousy like.

“All the better to eat you with, baby.” Tony runs his tongue along his teeth before leaning in and biting hard into Peter’s neck.

It shouldn’t be hot like it is but Peter’s knees are buckling and his heart is skipping.

“I think we should take this somewhere more private.” Tony murmurs against his skin.

“But you’re the host, you can’t leave your own party.” Peter mentions, mind turning to mush as Tony rubs his fingers over his thighs.

“I can and I am. Are you coming little Red?” Peter bites his lip but nods his head.

“Yes Daddy.”

[the-salty-asian]

The Spider and The Fly | The Spider Wasp

Series Masterlist

Warnings: language, protesting?, creepy guy harassment, mention of death, and fighting

Summary: Peter’s friends aren’t too fond of y/n.

Word Count: 3.1K

The crowded halls of Midtown High would always annoy y/n. Yet she praised them for hiding her as she eavesdropped on the argument Peter and his friends were having.

“There’s just something off about her, man.”

“Something off? Have you seen us!? There’s a little something off about us Ned!”

“You’ve barely known her for a week Peter!”

“But guys I’ve ne-

“Yea, yea you’ve never felt this way before.”

Peter’s face softened, “MJ, I’m sorry I didn’t feel-”

“It’s whatever Peter, it’s in the past. I just think she’s hiding something. We’re trying to look out for you.”

Peter sighed, “Maybe you guys are right, but she needs friends right now. She’s a newbie.”

Y/n frowned. Any sane person could see that Peter was heavily influenced by his friends when it came to making decisions. There was no possible way for her to get closer to Peter until his friends trusted her too.

She rounded the corner, “Hey Pete! Ned, MJ.”

MJ and Ned shared an annoyed glance behind Peter’s back while he stepped toward her.

“Y-y/n hey!”

“Only my friends call me MJ,”she shot her a dirty look before retreating down the hallway. She left the three staring at her back until she disappeared into the wall of students.

“Well isn’t she just a dark ray of sunshine today.”

Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, “I’m sorry about MJ, she’s not one to make friends easily.”

Ned shot his best friend a wary glance that didn’t go unnoticed by y/n’s eyes. Even if he wasn’t as open about his feelings towards her, y/n knew that there was some trust to be gained.

“So I’ve noticed.”

Y/n had found herself a permanent spot at the deemed “losers” table, much to Michelle and Ned’s disliking. By the third day, Peter had stopped gazing at Liz across the cafeteria. Even now she attempted to drill holes in the back of y/n’s head as she made him laugh.

“Hey guys I have something to show you.”

Her hands dipped into her bag and grasped for the box amongst the crumpled papers. It’s contents clinked together as she pulled it out and into the table. The second the boys laid eyes on its cover, their mouths fell agape.

“No waaayy!”

“I heard you guys were building a LEGO Death Star and I thought it’d be cool to add to your collection!”

“The Millennium Falcon!? That’s hella expensive, y/n!”

“I found a guy selling it online for cheap,”she lied.

The cheapest that the toy was going for was $50, even on the sketchiest of websites. Y/n had found it much easier to slip it in her bag and walk out the employee exit of the store.

Peter took the box from her hands and set it between him and Ned. Their eyes roamed the picture on the front while they grinned from ear to ear.

“I’ll need some help building it of course.”

Ned beamed at her,“We got you!”

“Yea totally!”Peter’s eyes lit up. “Hey do you wanna help us finish the Death Star first?”

The grin on Ned’s face fell and his eyes flickered to Michelle behind her book. Y/n felt the tension twist around her neck like a rope. She had to be careful to not kick the chair she balanced on.

“I’d love to Pete, if that's ok with you Ned?”

“Yea, I guess.”he looked like a kicked puppy. “Hey Pete, we gotta pick something up from the workshop before lunch is over.”

“No we don-”

“Yes.We.Do”

Ned’s fingers closed around Peter’s wrist, pulling his best friend up with him. Together they weaved their way out of the cafeteria, leaving y/n stranded with Michelle. She nervously eyed the book covering the girl’s face and hoped that it’d shield her for the rest of lunch.

“Winning us over with materialistic things, good play y/n.” She rested the book in her lap. “It won’t work with me though, sorry.”

The smile on y/n’s lips faltered but she quickly recovered. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Yea sure.”

With that, Michelle shoved her book into her bag and followed the direction that Peter and Ned had gone.

The rest of the week went by in a flash and soon enough y/n sat on the floor next to a nearly finished LEGO Death Star. It would’ve been complete the next day. However when y/n arrived at Peter’s door the next day, she found the two boys standing apologetically, a heap of LEGO pieces between them.

“Can you tell me why we have to rebuild it again?”

The two boys exchanged a nervous glance. Y/n could tell there was a secret linked between them, something she may already have known.

“Oh um Peter scared the living shit out of me and I kinda dropped it?” Ned blused.

Y/n’s lips turned up into a smirk, “Ah right.”

Over the past few afternoons of LEGOs and witty conversations, Ned had warmed up to her. They began to banter as if they had known each other their whole lives. As they laughed over her latest remark, y/n couldn’t help but notice Peter’s eyes on her.

“Here you do the last piece, y/n.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ned’s face fall. LEGOs were a sacred thing the two boys had let her in on, much against his protests.

“Actually,”she grabbed Ned’s wrist and turned his palm towards the ceiling. “I think Ned should do it instead, Pete.”

A childish grin spread across Ned’s face as she pressed the plastic into his hand. His eyes whispered to her a silent thank you before he snapped the piece into place. High fives were passed around as they looked over their creation with pride. Their celebration was cut short by the smoke alarm and the slamming of an oven door. Smoke poured into Peter’s open doorway soon followed by May Parker. She leaned against the door frame leisurely waving the air with her oven mit.

“Hey, are you two joining us for dinner? I made my famous meatloaf!”

Y/n was quick to catch the warning glance that Peter gave his friend as Ned stumbled over his words. “I can’t Ms. Parker. I gotta head home.”

Her bottom lip jutted out, “Aww ok Ned, it was good to see you!”

“Yea you too Ms. Parker!”

Ned quickly shuffled past her and y/n contemplated following after him.

“How about you, y/n?”

Her stomach dropped, there was no getting out of this one. She had skirted by May’s dinner requests a couple of times, but she had run out of excuses.

Y/n looked nervously from Peter to his aunt, “Oh no, I don’t want to intrude.”

“Oh please sweetheart! I’ve been dying to meet the girl Peter doesn’t shut up about!”

Peter’s eyes widened, “MAY!”

A real laugh escaped y/n’s lips at how red he had turned.

“Y-you don’t have to if you want to. I’m sure-“

“Peter give her a break!”she laughed and took y/n’s hand in hers giving it a warm squeeze. “Will you join us?”

It took all that was in her not to flinch at May’s foreign, soft touch. She regained the smile on her face, “Yes, of course.”

“Great! Peter, will you set the table?”

To say the least, May Parker was no gourmet chef. With every swallow of meatloaf y/n had to choke down, she regretted her response to a dinner invitation. Every few seconds she’d glance at Peter who would flash her an apologetic smile. Meanwhile, his aunt was rapidly firing questions at her. She answered them with ease, all rehearsed parts of a script.

“What do your parents do?”

“Oh well my father-”how was she supposed to tell her that her father was set on killing the Avengers? “Is a traveling businessman.”

“And your mother?”

Her mother, the word was a knife to her bruised heart. She would tell the truth for this one, for her mother.

“S-she’s no longer with us.”

May reached for her hand across the table,“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that!”

Much to y/n’s relief, May stopped her questions shortly after that. Instead, she shared stories of baby Peter that made him cover his face with his hands in embarrassment. Some of them even coaxed a laugh to tumble from y/n’s lips.

“Will you stay for dessert?”

“As much as I’d love to! I should probably get home, it was very nice meeting you Ms. Parker!”

“Oh no please, call me May, y/n!”

“Have a goodnight!”

Peter held the door for her and quickly ushered her outside before May could break out the photo albums from the shelf. Only when he closed the door did he calm down a bit.

He raked a hand through his curls, “Thanks for coming I-i know May’s not the best cook but she-“

“It was fine Peter. Thanks for having me.”

She held his gaze all the while stepping closer to him until she almost had to crane her neck to look at him. Her arms wrapped around his middle and her face pressed into his strong chest. Peter hesitated before he enveloped her in his arms and his hands splayed on her back. They stayed like that for a moment making it a game of who would let go first. Y/n lost. She pulled away from Peter’s warmth and opened her apartment door.

“Oh um goodnight, y/n!”

“Goodnight Pete,”she giggled at the state her hug left him in.

She closed the wood with a click, leaving a flustered Peter standing in the hallway. Through the spyhole she watched as Peter cheered silently before dancing happily through his door.

Things were starting to run more smoothly, Ned would greet her at lunch and y/n had received multiple dinner invitations from May. The only one who seemed to still give her the cold shoulder was Michelle. Y/n had tried every way she had known to get Michelle to like her. From bringing her all of her favorite foods at lunch to conversations about her favorite novels, the bookworm wasn’t easily swayed. But she herself even told y/n, materials meant nothing to Michelle. Y/n had spent every minute in class finding ways to get the girl on her side.

In front of her a couple girls whispered in hushed tones. Their giggles weren’t hard to notice but what had caught her attention was “protest”. She leaned over and tapped the closest girl on the shoulder.

“Hey what protest?”

“Oh, the women’s rights protest in Kissena Park! I didn’t take you for the protesting type.”

A wry smile formed on her lips, “I’m gonna give it a go, yea.”

Up until the bell rang, y/n was itching to find Michelle before she disappeared in the hive of students. When the clock finally reached 2:45, she was the first one out the door and running down the hall to her locker. Heads turned to look at her curiously as she ran about Midtown High’s campus in search of Michelle Jones. She found her almost to the school’s front doors.

“Hey! MJ-Michelle wait!”

To her surprise, she stopped in her tracks and spun around to meet her. Y/n’s shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor in an attempt to stop herself from colliding with her. Michelle’s face was washed in annoyance, her eyes stared down at y/n’s bent over figure.

“Well?”

“I w-was wondering if you were going to the women’s rights protest. The one in Kissena Park?”

“Yea,” Michelle crossed her arms over her chest while her dark eyes worked over y/n. “What about it?”

“Can I maybe join you?”

She took the request into consideration, chewing it over in her brain. Y/n almost thought that Michelle would spit it back in her face.

“Yea I don’t care, why not?”

“Great! I’ll meet you there?”

Michelle was already walking away, “Whatever.”

The fictional smile on y/n’s face while her eyes remained on the girl’s back. What an afternoon it was going to be.

Two hours later, y/n found herself getting off the bus right outside Kissena Park. A large crowd of women were already gathering at the front gate, signs in tow. After some searching, y/n finally found Michelle amongst them wielding a “guns have more rights than my vagina” sign.

Y/n’s mind panicked, she didn’t have a sign to flaunt. Her eyes scanned the crowd for an easy sign to pick off someone. And there it was, her saving grace. A large pink sign was propped up against the iron fence that read, “A vagina brought you into this world, a vagina can vote you out.” She shrugged, it was good enough for her.

“Hey Michelle!”

She spun around to reveal a wild grin on her face. This was Michelle in her element, no walls and no guard up. Her eyes surveyed the sign in y/n’s eyes before letting out a laugh.

“I like your sign.”

“Thanks, I like yours too.”

“Well come on, women’s rights aren’t gonna win themselves!”

At first. y/n didn’t appreciate the crowd, it made her on edge. Nothing good came out of waiting in large numbers. But as she watched Michelle’s defenses unravel she too felt the knot on her worries loosen. Soon enough they were walking side by side yelling with the crowd.

The girls walked the remainder of the park after the protest had finished. Y/n had finally chipped away at Michelle’s wall as they giggled endlessly over books and the students of Midtown High.”

“Who am I now?”Michelle bent her knees slightly. “You guys wanna take a ride in my new whip that’s not actually mine! Oh hey there’s Penis Park-“

“What are some pretty ladies like you doin down here?”

They had been too busy laughing that they hadn’t noticed the man approaching them on the other side of the walkway. Michelle was quick to brush past him but not quite enough. The man grabbed her by the upper arm and shoved his face in hers.

“Hey I’m talking to you!”

Michelle’s eyes were bulging with fear and she wasn’t strong enough to pull away from the stranger’s grip.

“Hey asshole don’t touch her!”

Y/n’s hands grabbed at his jacket sleeve and she aimed her knee at his lower half. It’s first attempt connected with his stomach and the second his groin. The attacker crumpled to the cement clutching his asset. Y/n wasted no time in kneeling beside him and taking his face in one hand. Her mouth hovered over his ear and she made sure that Michelle couldn’t see her next action.

She slipped a twenty dollar bill into his jacket pocket, “Sorry about that Kev’ I gotta make it believable.”

With that she stood and kicked him once in the ribs for good measure before turning towards Michelle. Her jaw was as low as the floor and her eyes wide with awe.

“Wow that was badass!”

“Thanks,”she took a hold of her hand. “I think we should get out of here.”

Michelle led y/n to the bus station, reenacting the fight scene the whole way there. Y/n couldn’t help but laugh as she punched the air in front of her with a few added sound effects.

“Hey,”Michelle stopped them just before the bus stop. “you maybe wanna come to my house tonight?”

She cracked a smile, “I’d love to.”

They say a person’s room often reveals a lot about them. This much was true about Michelle’s. Every surface was adorned with stacks of books except a small designated area for academic trophies. Crammed in the small space left on her dresser were three framed photos. One was of her family all gathered around a Christmas tree, another a photo of Midtown’s Academic team. The last one caught y/n’s eye, Michelle was holding the camera while Peter had his arm wrapped around her shoulders. They both grinned up at y/n who had taken the photo in her hands.

“I’m sorry for the mess I don’t really have visitors.”

At the sound of Michelle’s voice, she thrust the photo back into its place. The bookworm emerged in the doorway with her arms overflowing with snacks.

Y/n pointed at the photo, “So you and Peter huh?”

“Oh um no,”her eyes focused on her sock clad feet. “We’re just friends.”

“I’m not sure what you’re into but I got some movies that aren’t Star Wars, if you wanna watch those?”she laughed.

“Yea that’d be great!”

After two movies and a ton of snacks, the two girls laid on their backs staring into the abyss before them and listening to the sounds of the city outside Michelle’s window. A soft silence settled in the darkness around the bed. Y/n could sense the slowing of the girl’s breaths and prayed that Michelle was a heavy sleeper. Yet it was quite the opposite. Minutes passed before y/n attempted to slide off the mattress, when she was met with Michelle’s sleepy voice.

“Can I confess something?”she mumbled into the darkness.

Internally she did a victory dance, confessions were good. Y/n hummed beside her and felt the shift in the mattress as Michelle rolled over to face her. She followed in suit, her eyes finding Michelle’s dark ones.

“I’ve never really had a girls’ night.”

She feigned a gasp, “Really?”

A pain settled in her chest, it was her first girls’ night as well, and she was spending it to get information to kill the girl’s best friend. This was all kinds of fucked up on y/n’s part.

“Yea I don’t really like the female population at Midtown, but you’re different. I don’t know how just yet but you are.”

Y/n’s stomach sank. She was different because she wasn’t meant to be a regular teenager. Her sole purpose was to serve her father. Even if that meant to kill Peter Parker.

“Thanks?”

“I’m still new with this compliment thing. Give me a break.”

“Goodnight Michelle.”y/n chuckled.

“MJ.”

“What?”

She rolled over to face y/n again. Her eyes shone in the moonlight filtering through her window and a rare toothy smile was plastered on her face.

“You can call me MJ.”

A/n: After this I kinda want to turn it into an MJ x reader fic lmao.

Taglist: @rebekamckenzie @blossomreed @pluckypete @moistpotatobear

[immortalitylostandfound]

Drop

First Harringrove for Australia fic. Boom. Not Harringrove pairing, but twas what the lovely @missroserose​ requested and she was good enough to donate so I was damned if I wasn’t going to write the shit out of it for her. So thanks to you for this opportunity and for helping the cause with your ridiculously generous donation! You rock!

~*~

4k left before my cap if anyone’s still out there in the wings interested. Let me know in my Harringrove for Australia post. You know the drill.

~*~

He’d been looking at Star that night in the cave.

Michael absently kissed the top of her warm head, the both of them post-sex sweat slick and tangled up in the sheets, in each other.

He’d been looking at her and he’d only felt David looking at him. Hadn’t seen. Because he hadn’t been looking at David. He’d only had eyes for Star.

Except—

He closed his eyes. Tried to think—to remember. That night in the underground ruins of the old hotel, what had really happened? Had Michael’s eyes drifted to David after all, regal on his junky wheelchair throne, ghostly in an inexplicable shaft of brilliant illumination; face picked out in whites, in pale blues? That face stark against all the black he wore, the black surrounding. Unearthly, the way his pale skin was touched by that filtered finger of moonlight; glowing with that spotlight from above.

It’s impossible that Michael hadn’t been looking at him.

David in the light, ethereal and sharp. Star in the shadows behind, soft and blurred, her eyes black-hole pools.

And he’d been looking at them.

At them both.

He could admit that now.

He kissed Star’s hair again. Swallowed down the question—the constant question—because he couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t ask her that. Not now. Not after—

Do you miss David?

That question. The question.

Swallowed down the crept up taste of that dusty bottle of blood like he always did. Taste of that night. Taste that always prompts the question. Of David’s lips on his lips, David transferred over glass. A secondhand kiss. A kiss vicarious.

The taste crept up on him at the strangest times. Jumped him unawares. And he licked his lips. And he swallowed it down. And he knew it’d always come back.

But when?

When?

Crazy with the waiting for it.

The taste of David on that bottle, mostly imagined, mostly the thrill of the thought of David’s lips on that bottle that Michael’s lips were touching. Taste ethereal as David in the light, his pale hard features demanding attention as he’d taken a swig to show Michael how it was done—as he’d closed his eyes like the drink alone had brought him pleasure. Like the taste of it alone—

And Michael watched David drink. Watched his face as he drank. And Michael’s dick gave an interested twitch at the sight. He’d probably blushed. He was probably blushing now at the memory. At the thought.

He’d wanted to taste that bottle, too.

Did he miss David?

The answer might not be no.

Michael untangled himself from the sheets. From Star. Untangled himself from her questions and the hot still air of his room and the walls of his house. Paced outside, wore the porch wood down in his slipped on, untied shoes. Let the breeze cool his chest where his leather jacket—and who had he been trying to impress with that—gaped open over nothing. Draped bare over his skin. Worn loosely like the night. Like his shoes. Like his thoughts.

Couldn’t commit.

Needed to untangle.

The memory of that night; worn loose. Of that bottle. Loose like his limbs after that first drink. “It’s blood,” Star had said, and sure it was—sure—and Michael wouldn’t have cared if it was at that point—and of course it was, she’d been dead right about that—because the thought of his lips touching that bottle was all consuming.

Was consuming him.

And after. Once he’d consumed the contents of that bottle, tasted its glassy rim for that fragile flavor of lips left prior, somehow it was worth the wait. Satisfying the way nothing with that much build up ever seemed to be. And it was pleasure.

Enough pleasure to lose himself in.

Enough pleasure to drown him.

And David’s mouth caressed Michael’s name through that long night. Each syllable of it like hands on him. Each touch as David passed like a whisper of a name. Michael. And he’d been watching David then. Oh yes. Eyes locked. Only David. And Star had been lost to the shadows that night. To the shadows she was made of. And the world was only David in the moonlight and the whispered breath of a name. His name.

Michael.

David was dead now. Michael had killed him.

And by noon on the day that Michael had killed him, David’s body had been gone.

When they’d finally made their way back around to the antler room, back around to the problem that they were all avoiding, the one of David’s body—the only whole body left in the wake of the fear-soaked, blooded night—it had been gone. No sign left behind as to where it had disappeared to.

No tangible clue left to follow. No dribbling trail of blood headed for the nearby busted-out window. But Michael had felt some sort of pull from that direction. Tasted some secret on the air. Hadn’t seen any sign, track—not through all the clutter and mess on the floor. Through all the plaster dust and wood chips and the chunks of once-lively things. He hadn’t seen. Didn’t know with any certainty what had become of David.

And so he hadn’t mentioned that pull, that feeling, to anyone. And that not mentioning had felt like picking a side.

At the time it had felt like the wrong side—the thought bitter. But like memories, the thought of that choice only sweetened over time. More and more becoming rosy on his tongue. And now he’s glad he hadn’t told. Glad.

That is, if there was anything to tell in the first place.

Hadn’t known afterwards if he’d only imagined that not-quite trail petering off into the world outside. The light outside. The sunny day. But the possibility had him searching for neat piles of ashes as he walked the yard until the first big wind had come and carried any hope of closure away with it. Scraped off the top layer of soil and left the world looking new. Left the world looking strange. And left Michael in that strange new world all alone with his thoughts. Them, and that sweet rosy taste on his tongue. The sugar of it slowly winning out over bitter guilt. Left him with a feeling in his chest, this constant roil, this something that seemed to live on the border between fear and hope.

Did he miss David?

Was David still out there somewhere, missable?

He slept at the cave sometimes. Times like tonight, when the thought of people and their matchstick-built houses and his clinging wet sheets and Star’s clinging warm arms had him feeling claustrophobic. Slept in the bed where he’d first touched Star’s naked breasts, had slipped her on like a condom and let her ride him, the whole time watching David watching them from the shadows. Watching David watching him and not really knowing if he was only picturing David there, or if David actually was there. Not really caring either way as Star bounced quick and uneven above him toward the climax, fingers digging, moans high and stuttered and curled up at the ends like questions. As she tensed and clenched and he spilled with the force of that soft hard grip around him. Was warm and wet and spent inside her as David looked on with low-lidded eyes and a knowing grin. Been there too, Pal. As David swiped a pale lip with a searching tongue. Whispered a word unheard. But Michael didn’t need to hear to know what the word was. He knew the shape of those lips around it. The word was a name.

The word was his name.

Michael.

And Michael had cum for David as much as he had for her. So he’d whispered soundlessly back. Made his lips move, shape out the sounds between caught breaths.

David.

He missed David.

The wheelchair laid abandoned in a puddle of dripped-in moonlight. The candles were dusty and dark. Unlit. Felt like he was in a church after hours, the walls of the place ornate and cold with no one to fill them with the warm magic of belief. And Morrison looked down on him, judging, like Jesus. The fountain waited to baptize him in its algae-green waters.

Place smelled like death gone dusty.

Like he was trying to fall asleep inside a giant’s mummified carcass.

He missed David. Could admit that here. Confess it to Morrison looking down on him from above and to the good lord of all night creatures. He missed David.

“I miss you,” he said. “I wish I knew you.” Swallowed. Closed his eyes on the silent dark that answered.

But he dreamt of fingertips skimming his skin, leaving divots behind like in wet slippery clay. Shaping him into some needy, wanting thing. Dipping into him. Leaving behind holes. Dreamt of cold eyes and warm hands and soft lips and sharp sharp teeth.

Dreamt of David.

Woke to flaky dried tear tracks and sticky jeans. Woke up lonely. Wandered home.

The cave was all wrong in the light of day.

The world was all wrong in the light of day.

Missed the night.

Missed the thrilling dark potential of it. The unexpected chaos of the world after the sun. The “try and keep up,” and the ground slipping away before him over the cliff and the fear of it. The thrill of it.

The feel of flesh under his knuckles and the knowing smile on David’s lips afterwards.

Just you.

Just you.

And the question.

“How far you willing to go, Michael?”

And the answer, unspoken. More true now than ever.

All the way, David. All the fucking way.

Try me.

He wasn’t present at school, though he made sure to get his ass in his seat every morning first period. He didn’t make friends because he’d already made friends and they were all dead. Because the kids in school seemed so young and so stupid. They didn’t know anything.

Didn’t look at Michael like they kept some secret and might just tell him if he was very good. If he did what he was told. He ducked out with a bathroom pass sometimes and beat off to the memory of David’s grinning mouth around his name. Bits and pieces of dreams of David’s cold eyes, warm hands, soft lips, sharp teeth. Sometimes to memories of those sharp teeth tearing into flesh, those pale lips painted in blood. Sometimes all it took was the blood. And he came hard. And those days he hated himself the most.

But what was the point of hating himself when he knew he’d just do it again? He wasn’t gonna stop.

What was the point of feeling guilty when he didn’t even feel bad?

Remembered the night of his final initiation, perched in that tree and watching. He’d been hard as a rock then, too. Had fought against that as much as the thought of becoming a murderer. Fell and rolled and came to a stop dusty and wanting. Throat burning. Dick hard. And that already hard dick had jumped painfully when David’s eyes had traced its outline through his jeans. And he remembered wanting David to touch it. Wanting David and the blood on his lips. And at the time he’d felt ashamed by his reaction. Felt ashamed of that want. Of wanting David, covered in blood and more beautiful because of the blood. Wanting to lick the stubble of his cheek clean, feel it rough and wet under his tongue. Taste the blood there. Taste David there. David, standing there slick and sexy and tracing Michael’s hard dick with his hard, pale eyes. And smiling. Like he knew a secret. Like he might tell Michael if Michael was very very good.

Sometimes now, it was hard to understand why he’d been so ashamed then. Like slipping into someone else’s mind. Thoughts. And trying to make sense of their feelings. Now he just felt dead inside. Now he just felt free inside. Like David was out there somewhere, bending the needle on his moral compass further and further away from true north. Like David was out there somewhere, leading him toward something new.

But what?

Toward what?

Toward him?

Sometimes, usually sitting in fourth period, Michael got the urge to get up and start walking and never ever stop. Sometimes he got as far as the school doors before realizing what he was doing. Turning back. Sometimes he just stared out the window from his seat in class and escaped that way. Left his body behind and flew.

He’d flown before. A few times.

And the first time, dangling in the fog, he’d been convinced he’d fall. Die. Unable to pull himself up or keep his grip, he’d listened to the voices below. Whispers punctuated by David’s low chuckle.

He hadn’t made a choice that night. Hadn’t chosen. His hands had given out just like David knew they would. And he felt cheap and dirty like he wasn’t the first date to be brought to those tracks because David had known. But most of all, he just didn’t want to die. To drop and hit bottom and break open on the mist-shrouded rocks below, seagulls pecking at his eyes and insides when they found him.

He dropped anyway. He didn’t have a choice.

But he never hit bottom.

Instead, he’d flown. Floated. Light as a feather and stiff as a board he’d floated to the ground, still screaming. And David’s face had loomed in close through the tight-wrapped fog; David’s hand had been there to pick Michael up from the shaking puddle he’d become in the sand. Was there, patting Michael’s shoulder once he’d got him on his feet, making a show of dusting Michael clean. That hand had been on Michael in the fog. He was sure. David had touched him then.

And David had said “you don’t get to be afraid anymore, Michael.” And he was too close with his hand on Michael’s shoulder like that, really touching him. The disembodied whoops and laughter of the others sounded lost in the far distance. Michael, all alone with David. For the first time there was nowhere else to look. No excuse he could use not to stare.

David’s hand was warm on his cheek, patting him once. Twice. Three times. Patronizing. That secret smirk fuzzy in the fog making Michael want to lean in to get a better look. See it clearer.

“You’re mine now,” that mouth had said.

“I’m not.” And he’d said it to hide the eager thrill those words had riled up in him. At the time he hadn’t realized but…he saw now. How good it had felt to hear those words. Saw that thrill for what it was.

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

And David had widened his smirk. Had bit his pale lip and winked. Pulled away. Called for Marco.

But they hadn’t. Seen. Because David had died. Michael had seen to that.

Michael saw that he always popped his sunglasses on as soon as he walked out the school doors now. Every day the sun seemed a little bit larger in the sky. A little bit brighter. The whole world seemed too bright. Too loud and colorful in the day, in this blasé kind of way that didn’t leave any room for improvisation. Excitement.

His missed the dark.

His skin missed David’s hands, though David had never—had he?—had never touched him like that. And Michael’s name never sounded right when other people said it. When they threw it around casually like luggage at the airport and didn’t—

Sometimes, he didn’t even bother answering to it.

And Star was watching him constantly. Star was worried. She never said a goddamn thing about it but her face was a picture and every word it was worth was spelled w-o-r-r-y. She clung like she was afraid he was going somewhere. She trapped him inside her when they made love. And her eyes said stay. And her hands were everywhere, desperate, holding him in place.

But they weren’t the right hands.

And he missed a touch he’d probably never felt. Something he’d never even had.

Missed a ghost.

Missed half-remembered, confused memories or fantasies of David’s hands skimming his wine drunk—blood drunk—chest and meandering down. Meandering back up again under the material of his shirt. Tweaking a nipple. And that smirk. And Michael’s head had rolled back against the wall that was holding him upright and his eyes were on David, locked on David, entranced, watching to see what happened next. Wanting to. The two of them were hidden from the rest in some sheet-shrouded corner and Michael didn’t give a fuck about anything. Except maybe that pinch and twist on his nipple. Maybe that pale ring of iris around blown-out pupils. Michael watched David, mouth hung open and hungry. So hungry. Brimming with want-you-to-touch-me-touch-me-now-and-say-my-name-while-you-touch-me. Wanting to hear his name the way it was meant to be said.

Michael.

With David’s lips wrapped around it.

He missed—

And sometimes he told Star he was too tired for sex. Pretended she’d believe it. Watched her face say worry a thousand times over without breathing a word then untangled himself from her clinging hands. And on those nights he fled to the cave.

Because there he could confess. There he could dream. Be molded like clay and punctured—fingers dipping inside. He was full of those holes now. And now he felt empty in the sun, like light leaked right on through all those holes in him. Like he couldn’t hold it in. Couldn’t retain the warmth of it.

And his mom hid his sunglasses sometimes when she got desperate. When he wouldn’t answer to his name. She always wanted to talk. To be friends. But he’d had friends and they were dead. They’d all died.

And he’d killed David.

And she was too nice to bear.

His family was—

Sam said Michael had changed. And Michael had changed, Sam was right. And he liked the change. Ran toward it like he had the wind pushing up behind him. Like he was being pulled. Like maybe David was somewhere out there, luring him in closer. Like maybe Michael hadn’t killed him, after all.

Nanook always growled when he saw Michael now. His grandpa threw him thoughtful looks. And Michael came home less and less in proportion to the growls, the looks.

He’d changed.

When Star left, he stopped coming home entirely. Stayed in the cave. Skipped out on school. Found a pack of David’s cigarettes left forgotten and entertained himself by smoking up the stale tobacco. By sprawling in David’s wheelchair throne while he did it. Pretending he knew the taste of David’s mouth. Smoked them one after another till they weren’t around anymore to tempt him.

Till the taste was gone.

And he was hungry, but not for food.

And he missed David. That’s what he mostly did. Missed.

“I miss you,” he’d say.

“Come back,” he’d say.

May Morrison be praised, amen. The words would echo off the walls. And then the silence after would answer his prayer. And he’d light a candle in memory.

In the daylight hours, Michael dreamed of David’s hands. Of his voice. But he forgot the timbre upon waking. And those hands had never been familiar. Had never— And he slept more and more.

Then one day, “I miss you,” was answered by “I can see that.”

And Michael was hard and leaking and slick in his own hand, David’s name on his lips. I miss you I miss you I miss you I’m sorry leaking out of him in a constant heady ooze like precum.

“Don’t let me stop you,” David had said, clearly amused. He pulled up the wheelchair and sat.  Leaned forward and steepled his fingers. Watched. Silent.

“I’m waiting, Michael.”

Under those bright cold eyes, Michael couldn’t last long. Even blurred as they were by Michael’s tears.

“Are you real?” Michael asked, finally, rubbing the wet salt tears away from his eyes, pathetic and dirty and covered in his own cooling spunk.

“Define real.”

“Are you alive?” Michael tried, and all it got him was that old I’ve-got-a-secret smile.

“Define alive.”

“Can you touch me?” His voice broke because he needed David to say yes. Needed to feel David’s hands and know if his memories were true or just pretty stories he’d told himself to make it through the day. Because at some point everything had become dependent on those hands. On that barely-remembered taste on his tongue. On the memory of those eyes and that secret-keeping smile. And David’s next words could very easily kill him.

“Define touch.”

Michael groaned, gut shot.

“Touch me!” he demanded, fists dug in the sheets pooled around him. “Please, you bastard, just—once—okay just—please!”

He choked on wanting.

“No,” David had said, sharp. And the word wounded like the lash of a whip. “I don’t think I will. I don’t think I’ll touch you until I know that you can finally follow directions.” He walked closer. Loomed over the bed. “You can follow directions now, can’t you, Michael?”

Michael rose up onto his knees.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stop asking questions, for a start.”

Michael sat back on his heels. Hugged himself and felt more tears coming.

“You’re not even real, are you?” He started to rock just to feel at least that much control. Moved himself forward. Back. Forward. “I’m crazy—I’m finally crazy, aren’t I?” He looked pleading up at David. “Am I?”

And David sighed.

“Come here.” Resigned.

“Why?” Michael tried not to look. Wanted to look. Fought that want. He sounded petulant to his own ears. A pouty child.

“Humor me.” David’s voice came out staccato and strained, like it was Michael’s last chance. And Michael took it. He crawled to the edge of the bed. Looked up. David looked so real. So convincingly real.

His hand looked real as it came up to cup Michael’s face. And Michael could feel that hand. Feel a kind of pressure where it rested. But not the rough drag of skin. Not the warmth that should have been there. It wasn’t—

“Not here. I knew it, I knew—”

“Not here. No. Not really,” David said, frustrated. And what was supposed to be David’s thumb brushed over Michael’s cheek. Ran the wet delta there. Then David pulled his hand away.

Brought it back to deliver a hard slap.

Michael held his cheek in the ringing silence after. Looked up, shocked. But David merely smirked.

“I need your help and you’re going to help me, Michael.”

He crouched down. Looked Michael in the eye.

“And once you help me,” David said, cocking his head and studying Michael like he was some interesting puzzle to be solved, “I’ll touch you till you beg me to stop.”

And that was all he’d needed to say.

“Kill him for me,” David whispered in Michael’s ear later, in a dark dingy alley. The blacked-out bum on the ground in front of Michael smelled like piss and malt liquor and blood and Michael was thirsty. Hungry. His eyes dropped closed in contentment at the rumble of David’s voice in his ear, clearer even than in dreams. “Eat for me,” it said.

And Michael stalked forward without a thought. Thirsty. Hungry. He’d obey. He’d be good. Very very good.

And David would come back. It was a deal. Would whisper secrets.

“Michael,” he heard through the ecstasy singing in his veins. David’s voice, fond and amused. Michael licked rusty thick liquor from his lip and dropped the bum’s corpse to the ground. Wiped at his face drunkenly.

“Good boy,” David said, voice light and indulgent while what should have been fingers carded through Michael’s sweat-stiff hair. “Now, there’s only one. Last. Thing.”

And at that point, Michael would have done anything. Didn’t David know? Of course David knew.

But not tonight. Nothing more. Dawn was coming on fast and he was tired. So tired.

So all through the long bright day he made do with dreams. Safe in the dark of his night cathedral. In those dreams, David’s voice seemed fresh and almost alive. But David’s hands didn’t feel like hands at all. Felt like pressure points pressed into Michael’s flesh. Like a trick. And Michael slept restlessly, tangled in damp sheets.

The dead of the next night saw him standing dark-eyed and sweating and sick in front of what used to be his house. The shovel in his right hand he speared into the dirt and left to stand or fall as it pleased. The squirming trussed up punk with the long, bright mohawk and the chains on his jeans he let slip from his left shoulder and fall gracelessly to the ground.

David was here. Was under Michael’s feet.

Michael dropped to all fours. Ran reverent fingers through the damp grass. Lay his ear against the spring of it. Heard the slither of worms and stomping insect feet. Felt David Below. Kissed the ground.

“I’m coming,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

He stood. Jerked the shovel from the grip of the ground and brought it down hard over the young punk’s femur, snapping the bone and stopping that slow caterpillar slink toward freedom. Watched the kid writhe a moment, curious, ignoring the muffled cries and sobs. But he grew bored of the spectacle quickly.

He had work to do.

David was below.

Dig in the shovel. Scoop up the dirt. Dig the shovel. Scoop the dirt. Dig. Scoop. Dig. He didn’t tire. Didn’t ache. No blisters threatened on his hands. He could have dug the hole with those hands alone—had the strength to do it, he was sure.

The grave was empty of dirt in no time.

Soon he was scooping carefully away with cupped palms at the wet mud. David was so close and he couldn’t chance hurting him. Piercing him with the shovel blade like he’d done the kid still crying above. So young. So stupid.

Finally, a white face emerged under his careful ministrations. Pale lips that he kissed the dirt from.

“Sleeping beauty,” he whispered to himself, laughing at the thought.

Pale eyes opened. Took him in. Crinkled in amusement.

And Michael smiled back.

“Brought you something,” he said, staring, voice shaking in its excitement. He hopped clear of the grave easy as thought. Picked the punk up by the ropes that bound him and tossed him with one hand down to David.

They left him there after, filled the ground in over the body and what once was David’s grave was recycled, repurposed. Poor kid. Poor stupid kid.

Michael paid lip service to caring. Old habits die hard. But David was all he’d really cared about in a long time. A long time.

“Touch me?” he begged as they stood on the newly filled grave and David did. Held Michael by the jaw. Ran Michael’s lips with the textured warm pad of his thumb. And a shiver ran through Michael at the contact.

“You’re real,” Michael sighed. And his vision cleared as the tears finally fell. David was really there before him. Standing there pale and dirty, shrunken with hunger. Real.

“Grab a bite to eat with me, Michael?” David said, smiling, and Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from that mouth. “Whadda you say?”

David’s thumb traced Michael’s lips again and Michael kissed it. Trapped the fleshy pad of it between his teeth and bit down a little too hard. Lifted his eyes back to David’s and smiled around the flesh, releasing him, licking his teeth to savor the salt David’s skin had left behind there.

“Sounds like a date.”

The fat man and his wife—with the meager addition of somebody’s rail-thin elderly mother—had been enough to fill them properly. And the shower in the couple’s nice, air-conditioned house had been large and generous, the water warm. The soap slicked David’s hands as he finally finally touched Michael properly. Washed him clean of the lonely sticky need and of his embarrassment at it. At needing David. Being hungry for him.

It wasn’t strong enough soap to clean the guilt away, though. That had to come out the hard way.

“I’m sorry I killed you,” Michael whispered again, choking on that guilt as it slowly bled out of him. He spat it down the drain. Sick to death of the taste on his tongue.

“You didn’t kill me,” David said again, patient. But the next time the guilty words tried to escape he covered Michael’s mouth.

“How about we put those lips to better use, hmm?”

And Michael laughed. Sank to his knees. Glad to.

Then later, in the candlelit cave, sprawled in the same old bed with nice new sheets that smelled nothing like weeks of caked-on loneliness—more like lavender from the expensive detergent the fat man’s wife had favored—David’s fingers ran over Michael, leaving divots behind like Michael was made of soft, slick clay. They found him already needy and wanting. Shaped him into something new. Dipped inside him. Stretching. Filling. And only when those fingers left him did he feel empty at all. And David was quick to fill him again with his cock. And once he was fully inside Michael, so close they shared the same breath, mirroring movements, he slit open his own chest and let the blood drip free. Let Michael lap it up. Lick him clean till the skin knit. And the taste on Michael’s tongue made him think of dusty glass.

“My blood is in your veins,” David had said during that long ago fight, entreating.

And Michael replied, “So is mine.”

But he didn’t think it was true anymore. It was all David now. Inside.

David had laid claim on Michael a long time ago.

“You’re mine now,” David had said under the train tracks, so proud and trying so hard not to give too much away.

And the taste had been David’s blood in the bottle. Slipped in the mix and slipped over Michael’s tongue along with Max’s. Just a drop. Just enough to mean something.

Michael was David’s now.

David moved inside of him, skin fully on display now and pearly in the moonlight filtering down from above. And Michael captured David’s lips, hungry. And David was his now, too.

They were each other’s. They were all that was left.

Michael as lost as David. Both of them lost together.

“Michael?” he heard, his name called all wrong and waking him in the middle of the long bright day. “Michael are you here?”

He forced his gummed eyes to open. Craned his gaze around to look toward the dark quiet chamber where David spent his days. The sheet slipped over his face and for a moment he imagined he couldn’t smell lavender on it. Thought he caught a waft of loneliness returned.

“Michael, your family is worried about you. Please talk to me.”

He let the sheet fall. Star’s voice. Coming closer. A small dark hand parted the curtain shrouding the bed.

“Michael,” She said, eyes searching him, wide and sad. “Are you alright? You look—”

They both knew what he looked like.

“What do you want?” His voice was cracked. He cleared his throat.

“What do I want?” Her eyes filled with tears and she sat. “What do you want here, in this place, Michael? There’s nothing for you here.”

She was searching his face, gauging if her words were getting through.

“It’s over,” she finally whispered.

Her hand moved slowly to fall on his arm. Her thumb ran over the hairs there, raising goosebumps.

“Come home, Michael. Come home with me.”

“I—” He pulled his arm away. Looked to the quiet dark chamber. “I can’t. He—”

Star looked to the dark chamber too. Nodded. Sad smile catching new tears. She licked them up. Pushed them away with her palms.

“He’s never coming back, you know. He’s dead.”

Michael didn’t take his eyes away from the dark silence of that entrance. He licked his lips. Tasted blood. Nodded absently.

“Okay.”

And the way he said it should have told her all she needed to know. He didn’t look at her again. Ignored the tumble of his name out of her mouth, all wrong. Kept his eyes on the silent dark. Waiting.

And soon enough he was alone.

At least until dark came and he woke to sheets fresh with lavender. Until David emerged naked from the silent dark chamber and pulled Michael up out of bed, nipping at his neck.

“I’m starving,” David said, that secret-keeping smile trained on Michael. Those cold eyes flashing with excitement. “How do you feel about Chinese?”

And Michael smiled. Michael was hungry.

[boywizardscanbecute]

Saved By A Weasley

Hey guys, here’s a request from @its-not-a-peter-tingle, sorry it took so long I was having technical difficulties. Thank you so much for the request! This is my last week before I go back to school so send in your requests as they’re more likely to get done now! Thanks guys! :) 

Request: Could you do a Ron Weasley x reader? where the reader is Malfoy’s sister and at first hates Ron bc her brother does, but then they start liking each other? 

Word count: 2.6K 

WARNING: mentions of sexual assault and rape 

Summary: You’re Draco Malfoy’s younger sister. And all of Draco’s incessant nagging about how terrible Ron Weasley is got to you. Usually, you went along, but then something changed. 

    Yawning, you stretch your arms high above your head and slowly open your eyes. Before another second passes your mother shouts up to you, “Y/n! Get a move on! We’ve got to go get your school things today! Hurry up and come eat.” You sigh in fatigue and get up out of your bed. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a green Ireland Quidditch sweatshirt, you hastily brush your hair and braid it back, bustling down the stairs. 

    Five minutes later you’re pulling on your sneakers and swallowing your last bite of toast, headed for the fireplace. “Wait outside for me now dear,” your mother tells you. “Yes mum,” you sigh. Proclaiming the proper location, you travel by floo to Diagon Alley, followed by your brother Draco.

Waiting outside of the grate, you follow your mother into Flourish and Blotts. Who should you see when you walk in but none other than Ron Weasley himself. “Oh boy here we go,” your mother mutters under her breath, referring to the inevitable conflict that Ron and Malfoy will get into. “Maybe it won’t be so bad this time,” you offer the statement optimistically. Your mum raises her eyebrows at you, as if to say “Doubtful.” Sure enough Draco quickly picks a fight with Ron, knowing how hot headed he is. “Well well well Weasley, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be shopping in the second hand store across the street?” Draco sneers at Ron. Ron grows red in the face and huffs with anger. The youngest Weasley, Ginny, pipes up, “I wouldn’t poke the bear today Malfoy. Or you’ll have Ron beating you to a pulp.” You laugh and tell Draco, “It’s not worth it anyways, come on we’ve got books to get.” Draco follows after you and mumbles, “I don’t get why they don’t piss you off more.” You just laugh at your brother and say, “Come on Draco.” He groans and follows you through the store. 

After you get your school supplies, your mum departs for home with them, but you, and Draco decided to stay and shop some more. Blaise met up with you and the two boys insisted on going to Quality Quidditch Supplies. You went to follow, but your stomach growled in protest for a treat. “You guys go ahead, I’m gonna grab an ice cream. I’ll meet you back here.” The boys nod and with that you walk down the opposite side of the street, headed to the ice cream parlor. 

Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor was the last shop on Diagon alley before Knockturn Alley began. Approaching the door, you don’t even have the chance to scream as an unknown man covers your mouth with his hand, and drags you along the alleyway. Your muffled screams are easily silenced against the man’s palm. Biting down on his skin, you draw blood. He yanks his hand back in pain and you take this second to shout, “Help! Anybody please HELP!’ Your screams echoed against the brick, but it seemed like no one could hear you. The man looked at you in complete rage and shoved you hard against the brick wall. “You’ll pay for that sweetheart!” he grits his teeth at you. Yanking on your sweatshirt, he tears it as he attempts to undress you. Sobbing uncontrollably now, you closed your eyes and tried to imagine that you were somewhere else, anywhere else. The man tossed your sweatshirt aside and was yanking up your shirt when you heard a clambering of footsteps from somewhere further down the alley. “Stupefy!” a young voice bellows. The disgusting monster of a man is knocked away from you and you slide down the brick wall, sobbing into your knees. The footsteps grow closer and you draw into yourself, hoping to go unnoticed. But you don’t. The footsteps stop in front of you and you can feel someone’s eyes on you. Wiping your face, you look up and find yourself staring into the face of Ron Weasley. Only this time he didn’t wear a look of anger. No, instead he only looked concerned. 

Moments pass before Ron does anything. Then he falls to the pavement in front of you, kneeling before you. For a moment you thought you saw concern etched on his features. But you told yourself you had to be wrong. Ron’s voice comes out strangely hoarse as he asks, “Are you okay y/n?” You avoid his gaze and sniffle, “I’m fine. Really.” Ron sees right through you, and immediately places his hands on top of your own. “You’re not okay,” he states the obvious. Then, you break down. Between sobs you manage, “That man. He was trying to… to…. I can’t even say it. If you hadn’t gotten here, I can’t imagine what would have happened.” This time Ron really does look concerned this time. “Seriously Weasley… Ron, thank you,” you manage to compose yourself. A flash of anger crosses over his face as he says, “I should have done a lot worse. That guy is an animal. I should have killed him.” You bite back a gasp at this revelation. Silence falls over the two of you. Eventually, Ron slouches against the brick wall next to you. He notices the claw marks on your arm from that man tearing your sweatshirt off. “Here, let me help you with that,” he says softly. Resting your arm in his lap, he mutters, “Tergeo,” and closes the wounds. You bring your hand back in front of you and study the healed spots. “Thank you,” you say, suddenly shy. “Y/n, I am so sorry. You don’t have to right now, but eventually you’re going to need to talk about this. Please don’t hesitate to talk to me. I’ll be there for you,” he urges. You raise your eyebrows and ask, “Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?” Ron studies you intensely before replying, “Bloody hell y/n I couldn’t just let you get hurt. Besides, you’re much more tolerable than your brother. Sometimes I even forget you’re related. You’re always a pleasure to be around.” You blush in response. “You really mean that?” you whisper. Ron turns and studies you closely. Boldly, he wipes away a tear on your cheek, his fingers lingering on your skin. “Of course I mean it,” he answers. You stare into his eyes, and suddenly you feel like you misunderstood all of the rivalry between your two families.  And you wanted to stare at those eyes for a long time. You wanted to know what made him tick. But your thoughts are interrupted when footsteps come around the corner. 

Draco comes racing towards you. “What’s going on?” Draco shouts, his voice a mixture of anger and concern. He comes skidding to a stop in front of you and kneels down to look you in the eyes. “Y/n what happened?” he asks full of worry. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You choke on your words and look to Ron for help. He clears his throat and tells Draco, “Y/n was attacked by a man. He was trying to… assault her. I got there before he could hurt her.” Draco’s face is in shock. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. Not when it’s getting late like this. I’m so sorry sis,” Draco’s voice is flooded with emotion. You shrug, “It’s okay Draco. I’m just lucky Ron was there.” Your gaze travels to the ginger haired boy, and you look at him full of admiration. You’re floored when Draco speaks up and says, “Thank you. For saving my sister.” The compliment clearly made Ron uncomfortable. In an attempt to lighten the mood he responds, “No big deal. After all couldn’t leave my favorite Malfoy in trouble.” You smile at him and Draco raises his eyebrows at you as if to say, “What the hell is going on?” Draco pulls you to your feet and says, “Mum’s probably waiting for us. We should head home.” You nod. Turning back to Ron, you search for what to say. Whispering so that only he could hear, you tell him, “I think I will take you up on that offer to talk. When school starts. Thank you again. I just want you to know that I can never repay you for how you’ve saved me. See you in school.” Ron looks longingly at you like he wants to say something more. Instead all he says is, “See you in school.” 

On your way home, you practically beg Draco not to say anything to mum. Luckily, he agrees, albeit very reluctantly. The next days pass by quickly as you get ready to head back to school. But when the night comes, you’re helpless to stop the nightmares that play out in your head. Of what might have happened if Ron hadn’t been there. You could only imagine. And as your nightmares continued, all you wanted to do was to talk to Ron. 

At the start of term feast, you gaze longingly at the Gryffindor table. Every ounce of you wanted to stride over to Ron Weasley and talk with him. Tell him everything that you were going through since that one fateful day in Diagon Alley. Draco was far too consumed with talking with Blaise about the latest broom. It was only your friend Astoria, that notices. She hisses in your ear, “Y/n if you stare any harder at Weasley you’ll drill a hole in his head.” You shoot back at her, “Astoria, I need to talk to him, okay? He saved my life.” She nods knowingly. So as the feast finishes up, you excuse yourself and race off after the familiar ginger haired boy who made his way towards Gryffindor tower. 

“Ron wait up!” you call after him. He turned at the sound of your voice and flashes you a bright smile. “My favorite Malfoy, are you really that eager to see me?” he chuckles lightly. You smile sheepishly, “Maybe a little bit. I just, I was wondering if we could have that talk. I won’t lie it hasn’t been an easy time since the whole incident.” Ron’s smile falls from his face and he takes your hand and says, “Let’s talk. We can go for a stroll around the black lake.” “Okay,” your voice shakes in reply, as he doesn’t let your hand go and you walk out the front doors. 

The autumn wind whips against your face and you struggle not to shiver in the cold September night air. “So what’s been going on?” Ron’s voice comes out as soft as a feather, the words washing sweetly over you. You briefly meet his gaze and sigh, “I’ve been having nightmares. Every night since then. I can’t sleep. It haunts me. I just keep having these thoughts of what might have happened if you hadn’t turned up. I would have been a goner. And it’s not only that, it’s how you made sure I was okay. I just, I don’t know how I could ever repay you. I’ve just been struggling so much. Everywhere I go now I’m always looking over my shoulder, completely paranoid. I just, I don’t feel safe anymore. Well, most of the time.” Ron stops walking and gulps nervously, taking your other hand and looking deep into your eyes. “Well when do you feel safe?: he asks. You bite your lip and turn your head away from him. “What is it?” he implores you. You gush out the words, “I only feel safe when I’m with you. You protected me from a horrible fate.” Ron blushes and clears his throat, replying, “I’m glad that you feel safe with me. I want to keep you safe.” “You do?” you respond immediately. Ron’s face deeply reddens and he sighs, “Yes I do. I really do.” It’s your turn to blush. A brief pause and you continue strolling around the lake. Finally, you ask, “When you say I’m your favorite Malfoy, do you really mean that?” Ron laughs lightly, “Of course I do. You know I’ve grown quite fond of you.” He immediately raises a hand to his mouth, as if he’s admitted too much. His face says he’s embarrassed, but his eyes say he’s longing for more. Taking a deep breath, you tell him, “I care about you too Ron. I want to know you, I mean really know you. I mean you saved me, and you can try to fool me with the joking and the rivalry, but I know there’s more to you than meets the eye.” Coming to rest beneath your favorite (Ordinary) willow tree, you plant yourself down in the grass. Ron sits next to you, his legs brushing against your own. 

“Well, what do you want to know?” Ron searches your gaze. You sigh, “Let’s say, that maybe everything my brother has said about you is wrong. And maybe, I want to be friends with you. Is that even possible? Theoretically speaking of course.” Ron studies you closely, and in that moment he decides that he won’t conceal his heart any longer. Swallowing his pride and mustering up what little courage he had, he responds, “No it’s not possible.” Your face falls and you struggle to swallow the disappointment filling your chest. “I see,” you mumble. Ron realizes what you had interpreted and gushes, “It’s not possible because I don’t think I could ever be just friends with you. I’ve got feelings for you y/n. I have for a while. But seeing you in that…. Situation, it made me realize how much I care for you and want to protect you.” Your face lights up bright as a Christmas tree and you beam widely at the Weasley boy. “I’ve had feelings for you too,” you admit. Ron grins at you and laughs, “Your brother will never go for it.” You shrug, “I’m sure we can get him on board. Besides the rivalry, you saved my life. He owes you.” Ron smirks, “Oh alright then. So I take it we’re dating now?” You answer him with a playful smile of your own, “I suppose we are.” Ron tentatively wraps his arms around you and you lean into his chest, relishing in how safe and comfortable you feel. Looking up into his mesmerizing gaze, you find a new feeling in them. A familiarity. He gazes at you adoringly, all things unspoken in the look he gives you. “Can I kiss you now?” he breathes quietly. You softly smile, ‘I’d like that.” And when his lips meet your own, you feel as if everything falls into place. Your lips fit against his own perfectly, as if he was always the person you were meant to be with, as if he was designed to kiss you and only you. His lips tasted oh so sweet, like the most delicious dessert. When he finally pulls away, you beam up at him. “You’ll keep the nightmares away?” you ask unsure. Ron replies determinedly, “I’ll keep them away. From now on, I’ll protect you. I’ll always protect you.” Pecking a kiss to his cheek, you whisper, “Good. I certainly wouldn’t mind having you around more.” Ron laughs wholeheartedly, “Believe me, you’re going to have some real trouble getting rid of me from now on.” You laugh with him and kiss him in the moonlight, relishing in the hope and love that blooms in your chest. 

[lydisms]

only human | self para

word count: 2000 (it’s really long sorry)

summary: after being sent back to eichen house, the orderlies pick up where they left off with Lydia. only this time the experiments get rid of her powers completely instead of amplifying them and they work on different types of torture.

trigger warnings: torture, violence, mention of needles

When Lydia opened her eyes she recognized the familiar white walls immediately. She was sitting in the middle of a room at Eichen, her hands shackled to the arms of the chair. On the side of one wall by the door read “Supernatural Unit.” There were a group of orderlies in front of her smirking. Lydia didn’t remember much after being driven back to Eichen so she imagined they knocked her out at some point. “Welcome back, Lydia. You have no idea how long we’ve been waiting for this moment.” Actually, Lydia figured. She had fought quite a bit of them in that building and Lydia always knew they wanted revenge. She feared they were going to kill her immediately after hearing Charles and her dad were sending her there. “Thank God for your father and his friend. When we offered them money to have you committed here, they jumped at the opportunity. Do you want to know how much your life is worth? $200. How does it feel to have a father who hates you that much?” Lydia didn’t want to listen. She was doing her very best to focus on anything else and to drown out their voices. The banshee needed a plan to get out- that was her main concern. Not the fact that her father was willing to be paid off to get rid of her. “Of course none of us had any idea how fast it would happen. You made it easy for us, Lydia. You and that monster in this town.” There were five orderlies. Lydia had begun counting so she could distract herself from what they were saying. Five; she could easily knock them out. Then she’d just make a run for the exit. It couldn’t be that hard, right? “Now you’re back where you belong. No visitors this time and escaping isn’t possible. We have plans for you. It’s a shame your friend isn’t here, though. Maybe we should bring her in for old times sake too. Talia, right?” The mention of Talia was enough to get her attention, though. Lydia couldn’t help herself and she immediately spit in one of their faces when they got close enough. “You bring her here and I’ll kill you.” Lydia warned, but before she could say anything else one of the orderlies was slapping her in the face. That was it for Lydia. She wasn’t going to wait any longer and she immediately screamed in their direction. All five of them fell to the floor unconscious shortly after and the shackles on Lydia’s wrists were broken. She got out of the chair and made a run towards the door. Unfortunately for Lydia she was greeted by six more orderlies and a taser right outside the door. Lydia fell to the ground and before she could even try to scream again or fight back, one of them hit her in the back of the head and she remained unconscious.

Lydia groaned as she woke up once more. This time she wasn’t in a chair but she was laying down in a bed with the same familiar shackles on her hands and feet this time as well. Lydia pulled to try and break free on instinct but it was no use. Every part of her body was aching with pain and her vision was blurry. She blinked a few times to try and see clearly when she noticed blood on her pillow. Immediately Lydia brought her hand up to her head to see if that’s where the bleeding was coming from. There was a bump but thankfully not another hole drilled into her head. But that’s when Lydia noticed some marks on her arm as though a needle had been pricked into her skin. And she saw an orderly coming with another needle. Lydia immediately tried to scream to fight them off again, but the scream came out completely normal- there was no wailing, no sound vibrations, nothing. Lydia tried again and it was the same thing. In fact, her throat was starting to burn and feel like it was on fire. “W-what did you do?” Lydia mumbled, shaking her head at the orderly who was laughing. “Your powers are gone now. Good luck trying to fight your way out of here.” Lydia shook her head furiously again. “No.. you didn’t.. that’s not possible..” She was starting to become tired all of a sudden. Maybe she was hallucinating. There was no way they were able to take her powers away, right? Fear ran over her entire body as she tried to figure out what they did to her when she was knocked out and what kind of twisted experiments they must have tried on her. She was fighting to keep her eyes open but the room was spinning and suddenly Lydia was asleep again.

“Wake up.” Lydia heard someone yelling at her and she immediately flinched, only to be reminded that she was chained to a bed. Her wrists were starting to hurt and she wondered what they had been doing to her. Her body was in too much pain to have just been sleeping all this time. Lydia felt honestly sick to her stomach- even more so when she remembered that they somehow took her powers away. What was the point all of this? What did they want from Lydia? She was starting to wonder if their truly was no end goal here except to completely torture her. Maybe kill her, which was a lot easier now that she couldn’t defend herself with her abilities. “We’re going to take some trips down memory lane. Remind you of all the reasons you’re here. We’re doing Beacon Hills a favor by keeping you here. All you do is kill people.” He said in the cruelest tone of voice. Suddenly he was pressing play on an old recorder and Lydia heard the recording of her Grandma being murdered- the one she heard at Eichen a few years ago. Only this time, Lydia didn’t have Stiles with her to distract her from the tape. She couldn’t focus on the sound of his voice. God, she missed him so much.

The tape replayed for about an hour before Lydia began to beg them to stop. Though she might not have if she knew what was coming next. A needle was injected into her arm and the pain was unbearable. Lydia screamed until she couldn’t scream anymore, wondering what the hell they had injected into her. The second she stopped screaming, her eyelids were once again becoming heavy. Only when they closed she wasn’t asleep. No, she was seeing visions of the night her mother died. When that memory was over, it switched to Allison dying. Then Aiden, Nate, Ariel.. everyone Lydia loved who she ever had to watch die. The memories were being dragged out of her mind and playing on repeat. Lydia felt like she was in her own personal hell. Once in awhile the memories of death would stop and instead were replaced with some of her most traumatic moments. Finding out her sister had died, being killed by hunters, Jackson and the abuse he put her through, having a hole drilled into her skull, tormented by Peter, Charles, Death, the list went on. 

Everyday would be a mix of weird experiments on her followed by those worst memories being played on loop in her mind. To the point where Lydia couldn’t see anything else anymore. She was becoming so delirious that the memories were starting to become a bit twisted. There were moments where her mother was screaming at her that this was all her fault, or the same for Nate. Things that Lydia knew didn’t actually happen but she was so out of her mind that she couldn’t figure out what was real anymore. There was a sound of a drill repeatedly playing and Lydia didn’t even know if the orderlies were doing that to mess with her or it was her own mind.

She didn’t even know how long she had been in Eichen. It felt like an eternity when in reality it had only been five days. If breaking Lydia was the endgame here, they were pretty damn close. The only thing keeping Lydia going was the fact that she needed to get out of here to get back to Stiles. It was all she wanted, and it gave Lydia the strength to not completely give up. That’s why when one of the orderlies came in to change one of her bandages and they had to take her shackles off to do so, Lydia fought back immediately. They might’ve thought she was too weak to do so but it didn’t stop Lydia. She kicked him in the groin so that he fell to the ground and then Lydia grabbed the closest thing she could find- a walkie talkie- and hit him in the head with it so he was knocked out. She slowly peered out the hallway and the coast was clear so Lydia took off running; only to be met with ten orderlies at the end of the hallway.

Lydia could see a couple possible outcomes. Either she went willingly back into her room at Eichen and continued this torture for who knew how long. Or she could fight back- which she knew would either end with her reuniting with Stiles and her friends, or her dying. It was a risk she was willing to take. There was no way in hell Lydia was going down that easily. She took a deep breath and charged at them. Maybe they took her powers away but she could still fight, and she would do so until she physically couldn’t anymore. Only problem was they had actual weapons. Guns, tasers, knives, you name it. Lydia was doing her best to fight back and she knocked a couple of them out but eventually they managed to get her on the ground again. One held a gun up to her head and another shook his head. “No.” He said before kicking Lydia in the stomach. “Let’s have some fun with her first.” And then the punching, the kicks, even a few knife cuts and everything else came. Lydia didn’t know how long it lasted but she could barely move afterwards. She knew eventually she was going to die on this floor if she didn’t do something soon and that was not an option. Lydia knew she was not a weak person. They could take her powers but those abilities did not define her. With whatever strength Lydia had buried deep inside of her, she was able to reach forward and grab a gun that was tied to someone’s boot. She couldn’t see through her swollen eye and the blood that was on her face but she was able to shoot him in the leg. After that, it might’ve been a mix of adrenaline and the overwhelming desire to make it out of this alive, but Lydia stood up. Her leg might’ve been broken at this point so it was a miracle but she ultimately lifted herself off the ground. Lydia wasn’t going to die here. She wanted to get home to Stiles, to see her friends again. She had to. It was enough to give her the energy to fight these guys. Ten guys and Lydia took them all out with no powers. And after that she headed for the exit and didn’t look back.

The strawberry blonde practically crawled out of the Eichen doors. Once she was free and the adrenaline wore off, Lydia was hit with the pain again. She could hardly breathe and she knew multiple bones were broken. She just needed to get home.. but- she couldn't make it. Lydia tried and tried with every ounce of her being but she only made it about .1 miles from Eichen before she collapsed on the side of the road, leaving a trail of blood behind her. 

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG151 /o/

- And Peter’s “friend” was, in the end, Simon Fairchild:

(MAG144) PETER: I’m absolutely delighted with your progress, and I feel you’ve earned some straight answers. MARTIN: But not from you. PETER: Oh, no. That sort of conversation makes me very uncomfortable. No, I’m owed a favour by a friend of mine. I’ve asked him to stop by, when he’s back in the country.

(MAG151) SIMON: Peter asked me to look in on you and… have a small chat. Well! A big chat, really. Answer all those… nagging questions. […] I lost a bet, and this is how the good captain chooses to use that. The second is… sort of?

Simon himself pointed out the compatibility between The Lonely and The Vast, but the Lukases had also collaborated with the Fairchilds on the Daedalus project (together with the Church of the Divine Host, although they were mostly invited into that project by Rayner to cough up the funding, according to Manuela). And Peter was indeed “owed a favour” because said friend had lost another bet. (So, amongst the gambling club, we got Salesa > Peter > Simon, so far. … Given how Peter had apparently betted on MAG066’s statement-giver’s death with Salesa, I’m… not sure I want to know what Simon and Peter had betted about, for Peter to win.)

Jon had kinda jinxed us that we would meet Simon this season, but Jon also avoided the Worst Of It:

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: Simon Fairchild is one of the… recurrent figures that I think disquiets me the most. Not simply for what he does, the endless spaces of highs or depths to which he’s so quick to condemn his victims, but… the joy he seems to take in doing so. And I don’t think there is much to this tale beyond that: an evil man tormenting and killing simply for his own pleasure, and to feed the power that sustains him. […] I do not think I ever wish to meet him.

Congrats, Jon, you managed to not meet him although he came to the Institute! /o/ Staying holed up in the Archives has its perks. (… Especially considering how Jon had lost it in front of Breekon, I’m… not sure that he wouldn’t have thrown a fit in front of Simon. I mean. If Martin lost his cool so easily despite knowing how dangerous Simon is, Jon would have been a living nightmare about that guy.)

“Simon Fairchild” had been linked with a few “firsts” in the history of the series. He was one of Jon’s first cases at the Institute; he was in the first Vast statement we heard in the series, which had… been interrupted by Martin himself, as Martin was just returning from Prentiss’s entrapment and would give his statement in the very next episode:

(MAG051) ARCHIVIST: […] One of my first cases as a researcher for the Institute in 2012 was looking into the history of a jeweller in Hackney, that had reported cases becoming cracked in the night. Nothing was ever taken but, each morning it would be like a heavy weight had been dropped upon them. Looking into it, it turned out that the jewels had, in the 1930s, belonged to a con artist and fence, who had attracted the displeasure of the local population. When one particularly irate customer threw him out of a fourth-floor window into a crowded street at midday… no one claimed to have seen anything. A minor possible haunting with a decidedly pedestrian backstory, but notable because while I was never able to discover the original name of the con artist, one of his many, many aliases was Simon Fairchild, and it appeared on several business listings around the time. Whether it’s a coincidence or not is something of a moot point at this stage, however.

(MAG021) ARCHIVIST: […] It might just be a coincidence, but I recall the name “Simon Fairchild” was one of the ones used by– [DOOR OPENS, CHAIR TUMBLES] My god! Martin?! [SOMETHING SQUELCHES] What… What the hell is–? What are these things?! [CLICK.]

MAG124, “Left Hanging”, which featured Simon in the statement, also marked the first time that Jon had tried to interact with Martin since he had awakened from his ~coma~. So: it feels like “Simon” had been around for a while, surrounding important events but always escaping us a bit, before, finally, we met him in (what’s left of) the flesh.

- We had heard the name “Fairchild” since MAG021, and Gerry had mentioned that it wasn’t actually a family (MAG111: “Well, Fairchild’s just a name, they’re not really family.”) but we had heard of them as being… a clan of some sort (MAG089, Jude Perry: “Hangs around with the Fairchilds sometimes.”):

(MAG051) ARCHIVIST: […] A cursory bit of research reveals the Fairchilds in question to be an exceptionally wealthy family, based down in Cornwall. No real business to speak of, but it appears they’ve invested very wisely in aerospace technology, shipping logistics and underwater drilling and construction. Whatever their origin, I feel it’s worth keeping an eye on them.

… and turns out that HAHA:

(MAG151) SIMON: I’ve been “Simon Fairchild” about, um… eighty or ninety years, maybe? For business purposes, mainly – by which I mean I was bored of not being wealthy, so I made some arrangements and sent Mr. Fairchild on a very long fall. I could go into details, but without a certain amount of knowledge of 1930s tax practices, it wouldn’t mean very much to you.

It’s… not even a stolen name, it’s a stolen alias. And they all developed around it / kept Simon’s alias as a sign of respect / just used it for tax fraud and get rich, all along.

- Simon was a BLAST, rambly, jumpy, losing his breath here and there, living his best life of being terrible (only caring about the people he had traumatised/deprived of their closed ones when it came to introduce himself, casually threatening Martin, absolutely chill about the idea that yes, people are suffering and are meant to suffer or to disappear) – I’m especially fond of that moment:

(MAG151) SIMON: And honestly, the idea that this is all some… “grand cosmic joke”, thousands of us running around spreading horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible, unknowable things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we cause… [INHALE] I find that interpretation quite appealing…!

He just spat the whole sentence at full velocity, and we could hear the lack of oxygen towards the end, it was great and fitting for an avatar of The Vast! And he was an utter troll, to the point that Martin actually tried to threaten him?

(MAG151) SIMON: Peter said you’d have a lot of questions about that one. MARTIN: I do. [PAUSE] How are new powers born? SIMON: Hm… don’t know! MARTIN: How soon could it attempt its ritual? SIMON: No clue! MARTIN: How do we stop it? SIMON: Can’t help you! MARTIN: [THROUGH GRITTED TEETH] Could you, at least, try? SIMON: [FRANTIC] … No–no–no–no, you’re right, of course!

… TWICE:

(MAG151) MARTIN: I don’t see your point. SIMON: [INHALE] My point is… [PAUSE] … You know? I’ve quite forgotten! MARTIN: [EXASPERATED SIGH] SIMON: [PANICKED SOUNDS] I’ve just not been doing much recently, it’s not a good time for perspective, you see.

Martin meeting what is for us the oldest avatar around (… at least officially; what is Elias, etc.), even older than Rayner, somehow translated to “Martin on the verge of beating an old man, twice”. S2!Martin was bringing you tea; S4!Martin is done with each and every one of you and has gained so many levels in bossy from having to deal with Peter for excruciating months:

(MAG151) SIMON: [CHUCKLING] And this has been fun! [INHALE] Now. [CHAIR SCRAPING] If we’re about done– MARTIN: We’re not. Sit back down. SIMON: Boooold~ [CHUCKLE] [CHAIR SCRAPING] I like it.

(redusijnferd why did you sound so flirty, you pink skeleton of a man. Get in the queue to get a Power Claim on the boy.)

- We could perfectly feel that Simon was older than your regular avatar (if he worked under Tintoretto, it means he was born in the 16th century) through his way of looking at the Fears, the sheer… chillness? with the prospect of everyone dying/disappearing, but also more personally, in the portrait he was painting of Peter:

(MAG151) SIMON: Yes, well! You have to understand how it is with Peter. He finds talking to people directly very difficult, especially explaining the more, hum… esoteric side of things? MARTIN: Mm. SIMON: Charming chap, I’m sure you’ll agree, absolutely lovely, but… even if you can convince him to actually give you a straight answer, he’s just not that good at actually putting these things into words. Something to do with his upbringing, I think. [CONSPIRATORIALLY] I’m pretty sure he was home-schooled, you know! […] He is what he is, Martin. For a creature of The Lonely, the urge is always to isolate; never to communicate or connect. I suspect that’s why he’s so keen on wagers: it allows him a framework for cooperation that doesn’t risk any sort of intimacy.

… Simon was describing this awkward, kinda sweet guy who is trying his best to save the world but has a few disabilities and tries to manoeuvre around it. Meanwhile: we witnessed live Peter Lukas sending Brian Finlinson to The Lonely in MAG100 apparently Just Because He Could, and he whooshed two researchers who were only ignoring his directives while Jon was still unresponsive, and there is the whole Tundra deal; he also began to ramble in front of Martin about how he would have gone for Gertrude’s throat… I’m glad that Martin didn’t fall for it and was rightfully unimpressed (he also told Basira that Peter was “awful” right after). But it was telling that Simon would present Peter as this uwu sweet child uwu, when… really, absolutely nope.

(About the “home-school” bit: and how many Lukases children are “raised” in Moorland House, right now…?)

Simon was also… absolutely unsurprised by Little Institute Things:

(MAG151) SIMON: Ouuh! Hello? [CHAIR SCRAPING] Hmm~ […] Hm! No wonder I’m so sympathetic to The Lonely. You know: this really is a place for self-discovery, isn’t it? [CHUCKLE] “Statement ends”, I suppose! MARTIN: Uh… I’m sorry? SIMON: Oh! Nothing, just my own hubris. I should have known. When I came here, I said to myself: “Simon,” I said, “you’re going to answer this young man’s questions, but you’re not going to give The Watcher a statement. You’re better than that.” But it’s a hard one to resist, isn’t it? You get in the flow of talking about yourself, and it all just… tumbles out. MARTIN: Mm, does seem like it. SIMON: [CHUCKLING] And this has been fun!

(Oliver had also described Jon’s effect: “Be easier if you could talk back, right? Ask me questions and just have it tumble all out.” (MAG121)) Simon greeted the tape recorder (?), and knew about the “Statement ends” phrasing, and that one is… noteworthy, since it’s Jon’s trademark (later copied by Martin). Gertrude wasn’t using it, she immediately announced her “Final comments” after her readings - how did Simon know about Jon&Martin’s formulaic “Statement ends”? Did Peter describe it to him? (… Or Elias?)

- That episode was indeed a MAG111.2 (30th episode of season 3 / season 4!) – except it wasn’t Jon receiving the information, but Martin, and it was… less about categories and repartitions, more about how the Fears tend to operate in their irregularities. We didn’t even learn a lot about structures or terminology; technically, we… didn’t learn a lot, but mostly got a few confirmations for things that had been there for a while, although not fully assimilated, through an ~exterior~ point of view? The biggest information was probably that not all avatars are as afraid of The Extinction as Peter is:

(MAG151) SIMON: I’ve actually been toying with the idea of trying to do something with the scale of humanity itself; you know, emphasise all that “overpopulation” nonsense, but… honestly, it just… doesn’t ring true for me. We’re all just so tiny and pointless, you see; it’s hard to really get past it. Also, I worry it might be straying into territory that emboldens our potential new rival. MARTIN: … The Extinction. […] You don’t sound worried. SIMON: That’s because we disagree on exactly how bad it will be. Peter seems convinced that The Extinction is different. That its actual birth will be as bad or worse as another power fully manifesting. He believes its advent will be heralded by all sorts of disasters and catastrophes, and global upheavals, and whatnot. That kind of things. MARTIN: Sounds like a rich feeding ground. SIMON: Well, exactly! Peter, however, seems to think that it will upset the balance that we all have an awful lot invested in. And he’s not at all certain the world as we understand will come out the other side. MARTIN: And let me guess – you think he can’t see the “big picture”? […] You don’t think it will be the end of the world? SIMON: Oh! It very well might be, but… MARTIN: [EXPLOSIVE EXHALE] SIMON: Life has continued through dozens of apocalypses already. Ice ages; pandemics; calamities; extinctions… The only reason this one feels special is because, well… it’s happening to you. And that’s the sort of solipsism that tends to come with loneliness – in my experience. So. My feeling is that I’ll help out where I can; but ultimately, if this “Armageddon” comes off, then… so be it. Either billions suffer and life goes on; or billions suffer and life doesn’t. In the grand scheme of things, it’s all… much of a muchness.

(… That depiction of avatars as finance workers basically sharing the cake and eyeing cautiously the newcomer, not because of the positive or negative outcomes it could bring on clients/victims, but because it could steal some parts of their market…)

And it indeed fits: the one who had been doing all these researches about the new emergence is Adelard Dekker who, as far as we know, is human, and had explained in MAG113 how his own biggest fear had once been to die without realising it, such as in his sleep. It might have coloured how he researched and described The Extinction, how devastatingly annihilating he perceived it? And Peter has essentially based his own investigations on Adelard’s research, while Simon… tends to regard it as just another Fear – it’s bad, but then, they’re all bad and relying on people’s suffering (and coloured by his affiliation to The Vast – even if it’s worse than the others and supplants the other Fears, the universe will still be there, with or without humans).

So, at this point, it’s… possible that no, Peter and Martin won’t manage to stop The Extinction from being born, because it has already grown enough? But it doesn’t mean, either, that it would throw off the balance of the Fears game so much. However… it would probably be shattering for Martin, if his sacrificing his life for the Greater Good for almost a full year, not indulging in things he loved anymore (he stopped writing poetry, he turned away from Jon and contributed to his isolation, making him more susceptible to use his Powers thus going further into Beholding/monsterhood and increasing his victims count)… doesn’t lead to an achievement of any sort.

- In season 4’s own flavour: Simon also pursued the idea that nobody and nothing is exactly in control, that there is no Grand Scheme – but mostly things happening, an unidentified and anonymous system going around, in the frame of which avatars&monsters operate (and as Jon had put it in MAG145, run by the idea that “we’re all just… ‘groping about’. Trying desperately to find out what we’re actually meant to be doing.”). The Lightless Flame and The Dark respectively created Agnes and the Dark Sun mostly by believing strongly in their aims; and, overall, rituals are indeed attempts at putting a dream, a feeling into shape, and these translations are faillible on their own (if Jon&co hadn’t gone to The Unknowing, would it have stopped on its own…? Did Tim actually sacrifice himself stopping something that wouldn’t have worked anyway…?). Annabelle claimed to have a limited influence, and to not be aware of any greater plan from The Web. Elias (as much as we can trust what he wants to convey) is limited, erratic, and fallible – admitted that he had “overreacted” when he had killed Leitner, didn’t pay attention to the assistants’ plan to arrest him, claimed that he hadn’t seen that The Dark’s side had been too heavily damaged to even attempt a ritual. Martin got told that Peter in himself wasn’t such a big deal; that his promise to protect the Institute against unknown threats… had been mostly a smokescreen because he really wanted/needed Martin to work with him:

(MAG134) PETER: Martin, this is what we agreed. After The Flesh attacked, you came to me. MARTIN: [SIGH] PETER: And I’ve held up my end of the bargain, despite your continued hesitation. Your friends have been largely untroubled by the many – many – enemies that they have made. MARTIN: What about the delivery guy? Breekon. And the coffin?

(MAG151) MARTIN: How honest has he been with me? SIMON: About which part? MARTIN: Protecting the others. SIMON: I think he tried. I suspect he may have slightly exaggerated his abilities when you first made the deal, but he certainly expended a reasonable amount of influence and resources to follow through. MARTIN: But… [EXPLOSIVE SIGH] But that was never the endgame, was it? He just wanted me on side long enough to rope me into his… his plans for The Extinction. SIMON: Do you really need me to answer that one? […] I think… [INHALE] I think Peter is taking a rather large, but calculated gamble. Not just on you, but on a lot of things. If it works, he’ll be in a very strong position. And if he fails… it won’t be all that bad.

We had indeed never seen Peter actually doing anything regarding that “protection” bit: he found excuses for his inaction when Breekon breached in (Jon had been quicker), and blamed Jon’s decisions to get involved with spooks (back then, the coffin; and Martin had been unaware about the Svalbard trip until Daisy told him). Nothing about the spiders, either. And now: confirmation that Peter was actually useless but wanted to Sound Impressive to get Martin. It doesn’t mean that he can’t be damaging (Elias was absolutely awful on a one-on-one basis) but it paints him in a less threatening/all-controlling light, too.

(- Is Peter annoyed by analogies

(MAG151) SIMON: Alright. Let’s… try one of those analogies Peter finds so annoying.

… because they’re a way to connect and create links between what are essentially different ideas. That sounds like the nerdiest Lonely thing. (You want to kill a Lukas? Talk in *gasp* metaphors.))

- I loved how Martin wasn’t letting it go? Was pressing and cornering to get his answers? And was, at the same time, kinda poetic / very… sensible, in his approach?

(MAG151) MARTIN: It doesn’t scare you? SIMON: Martin. Taken on a cosmic scale, we’ve never even been alive…! Not in any way that might register, I mean, if this… dreadful little planet had a fractionally different orbit, and life had never even started here, then… ultimately, nothing of any real importance would have changed. [SILENCE] MARTIN: [POINTEDLY] I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever. SIMON: … What a Lonely way to look at things. Which makes sense, I suppose. […] MARTIN: And… and how did you get started with it all? Did you, did you, [SARCASTIC CHUCKLE] did you just look up at the sky one day, and fall head over heels in love?

1°) Of course, Martin would (even snarkily) describe the process of getting involved with a Fear as ~falling in love~.

2°) I… don’t have much to say about Simon and Martin’s opposition, but I like them both? I like how they’re both extremely valid, indeed, depending on the scale? (And it kind of resonates with Gertrude’s way of dealing with the Fears: she seemed to favour the “big picture” in her own way, sacrificing people if it means saving the world, multiple times; but every person she decided to sacrifice without their consent, or saw as a casualty to attain her goal… had value, too?)

- Interestingly, Martin still spontaneously identified the Distortion as “Michael” – not “Helen”?

(MAG151) MARTIN: Things like Mi– Hum, th– er, the Distortion. I thought they were part of the Entities themselves, ext– extensions. Surely, they know what’s going on? SIMON: Honestly, I think they have it a lot worse than we do. Imagine being a hand that can conceive of itself, having impulses shot through you, being moved and clenched by some unseen mind – but never knowing the reasoning behind your own actions, or even if you’re just some thoughtless reflex. Eww! Sounds horrid.

It sounds like Martin might have listened to the tape between Leitner and Jon, or that Jon kept them updated on that specific bit?

(MAG080) LEITNER: The books are, I think, their essences in a purer form. The other things that stalk us, from what I know of them, they have varying wills of their own. All in service of the thing they’re a part of, but not directly controlled by the mind beneath them. At least, inasmuch as these entities have something we could recognise as a mind. ARCHIVIST: Like a… a, a muscle, spasming on reflex? LEITNER: Yes, that’s actually rather good. ARCHIVIST: It would explain Michael’s identity issues. LEITNER: “Michael”? Oh… that, that’s what the Distortion calls itself these days, isn’t it?

(So… were Breekon&Hope in that category, too? And ;; it really doesn’t bode well regarding Helen’s looming presence around the Archives…)

- ………… I’m glad that Martin immediately thought about the Daedalus when it was about The Vast’s ritual attempt, and:

(MAG151) SIMON: … Do you know when the last ritual I attempted was? MARTIN: I… I don’t know, that space station? SIMON: Oh goodness no, that’s the future my boy! […] I’ve just not been doing much recently, it’s not a good time for perspective, you see. The world all feels too small, these days. I used to do a lot with religion, but it’s just not got the same conceptual scope that it used to. Honestly, I’m pinning most of my long-term hopes on space – but that’s at least a hundred years away.

Simon having Thoughts about the next one was mildly terrifying and atrociously funny: going “that’s the FUTURE” over your next planned apocalypse is…

- Updated list of rituals that aren’t a cause of concern (anymore):

* The Hunt: “The Everchase”, ongoing for at least the past two centuries, aggregating Hunters in America. Doesn’t have a culmination, revelling in the pursuit. (MAG133)

* The Vast: “The Awful Deep”, in 1853. Didn’t really work, and stopped by a Hunter. Simon Fairchild is banking on space for the next attempt. (MAG151)

* The Slaughter: “The Risen War”, should have happened centred around the Nemesis in late 1942, in the Pacific Ocean. It failed due to not meeting all the requirements – probably had a bomb planned that never came. Gertrude finally got confirmation in October 2014 that she didn’t need to worry about it; she threw out wild guesses that The Lonely or The Web could have been responsible for thwarting it. (MAG137)

* The Desolation: “The Scoured Earth”, relying on Agnes Montague, who was neutralised in the 70s when The Web tied her to Gertrude, and the chance got definitely destroyed in 2006 when Agnes began dating Jack Barnabas. Could take only a few decades before they get enough power again – or Agnes lied, and she successfully crashed their chance for this round herself. (MAG139, MAG145)

* The Buried: “The Sunken Sky”, 17th June 2008, in Bucoda, Washington (USA). Stopped by Gertrude by throwing pieces of Jan Kilbride’s Vast-touched body into the pit. (MAG097, MAG129)

* The Flesh: “The Last Feast”, October 2009, under an old Gnostic temple near Istanbul (Turkey). Stopped by Gertrude and Adelard Dekker thanks to a bunch of explosives. (MAG130)

* The Spiral: “The Great Twisting”, somewhere between October 2009 and 2011 (since Leitner told Jon that Gertrude has lost her last assistant “six years ago” in February 2017), in Sannikov Land, which does not exist somewhere in the Arctic. Stopped by Gertrude by sending Michael Shelley with a map inside of The Distortion, to fuse with it. (MAG101, MAG126)

* The Lonely: no name given, but a probable Story coming about that one. Gertrude took care of it, Peter is still cross about it. (MAG134, MAG151)

* The Dark: “The Extinguished Sun”, around the time a full solar eclipse was happening in Ny-Ålesund on 20th March 2015, three centuries after Edmond Halley was possessed by Dark water after Halley’s eclipse (which may have been a planned ritual attempt in itself). Didn’t work for unidentified reasons, might have been linked to Gertrude’s death or lack of faith, or not. (MAG025, MAG140, MAG143)

* The Stranger: “The Unknowing”, 7th August 2017, at the House of Wax in Great Yarmouth (UK). Gertrude had prepared the thwarting with Adelard’s help, stocking plastic explosives and understanding that it would take someone touched by Beholding in the middle of it, had thought of Gerry for that role though wasn’t sure he could pull it off (MAG137). The ritual was effectively stopped by Basira, Daisy, Tim and Jon using that plastic explosive (MAG118, MAG119): with a Beholding-touched person pulling the trigger in the middle of it – Tim. Previous attempt was in October 1787, at the Court Theatre of Buda, Hungary, and was interrupted by an agent of The Slaughter. (MAG116)

* The End: according to Peter, neither wants nor needs a ritual (MAG134: “it knows that it gets everything eventually, so why bother. The End manifesting would not be a new world of terror; it would be a lifeless world. Devoid of everything.”)

* The Web: according to Peter, has never tried to manifest or to get a ritual – though he didn’t sound absolutely sure about Her motives (MAG134: “The Web, I’ve never really been sure about: if I were to guess, I would say it actually prefers the world as is, playing everyone against each other, and so on.”)

We’re still lacking data about:

* ~The Corruption~, which is the Unloved Fear of this season. Gertrude’s laptop revealed that she had bought large amounts of pesticide (MAG066: “There’s also the matter of the products she was ordering. There were several online orders of petrol, lighter fluid, pesticides, and high-powered torches. They are sporadic, but notable, in that she did not drive, smoke or work in pest control.”) and there might have been something attempted during the Prentiss siege against the Magnus Institute on 29th July, 2016, with some of the worms forming a “ring” in the tunnels (MAG041: “Then I found the circle of worms. […] a few were still embedded in the wall providing the clear outline of a circle. The ceiling was higher here, and all told it must have been about… ten feet in diameter. Its size was not the most disconcerting thing though. Inside the circle, the stone was… wrong somehow.”)

* The Eye: “The Rite of the Watcher’s Crown”. According to Gerry Keay, it was the next one on Gertrude’s list together with “The Unknowing”, and she had already devised a plan to stop it (MAG111: “She didn’t tell me much about that one, just that she knew how to take care of it”), which might have involved reducing the Archives to ashes (MAG080: “I assume [Elias] discovered we were planning to destroy the Archives.”, “Planning a little light arson, are we Jurgen?” / MAG092: “So. For the avoidance of any doubt. I killed Gertrude Robinson because she intended to destroy the Archives.”). Robert Smirke feared that Jonah Magnus was trying to launch it in 1867 (MAG138). Might “have” to happen in 2018, as Jon noticed the two-hundred years anniversary of the Institute’s founding (MAG127) and is experiencing a feeling of urgency (MAG137: “I feel like I’m on a deadline, like I’m running out of time somehow”).

* + The Extinction’s own birth: incoming.

(… Now that I’m thinking again about it: if it turns out that Jonah had indeed tried to launch The Watcher’s Crown under the counter, and that Gertrude didn’t know about it, and that The Eye lost its chance 150 years ago…)

- With the casual reminder that Peter is originally a captain (MAG151, Simon: “The answer to the first is simple: I lost a bet, and this is how the good captain chooses to use that.”), a dimension which has been entirely absent throughout season 4 (Peter had made nautical puns in MAG120, though), and the mention that he was probably “home-schooled”, it feels like a Lukas statement could be (finally!) coming? We also got another confirmation that The Lonely has had its chance this round, and that it had been dealt with:

(MAG134) PETER: Martin… it’s going to be decades, if not centuries, before I get another chance to bring Forsaken into this world. Your last Archivist saw to that. Honestly, if Elias hadn’t killed that woman, I’d have been very tempted. I warned him she was a danger– MARTIN: Peter! PETER: –but he’s always– MARTIN: Peter. PETER: … Anyway. The point is that, yes, obviously, if I last that long, I’m going to try again. But I’m… rather keen for the world not to end, in the meantime?

(MAG151) MARTIN: Is Peter attempting a ritual? SIMON: Not in the sense that you’re used to. Him and his family made their play a few years ago and they failed. I’m sure he’d like me to explain it, but I think he can do that one himself.

So there is definitely a story behind this, and we might get lucky enough to get it directly from Peter’s mouth. Either with Peter telling Martin (on Martin’s request, as a guarantee?), either because Jon, starved and holding a Martin-shaped grudge, will jump at his throat and rip it out of him.

(- The “Great Twisting” happened after October 2009 and Peter had brought Gertrude and Michael Shelley there… so was that before or after Gertrude had crashed their ritual?

Probably before, but. Consider the following: Peter having lost a bet to Elias or to GERTRUDE HERSELF, and consequently being forced to escort Gertrude&Michael with the promise not to throw them overboard or to feed them to The Lonely. Would have been a lovely ride.)

- I’m specifically hysterical over the way Simon described how his last ritual attempt went:

(MAG151) SIMON: It’s all a matter of perspective, you see. My patron has gifted me with… quite frankly, an absurdly long life. An appropriate gift, and one that serves to provide a certain distance from things. Of course, a paltry few centuries is nothing, really, but it’s more than most get. And even in that brief time, I’ve seen all sorts of ebbs and flows to balance off things. … Do you know when the last ritual I attempted was? MARTIN: I… I don’t know, that space station? SIMON: Oh goodness no, that’s the future my boy! But no; it was 1853! The height of the aquarium mania! All over the Empire, people were starting to understand the depths of the terrible unknown below the ocean. And I thought that was a rich vein to be tapped. Even bothered old [Aullier?] into helping me design a special diving bell for the ritual. I called it “The Awful Deep” – and between you and me, I was rather proud of myself. MARTIN: … So why didn’t it work? SIMON: Because it… wasn’t a very good idea…? The Fear wasn’t out there, not like I hoped it was. It all sort of… fizzled. Also, a Hunter broke in and destroyed the mechanism, sent me and all my sacrifices plummeting to the bottom of the ocean.

(I still haven’t managed to catch the name of whoever helped him design the diving bell, but I discovered in the process of searching for it that Edmond Halley historically designed one, which, SCREAMS. But it didn’t sound like the way they have been pronouncing “Halley” until now so, relief.) (Welp no, apparently, it’s a possible pronunciation for “Halley”, so it was him. No wonder that the Fairchilds were invited to cough money for the space station, then, if they had already collaborated in the past.)

He sounds so excited over his failure, and just casually mentioned in passing how yeah, it still killed off a lot of people in the process. (… and it presumably ruined the chance of everyone feeling Vast-affiliated to get off their own ritual for a few centuries? And just because he got his fancy idea and ran with it? HE WAS SO PROUD OF “THE AWFUL DEEP” AND IT WAS SO UNINSPIRED, SIMON PLEASE……………)

- So, with the description of the failed ritual… What was “The Maria Fairchild”, wrecked off the coast of Nova Scotia?

(MAG051, Antonia Hayley) “The old man, Simon Fairchild, had come to us claiming that he had pinpointed the location he believed his great-grandfather’s sailing yacht had been sunk almost a hundred-and-twenty years ago, and he was keen to retrieve any heirlooms or curios he could from it. The only thing interesting or… unusual about his story, was the amount of money he was willing to throw around to back it up.”

1°) 120 years ago meant, at the time of the statement, around 1890s, which is not the aforementioned 1853.

2°) Simon hadn’t yet stolen the identity of “Simon Fairchild” in the 19th century, so the boat welcoming the ritual… couldn’t have been called “Fairchild” unless coincidence?

So, was it the boat from the ritual attempt but Jonny mixed up dates? Or, given that it’s Simon and, as far as I recall, no one else has mentioned the existence of “The Maria Fairchild” existence outside of him (no mention of whether the captain had corroborated Simon’s information, Jon hadn’t tried to fact-check because those events took place in Canada), did Simon just… bullshit that whole backstory in MAG051, just because he wanted new sacrifices and/or recruits and any boat would have done the trick? [Edit: the boat was named “Maria Fairchild” in MAG051, though, they read the plaque before diving.]

- Clock in the background during this episode, so… was it in Elias’s office? We had heard the clock in MAG067, MAG092, MAG102, MAG116, MAG120 (and for the last four, it was implied to indeed take place in Elias’s personal workplace); given how it was heard in MAG126 and MAG142, I had been assuming that Martin was in Elias’s old office, though it wasn’t the case in MAG134 and MAG144 (and MAG149… may have been the Archives’ other office?).

… so, if That Clock indeed means Elias’s office. Does it mean that I’m hearing everything right and have the correct assumptions for what these sounds mean:

(MAG151) [CLICK–] [CONSTANT CLOCK TICKING IN THE BACKGROUND] [FOOTSTEPS ECHOING IN THE BACKGROUND, COMING CLOSER] [CONSTANT STATIC BEGINS] SIMON: Ouuh! Hello? [CHAIR SCRAPING] Hmm~ [RUFFLING OF CLOTHES] Hm–mh! [CHAIR SCRAPING] [SELF-SATISFIED CHUCKLE] [DRAWERS OPENED?] [MORE CHUCKLING] MARTIN: [FAR] Ah! Uh, excuse me sir, you– [IN THE ROOM] Uh, sorry, you can’t actually be here… SIMON: Oh, not to worry! I seem to be doing alright so far. [PAPER SOUNDS] MARTIN: No, I– I mean, this area is actually off-limits to the public, so– SIMON: And quite~ right~ too~! Goodness! The things they could learn here…! Turn your hair white, eh? [CHUCKLE] Best to keep them out, I say! [TURNING A PAGE, HUMMING]

Was Simon just rummaging into Elias’s desk and looking through files like that, because sIMON AHAHAHAHAH.

- Aaaand we got a date for the statement: August 14th 2018!

Elias has been in prison for more than a year, YOUHOU!!!

… Which means precisely we’re past the one-year anniversary of The Unknowing (is it why Jon immediately thought about it in MAG150?), and precisely one year and one week since Tim’s death. SOB. (This season still feels so… strange to me, on the fact that: you don’t really feel like seasons 1 to 3 technically happened. There is virtually nothing left of Sasha (understandable: no certain memories of her) nor Tim, who has barely been mentioned. In the same way that this season has been physically more centred on the inside of the Institute compared to season 3 (the exceptions being four visits to Elias, a glimpse at Melanie’s therapist, MAG141 and MAG143 about the Svalbard trip, MAG147 at Hill Top Road), it’s like time… stopped a bit, too – there is barely any future except the prospect of The Extinction and the looming threat of The Watcher’s Crown, and the only relevant past has been about… spooks, rituals, Gertrude. Tim had worked in the Archives for almost two years, and yet, it doesn’t feel like… he ever existed there…? It’s as though, with Peter’s arrival, some of the relationship maps, present or past, have been broken, too. I still wonder if it’s just like that, if Tim&Sasha are just… not meant to be relevant ever again, or if feelings are meant to come out pouring, sticky and corrosive, at some point, when there would be an argument about self-sacrifice/dying/surviving. Same with Martin’s relationship to his mother.)

So, timeline time!

MAG121 (+MAG122?): February 15th 2018 MAG123: February 17th (“Two days out of a coma, and I’m already tired.”) MAG124: February 24th~ (“It’s been a week and… Melanie’s attitude towards me hasn’t softened.”) MAG125: ? MAG126: ? MAG127: ? MAG128: 3rd March [Jon extracting Breekon’s statement] MAG129: ? MAG130: 17th~ March (“It’s been two weeks since I heard from Basira”) [Gertrude recording] MAG131: 20th March [Jon taking Jared’s statement] MAG132: 24th March (given that Jon has been in the coffin for three days, either 21 to 24th, or 24 to 27th?) MAG133: ? MAG134: ? [Martin reading a statement] MAG135: ? MAG136: at the very least two weeks after MAG132 (since Jon hasn’t seen Daisy in his dreams “for the last couple of weeks”) MAG137: ? [Gertrude recording] MAG138: ? [Martin reading a statement] MAG139: ? MAG140: one day after MAG139; end of May 2018 (“Summer solstice is the 21st of June. So we leave in a fortnight, and should arrive about a week before.”) MAG141: June 11th 2018 (two days before arrival) MAG142: June 12th 2018 [Martin taking Jess Tyrell’s complaint] MAG143: June 16th 2018 [Jon taking Manuela’s statement] MAG144: ? (same day or shortly after MAG143, since Jon&Basira are “back”) [Martin reading a statement] MAG145: “just over a week” since Jon&Basira’s return [Gertrude recording] MAG146: (July 20th 2018 or the day prior?) MAG147: July 20th 2018 MAG148: ? MAG149: ? [Martin reading a statement] MAG150: ? MAG151: August 14th 2018 [Martin taking Simon’s statement]

* … I didn’t remember that gigantic gap between Jon’s return from Norway and the Hill Top Road expedition, wow.

* 2018 carries on. Jon is aware that it’s the 200th anniversary of the Institute, and the year… is not over yet, but only four months and a half remaining.

* Jon’s last live-statement was two months ago, and that’s when he also he destroyed the Dark Sun. (And he’s remained weak and hungry since then; we… still don’t know if the symptoms will fade with time, or if… they’ll just get worse.)

* When did Jon find Martin’s tapes?

(MAG151) BASIRA: I don’t think so. Three weeks I’ve been waiting to catch sight of you, and now I find you chatting with Simon Fairchild. No, you’re not pulling your little “vanishing act” on me. […] MARTIN: You–you know about that? BASIRA: Yeah. Jon found the tapes you made for him– MARTIN: SHH–SHH-SHH!! SHHHHH!!! BASIRA: [LOWER] Found a stash of them a while ago. I made sure he shared with the class. MARTIN: Oh, there you go, then!

Basira has been trying to get her hands on Martin for “three weeks”, which means since around July 25th, so… after the Annabelle expedition. So, looks like she followed the vein of paranoia and tried to check if something else was manipulating them / keeping an eye on them?

But it doesn’t mean that that was when Jon found the tapes: was it after Annabelle? Or after their return from Norway? Or even before the trip?

- Some tiny doubt regarding sound – was that static, or a ruffling of clothes?

(MAG151) MARTIN: [SIGH] BASIRA: Who was that? MARTIN: Basira, please, I don’t have time. BASIRA: Oh no, you don’t! [OUTBURST OF STATIC?] MARTIN: Basira, let. go. BASIRA: I don’t think so.

I thiiiiiiiiiink it was static given how it was “fading” when Martin spoke but I’m not sure about it (it lacked the faint distorted sounds that we could hear in MAG149, imitating Peter’s, but then, they were preceded with static at that time. Martin is just very faint compared to Jon or Peter). The way I understand it: Basira grabbed Martin before he could disappear like he had managed to do with Georgie? And Basira wasn’t surprised about it, so it maaaaybe indeed, when she had told Jon that Martin tended to “disappear”:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: Do they? … W–w–who else– Did Martin say something? BASIRA: … It was a few months back. After the attack. He’d started spending time with Lukas. At least, he said he was. And I wanted answers. He kept telling me to trust him, to hear the guy out even though he still wouldn’t actually show his face. I told him he could… drop me an email or vanish me. ARCHIVIST: … Right. BASIRA: Honestly, I kind of regret not just… grabbing Martin and shaking an explanation out of him. But I didn’t want to push it. He was in a… bad place, what with the attack and his mom and everything, so I didn’t press it. Now, I try and bring it up, he just… disappears. Nothing to be done.

… she meant that in a spooky way already? It was unclear to me whether she meant that he was just leaving and refusing to talk and hiding for a while every time she tried to talk to him, or whether he was disappearing in the Peter way.

(- So, it took Basira three weeks to get her hands on Martin, which means he’s (getting?) inaccessible. Yet, Daisy had managed to find him in MAG142 (in a room with a clock in the background) and in MAG144 (… without any clock). Which means he wasn’t in the same place that second time.

… Had Daisy been Hunting him back then, to be able to find him so easily…?)

- It was minor but at the same time… I got Feelings over the fact that Basira, who had pointed out to Jon that she hadn’t managed to get a lot from Martin’s mouth, who told Jon she hadn’t wanted to “push” Martin given his circumstances, snapped this time and didn’t let it go. Wanted to hear, from Martin himself, that he wasn’t betraying them; asked/ordered him to talk to her:

(MAG151) BASIRA: That makes me worried. Makes me suspicious. [SILENCE] Tell me I’m wrong. MARTIN: [INSTANTLY] You’re wrong. BASIRA: So what’s going on, then? [SILENCE] Talk to me. MARTIN: It’s complicated.

It’s… probably worrisome from Basira – she’s been way too suspicious of everyone, she even used the same vocabulary with Martin as the one Melanie had used to depict her (… so Melanie wasn’t exaggerating):

(MAG131) MELANIE: [LONG EXHALE] Basira is, hum… Basira deals in “intel” these days, in “usable data”; assets, not “feelings”, not… “people”. Crying, shaking, nightmares, that is “better”. It doesn’t feel like it, but as far as Basira sees it, I’m not compromised anymore, and… that is “better”.

(MAG151) BASIRA: Jon may be going through a whole “we have to trust Martin” thing, but I’m not. As far as I can see, you’re either compromised, or you’re being played. And I want to know which.

But at the same time, she let him go and her “Don’t make me regret this.” was saying that she would let him do his thing. So. She finally (kind of) shook an explanation out of him, in the end, and… she knows what he’s heading for. Was it the self-sacrificing bit which convinced her of his good faith – since she… should guess that, indeed, if Jon knew about it, Jon would probably try to prevent it?

- On the other hand: Basira’s paranoia spiral is very reminiscent of Jon’s in season 2, mixed with her background as a police officer – is that… a Beholding effect at work? She was also very quick at pinpointing that the guy Martin had spoken with was Simon:

(MAG151) BASIRA: I don’t think so. Three weeks I’ve been waiting to catch sight of you, and now I find you chatting with Simon Fairchild. No, you’re not pulling your little “vanishing act” on me. MARTIN: How did you know about– BASIRA: Yeah, Jon’s not the only one who listens to statements.

We got a description of Simon in MAG051 (“He must have been pushing a hundred years old, just a tiny pink skeleton of a man”) so it could have been thanks to that… but randomly knowing stuff and claiming to have read it in a statement was also what happened with Jon:

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: Is there anyone else who might know what it is, or– or where? Aside from Leitner, or Gerard. ELIAS: … Sorry? Gerard Keay? ARCHIVIST: Uh… yes…? ELIAS: How did you… Who, who told you he was working with Gertrude? ARCHIVIST: No-one, I–I–I just, I… I read it in one of the statements. ELIAS: I don’t think you did. ARCHIVIST: I… but… aaah… ELIAS: You just… knew it! ARCHIVIST: What, no, I, I… Th– that’s not a– ELIAS: No, no, no. No, Jon, this is good. It’s a promising development!

(Jon had already casually put Gerry in the list of people who had worked with Gertrude in MAG099; so he hadn’t noticed that he had Known about it… like that, for a while.)

So. Maybe Basira just guessed because “tiny pink skeleton of a man” + spook translates into Simon Fairchild (we listeners would also think about it), but… there is also the possibility that she’s going through a s2!Jon phase without realising, falling deeper into Beholding. ;;

- Though, AHAHAH, obviously, Basira would be extremely suspicious and cautious about the idea of “x is following a Spook’s leads (and it will end badly)”.

(MAG151) MARTIN: … It’s none of your business. BASIRA: No? ‘Cause it seems to me like you’re panning around two very dangerous people right around the time you’re cutting all of us out. […] MARTIN: Look, I don’t have time for this. I–I don’t like that I have to work with Peter any more than you do, and I didn’t know that Simon was involved until today. But I would hope that you and Jon understood the importance of preventing an apocalypse. BASIRA: [SIGH] I guess I’m just a bit burned out on the end of the world. MARTIN: Yeah, well… that’s your problem. […] BASIRA: You’re not expecting to come out of this, are you? MARTIN: … I’ll do what I have to. If I’m right… no one else needs to get hurt. [SILENCE] BASIRA: [SIGH] … Okay. You want to do whatever “grand sacrifice” you think is going to save everyone, go ahead. But you’d best be sure you’re not just playing their game. MARTIN: I know what I’m doing. BASIRA: We’ll see. [PAUSE] Don’t make me regret this.

From her perspective, Martin is… doing with Peter exactly what she had done with Elias: and when she planned to prevent an apocalypse by going to Norway with Jon, it only resulted in Jon attacking Floyd, and indeed neutralising the Dark Sun – but becoming weaker and hungry in the process. And even before that: The Unknowing had cost her Daisy a first time, and she had spent seven months trying to convince herself that, even though there was no body, Daisy was dead. I don’t think that Basira is trying to make amends of the fact that she had hidden that she was following Elias’s leads, however; it was a sore spot when Jon tried to reproach it in MAG148 and she had immediately bit back. She’s been grown quite dry and hypocritical since The Unknowing? Only able to trust herself, like she told Jon in MAG128? But, at the very least, she would know from experience that… no, following Peter/Elias’s leads only serves their plans.

- !! I had already squinted hard over Jon’s description of Martin’s situation last episode:

(MAG150) ARCHIVIST: And at least none of us is suffering alone. … Martin’s got it the worst, of course. But it still seems to be his choice. And I have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.

And INDEED, it makes a lot of sense that he had known for a while a bit More about Martin’s situation than we thought.

(MAG151) BASIRA: Yeah. Jon found the tapes you made for him– MARTIN: SHH–SHH-SHH!! SHHHHH!!! BASIRA: [LOWER] Found a stash of them a while ago. I made sure he shared with the class. MARTIN: Oh, there you go, then! BASIRA: Jon may be going through a whole “we have to trust Martin” thing, but I’m not.

So that’s why Jon knew that Martin had it bad with The Lonely, and how he knew that Martin had a plan and wasn’t just a victim or being held hostage by Peter! But that raises a few questions:

* How long has Jon known about it? Was it only recently (after Norway or after Hill Top Road) or for longer? In MAG139 already, Jon had wondered why they had been “chosen” and had asked the question about Martin specifically; he knew that Peter had plans, and was exceptionally worried about Martin, to the point of trying to use his powers to Know about Peter’s projects:

(MAG139) ARCHIVIST: Why were we chosen? Agnes was created – crafted with a specific purpose so finely tuned that even a grain of uncertainty threatened the entirety of her being. [CHORTLING] But I’m so full of doubt it feels like there’s no room for anything else, and… I’m sure Martin is the same…! […] [SIGH] I’m just worried about Martin. … Christ… Every other Avatar gets to have their feelings… burned right out of them, but me? I’ve… just got to sit in mine. … I know he said he had everything under control. I need… to trust him; whatever he’s doing with Peter, he’s… he knows what he’s doing. Probably. I just– … [VERY FAST] I need him to be okay. I just do. … If I… Knew… what his plan was; if I knew what Peter was doing; if I just– [WHISPERING] … Can I…?

… Had Jon already listened to one of the tapes, back then?

* … Which tapes has Jon listened to?

-> MAG149: Martin read a note from Gertrude (the statement-giver had been sent by Adelard, and Gertrude was aware that Adelard was calling what he suspected to be a new Fear “The Extinction”). Martin highlighted that Peter abandoning him was probably in order to increase his loneliness/Lonely-compatibity. … It………….. also contains Georgie and Martin’s exchange, and AOUCH AOUCH AOUCH if Jon heard that one……………………

-> MAG144: the other side of Martin pushing Daisy away – that he was fearing that Peter would go after her. The keyword “Extinction” mentioned multiple times, Martin exceptionally snappy at Peter and trying to get answers, Peter announcing that Martin would meet someone and get a few answers.

-> MAG142: Martin (?) had already got that one through to Basira&Melanie&Daisy by MAG146.

-> MAG138: was directly addressed to Jon at the end, though the statement mostly dealt with The Eye and Smirke’s Architecture (The Extinction was only namedropped by Martin once during the post-statement). Martin warned that Peter might be interested in the tunnels below the Institute. It also gave some information about Jonah Magnus / a potential Watcher’s Crown attempt, or project, and Jon, who had been exceptionally impatient on that subject in MAG137… just stopped mentioning it afterwards.

-> MAG134: was the one which talked in great length about The Extinction, with both Adelard’s and Peter’s inputs. It was also when Peter confirmed that The Lonely has already attempted its ritual during the current cycle, and that both The Web and The End were assumed to be uninterested in trying to pull one off. It… would make sense that Jon and the others listened to this one, given how Jon didn’t mention researching the rituals of the Web and the End (and, indeed, if he knew that they’re not a current concern… there’s no need to focus on them). Interestingly: it’s also during that post-statement that Peter and Martin discussed Jon’s journey in the coffin, and how Martin had put the tape recorders around it. So: Jon would know that Martin was still keen on protecting him.

Tl;dr Especially with MAG134 and MAG138, Jon would have had proof that, no, Martin was not abandoning them and was still… very much on their (Jon’s) side.

* And that’s also why the Team Archives seem to be on standby since Hill Top Road – they’re indeed waiting, because they’re aware that Martin is the one dealing with a current threat!

* Jon seems to be sticking to his decision from MAG117 to “trust” the assistants… but given how Tim died/sacrificed himself on him through that trust, I wonder if that’s his entire reason. Is Jon taking some comfort in the distance with Martin, because it means not having to face Martin after what Jon did to the five people he attacked in season 4…?

* Will Jon&co find another of Dekker’s statements (Peter had told Martin that he hadn’t found all of them as of MAG144) in the Archives? Or something about Dekker’s whereabouts? What happened to Dekker, why is he absolutely silent right now…

(My bets are on either “became one of the first Extinction avatars somehow”, either “got killed by Peter who ‘overreacted’ like Elias had done with Leitner”.)

* Heyheyheyhey, I was already wondering why Jon had read MAG150’s statement and if something had been influencing him – why reach the conclusion that he had to keep trusting Martin and not do anything, when the statement was demonstrating that affection and trying to reach could break through The Lonely?

1°) That’s because Jon doesn’t think, at the moment, that Martin needs to be “saved”, because he has proof (Martin’s tapes) that Martin is planning something – and not simply swallowed into something he doesn’t understand at all. (Though, yeah, we know, it will… likely backfire.)

2°) That’s also giving clues, as a safety net, to maybe manage to get Martin back in case everything goes to hell thanks to Peter.

3°) ……………………. DID JON

SPECIFICALLY

PICK

THAT STATEMENT

AS A SORT-OF-INDIRECT-MESSAGE TO MARTIN

BECAUSE IT WAS GIVING HIM AN OCCASION TO SAY “I LOVE YOU”……………

- We got Simon, absolutely chill and casually gleeful about sacrificing people and, Jon, at least in MAG146, wasn’t… fine with it (Helen’s “It would be better if you embraced it.” was telling: he currently isn’t).

That question has been at the back of my mind since we’ve begun to meet avatars: Jude quite easily butchered her first victim, Mike Crew explained that he had discovered he didn’t mind killing to reach his goal while on his quest to escape The Spiral, Simon said he “never looked back” since he embraced The Vast, Oliver said that he had understood what he had to do on the boat (meaning, shooting the captain and leading everyone to their deaths)… Did all of them rewrite their own history after the fact, presenting their pasts as more “coherent” with who they currently are, and was there a time they actually used to be more ashamed and desperate about their own actions and sacrifices; or were they already quite down with murder from the start? (Oliver is probably the most ambiguous case: he sounded absolutely hopeful and Trying His Best in MAG011, but present!Oliver talked of his past self as mostly naïve… and admitted that he had even lied through omission, back then.)

Jon mentioned a “bias of survivorship” in MAG129 regarding victims; is there one regarding avatars, too, because usually, the ones choosing these paths would already have been quite ruthless? Is that an ineluctable progression (through habit, desensitisation, repetition), or was Jon a bit of an… outlier, from the start, potentially by accident – although he had been giving the impression of being dry and cruel at the start of the series, we discovered that it… was mostly a façade, in his case, because he tends to Hide Himself quite efficiently?

- Simon’s and Arthur Nolan’s words about Rituals/Entities/their relationships to their patrons were… quite similar?

(MAG145) ARTHUR: You’ve never really had to bother with it, have you? You got him upstairs to point the way as often as not, and the rest of the time you’re just figuring out people – or things that used to be people. You never try to talk with that Eye of yours. You never had to second-guess a god. ‘Cause that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? We feel Its joy and Its… anger; It warps us, and changes us, and feeds on us, though not in the ways we expect. The one thing It never does is just… tell us what to do. It seeds us with this… aching, impossible desire to change the world, to bring It to us. Then, It leaves us to guess and bicker and fight over how the hell you can actually do it. … If it’s possible. Sometimes, I think They understand us as… little as we understand Them. We don’t think like They do. GERTRUDE: I’m not actually convinced they “think” at all. ARTHUR: You might be right. But Agnes did. That’s the thing about an… “incarnation”, isn’t it? […] Find me one so-called “expert” on all of this who didn’t end up regretting all of it! … That’s the trouble with overthinking any of this: you ignore your gut. And to my mind, that’s the only part any of Them Beyond… actually care about. They don’t give a toss about your “rules”, or “systems”. They only care about what feels right, what freezes your belly with terror.

(MAG151) SIMON: The thing you have to remember is that no one actually knows how these things work. Not really. There’s always been plenty of theories, of course, and over a century or two you do start to get an intuitive feel for it, but… there’s really no hard and fast “rules”. The Powers, or Entities, or Fears, or whatever you want to call them, are bound up in… emotion. In feeling. How they exist, what they can do, how they interact with the world, it… it all makes about as much logical sense as a nightmare. Which is to say, there is a certain sort of emotional logic to it all. Things feel like they flow together in a way that makes sense, but if you try to stop and… do the maths, then it all comes apart. At least, in my experience. “When is a new Power born?” Well; when does it feel like its birth would be right? When enough creatures suffer a terror of it that feels distinct, that feels truly its own… then it would probably feel right for it to emerge into its own. Or perhaps there’s a ritual, if it feels right to enact some sort of birthing ceremony, some… apocalyptic midwifery. […] MARTIN: You make it sound like the… the Entities don’t even know that they’re doing. SIMON: I have no idea if they’re doing anything at all – if they’re even capable of “doing” things. I know that most of their servants are simply doing their best to interpret and serve something that is almost definitively inconceivable. MARTIN: You can’t be serious…! SIMON: Alright. Let’s… try one of those analogies Peter finds so annoying. Hum… imagine you are deaf. But every night, you hear the most beautiful music in yours dreams. And your every waking thought is consumed by trying to reproduce that music. Oh! You’re mute, as well, in this analogy, or at least you can’t sing. And you need to invent the idea of a musical instrument from scratch. Everyone else is also deaf, and mute, and, hum… MARTIN: Yes, yes, I think I get it. SIMON: Yes, well, the point is, most of us are trying so desperately to recreate our own dream symphony that… we bring an awful lot of our own baggage into the mix. […] And honestly, the idea that this is all some… “grand cosmic joke”, thousands of us running around spreading horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible, unknowable things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we cause… [INHALE] I find that interpretation quite appealing…! MARTIN: … “But”? SIMON: I still hear the music in my dreams.

………………. but it raises, more and more, the question: Jon, what music do you hear in your own dreams? (Jon was especially worrisome in MAG145’s post-statement…)

At least, Jon is currently accepting the cold turkey (or at least, as far as we know, he hasn’t wrestled Basira&Daisy&Melanie to try to get out to go hunt) but… how long can it even go on…

- Reassuring point: Team Archives has actually been communicating in the tapes’ backs, since Jon shared his discoveries with the others and they all know about The Extinction. When Jon was describing their less-than-ideal-but-we’re-trying-to-face-Peter’s-effects in MAG150, it had sounded absolutely cold but… there is a bit more substance to it, then (they’re indeed sharing, and hiding from the tapes).

Good: Martin still Very Aware that Peter is bad, because the fact that he was growing accustomed to his presence / was desperate to the point of almost-missing-Peter-as-he-was-the-last-person-he-could-interact-with had me a bit worried.

(MAG142) MARTIN: [SIGH] Th–the worst part is I don’t even want to talk to him about it. I’m just… [SIGH] I suppose I’m just getting comfortable with the distance. [SIGH] Cut off. [DRY CHUCKLE] “Lonely”. [INHALE] Mind you, Peter’s not wrong. It really is easier than actually just trying to communicate with people.

(MAG149) MARTIN: Sort of… surprised Peter hasn’t rocked up with some more… “insights”? Haven’t seen him around for a while, actually. I mean… eh, it’s not like I miss him [CHUCKLING] but, at least he was someone to– [PAUSE] … Ah. [HUFF] [PAPER RUSTLING] Yeah, that makes sense. [EXHALE] A’ight, fine. Just… me on my lonesome for a while, then. … Could be worse. … Peaceful, at least. … I don’t miss all the shouting. [CHUCKLE]

(MAG151) MARTIN: Look, I don’t have time for this. I–I don’t like that I have to work with Peter any more than you do, and I didn’t know that Simon was involved until today. But I would hope that you and Jon understood the importance of preventing an apocalypse. […] Peter’s the one with the plan, and… it needs me to be alone. BASIRA: And you don’t see anything suspicious about that? MARTIN: Of course I do! But it… might be the only way and… [INHALE] So far, at least, he’s been honest with me. Awful, but… honest. I need to do this. For everyone.

Bad: HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, super worried that Basira and Martin, although they (… naïvely?!) tried to keep quiet, explicitly discussed what Martin was doing behind Peter’s back……………….

(MAG151) MARTIN: It’s complicated. BASIRA: What? They’re just here out of the goodness of their hearts? Helping you save the world from Extinction? MARTIN: You–you know about that? BASIRA: Yeah. Jon found the tapes you made for him– MARTIN: SHH–SHH-SHH!! SHHHHH!!! BASIRA: [LOWER] Found a stash of them a while ago. I made sure he shared with the class. MARTIN: Oh, there you go, then!

mARTIN, BABE??? I don’t think that trying to keep your voices low helped in any way?! If Peter was there eavesdropping, then he’s still there and listening. If whatever-is-listening-through-the-tape-recorders didn’t already know already that Martin had a stash of tapes, and that Jon&co had listened to them already, then It knows now. If Elias was Watching you two and is planning to tell Peter… then he will be able to do it anyway.

And even: Elias called Martin out on being a manipulator back in MAG138; he… probably saw Martin stashing the tapes, Jon discovering them and sharing them with the others? So if he’s in this with Peter… he’ll probably tell him, or has told him already. Which. Shit. The fact that Martin is still trying to hide his double-agenda sounds more and more useless…?

I’m a bit afraid that Martin has been trying what worked with Elias with Peter: staying close, focusing on their shared goals (stopping The Unknowing / The Extinction), roughly following the path he’s assigned (reading statements, staying at the Institute while he “officially” wanted to go with the others / agreeing to cut ties with the others) while showing his discontentment for good measure… and planning to backstab when he’d find a weakness. But Peter is not Elias (and we’re not even sure that Elias wasn’t counting on the others to take him down and send him to prison, given how it had been “easy” for Melanie to find evidence against him…); Gerry had pointed out to Jon that the Lukases were “very good” at pushing people “in the right direction” amongst the family.

- Simon technically avoided to answer one of Martin’s Big Questions:

(MAG151) MARTIN: … Fine. So why me? What’s his plan? Why not get the others involved? SIMON: He is what he is, Martin. For a creature of The Lonely, the urge is always to isolate; never to communicate or connect. I suspect that’s why he’s so keen on wagers: it allows him a framework for cooperation that doesn’t risk any sort of intimacy. As for his plan… [INHALE] I don’t know the details. But I believe there’s something in the Institute that he thinks can help his cause. MARTIN: … And he needs me to use it. SIMON: Presumably – from what he said, it must be “powerfully aligned to The Watcher”. If he wishes to use it, it would need someone already touched by The Eye. And if he wants to control that someone… MARTIN: They need to serve The Lonely.

Why Martin? Peter had highlighted that Martin was already Lonely-compatible, and Elias acknowledged that he had basically given Martin to him:

(MAG134) MARTIN: Mm–okay. Okay, so, so let’s say, for now, that I believe you. Hypothetically. Wh–what does this have to do with me? PETER: [BREATHES] I’m still working out some of the kinks. But I believe I have a plan. However, it requires this place, and it requires someone touched by The Beholding. Elias was, perhaps unsurprisingly, unwilling to help. MARTIN: And you thought that since I’m so lonely already, I’d be ideal. PETER: Yes!

(MAG138) MARTIN: So why haven’t you helped him?! […] ELIAS: Anyway, I have helped him. I’ve given him control of the Institute, I’ve provided him with–   MARTIN: Me? ELIAS: –any manpower he might require.

Which, indeed, we saw happening in MAG108:

(MAG108) MARTIN: Oh. You’re… one of them, aren’t you. A… a Lukas. PETER: Yes, that’s– Peter. Pleased to meet you. Now, how did you know that? MARTIN: I, I was just reading? Jon left some notes, and… PETER: Ah, I see. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. It’s one of Elias’s little jokes. MARTIN: I don– What? PETER: Did he suggest you record a statement today? One that mentioned me? MARTIN: … yeah? Sssort of? I mean… not you specifically, but… PETER: I have a meeting with him today. He suggested… I’m sure he’s watching from his office, grinning from ear to ear. MARTIN: I… don’t… PETER: I almost thought he genuinely wanted me to meet the team! Oh well. MARTIN: I’m really sorry, I… I don’t actually…

So, Elias had orchestrated Martin’s and Peter’s meeting, knew that Martin would catch Peter’s interest, Peter is indeed all set on Martin helping/being used for his plan against The Extinction – but why Martin specifically? There was a large pool of Beholding-trapped assistants at the time of MAG108: Basira was around (though she was together with Daisy so that was probably making her lose Lonely points); Melanie had already read two statements and Elias had just pointed out how her life was “indeed shockingly absent of any meaningful connections. That’s actually one of the reasons I chose you for this job” (MAG106; though Elias also pulverised her in that episode and Martin&Basira witnessed how she was having a bad time afterwards); Tim… had been shown to be particularly impacted by Sasha’s death, had just described how his brother had died a few years ago, had been dangerously antagonising towards Elias (MAG104), and had decided to turn his back on everyone in the Archives to go it solo. Martin indeed sounded like a logical choice, but there were still other options – so what was the tipping argument to throw Martin at Peter? Was it because Elias had never been fond of Martin in the first place (he tended to treat him with casual contempt in MAG060 and MAG084)? Was it because Martin’s ~hopeless crush~ and situation with his mother made him especially isolated/lonely? Was it because Martin was the most “actively” Beholding amongst the assistants in the statements-reading area? That was the reason why Elias had jumped on the idea of keeping him at the Institute when the others were planning the trip for The Unknowing:

(MAG116) MARTIN: No, no, I can help, I’ve been reading the statements! ELIAS: … Quite right, er, probably best he does stay behind. BASIRA: What, so you have a backup if Jon doesn’t make it? ELIAS: I’m sure that won’t be necessary.

(-> Elias didn’t confirm that he was planning to use Martin as a back-up Archivist, but the fact that he had read statements was a Super Effective argument, so it… mattered, in one way or another.)

(I think it’s very likely, in canon, that Martin’s lineage is absolutely unspooky, and that his family story is a “normal” family drama, as painful and tragic and heart-breaking as it is already? But I’m also very very very onboard with the Lukas!Martin theory and won’t give up on it as long as I don’t have Martin’s birth certificate and a dozen blood-testing results from different labs to prove that his father wasn’t a runaway Lukas, so:

(MAG151) MARTIN: …. Who are you? Did Peter send you? SIMON: Ah, you must be Martin? Goodness! He was not exaggerating. MARTIN: What’s that supposed to mean? SIMON: Oh, come now, don’t be like that.

… What was that “He was not exaggerating” referring to? Was it to Martin’s behaviour (the fact he was a bit nagging, or trying to keep people away from dangerous areas, or quickly understanding that this old man could be acquainted with Peter)? Or was it about Martin’s physical appearance – Martin, who is apparently the spitting image of his father…?)

(Other possibility: Simon went “He was not exaggerating” because Martin, who wasn’t canonically “the hot one” in MAG052 (that was Tim.), is actually the “ASTOUNDINGLY AND INCREDIBLY hot one” in the team.)

- I’m impressed at how Martin has learned to navigate amongst the Fears architecture on his own? Even in season 3, he had a lot of trouble with the powers and recurring figures:

(MAG098) MARTIN: [SIGH] I wish John kept better organised notes because I know he’s mentioned someone called Maxwell Rayner, but I cannot find much in the way of any info–

Back then, “Maxwell Rayner” shouldn’t have been such a vague name for Martin, given how he had participated in the researches around Hither Green in MAG025 and the Montauk case in MAG052. But here, Martin immediately identified “Simon Fairchild” as The One:

(MAG151) SIMON: Oh, come now, don’t be like that. [INHALE] Let’s start over. Simon – Simon Fairchild. Peter asked me to look in on you and… have a small chat. Well! A big chat, really. Answer all those… nagging questions. MARTIN: Simon Fairchild. [PAUSE] [NERVOUS CHUCKLE] Wait, “Simon Fairchild” as in… SIMON: As in “all those people who said I did horrible things to them and their loved ones”? Yes. They have been in, haven’t they? I’d hate to think I’m underrepresented in here, not when Peter tells me that that… “bone” fellow has at least half a dozen. MARTIN: N–no, no, [NERVOUS CHUCKLE], not… not at all. Y–you’ve sent plenty of people our way.

(It’s still… something, that avatars are both looking down at The Eye for being a “bottom feeder” or for robbing part of the fear, but at the same time, are preoccupied by the amount of statements mentioning them, as if they were competing about it. (… why are they all looking down on Jared.)) Martin was able to be exceptionally diplomatic (mix of honesty and not-pissing-off-something-that-could-wreck-you), to immediately ask good and relevant questions although he hadn’t been warned that he would encounter Simon right now, cautious enough to check that there wouldn’t be any “trick” in the fact he was allowed to ask questions:

(MAG151) MARTIN: And you do it? Why? SIMON: Is that your first question? MARTIN: … Is there a limit? SIMON: Only until I get bored. And that does tend to come more quickly, these days. MARTIN: O–okay, okay, then sure, sure. First question, then: “why are you helping Peter?” D–don’t you serve different… you know… Fears? […] How are new powers born? SIMON: Hm… don’t know! MARTIN: How soon could it attempt its ritual? SIMON: No clue! MARTIN: How do we stop it? SIMON: Can’t help you! MARTIN: [THROUGH GRITTED TEETH] Could you, at least, try? […] And how close is it, do you think? […] You don’t sound worried. […] And let me guess – you think he can’t see the “big picture”? […] … So why didn’t it work? […] Assuming The Extinction doesn’t derail everything…! SIMON: Which is why… I’m happy helping Peter. But! If it does: then I’ll either be dead, which will be fine, or… I’ll adjust. MARTIN: It doesn’t scare you? […] So what do you do, then, if, if the world is pointless and your god is so weak right now? […] I thought you said that the maths doesn’t work. SIMON: Oh, you are a quick one! […] MARTIN: … What about the monsters? […] So– [EXHALE] So if no one’s ever actually communicated with their patron, how do you know they even want rituals? H–h–how does anyone know if they could ever even work?! SIMON: We don’t. MARTIN: [INCREDULOUS SCOFF] SIMON: And honestly, the idea that this is all some… “grand cosmic joke”, thousands of us running around spreading horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible, unknowable things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we cause… [INHALE] I find that interpretation quite appealing…! MARTIN: … “But”? SIMON: I still hear the music in my dreams. MARTIN: Hm. [SILENCE] Who are you? No, no: who were you? […] You said you were here to answer my questions for Peter, but so far you’ve told me basically nothing of any use. SIMON: The big answers are rarely helpful. MARTIN: Then let’s try some smaller ones. Is Peter attempting a ritual? SIMON: Not in the sense that you’re used to. Him and his family made their play a few years ago and they failed. I’m sure he’d like me to explain it, but I think he can do that one himself. MARTIN: How honest has he been with me? SIMON: About which part? MARTIN: Protecting the others. […] … How do you feel about this? SIMON: You might need to be a tad more specific. MARTIN: All of it. Peter’s plan, The Extinction, me…

All of his questions were excellent ones: he was able to keep in mind the data Simon was providing, he was extending questions to his current situation (outside of The Extinction itself), he was able to use his snark and sass to squeeze more answers and knowledge out of Simon, he was able to ask for contextualisation and keep in mind how Powers tend to oppose each other. Simon was absolutely willing to talk but Martin honestly made the best use of it – I found the way he led the interview even more impressive than the way Jon had dealt with Gerry? And asking questions is supposed to be Jon’s thing as The Archivist. (Well. Getting answers, whatever his questions are, technically, but.)

When pressed, Martin was also able to find the best possible answer to Simon’s jovial threat:

(MAG151) SIMON: And I never looked back. I tried to share it with others, not just as sacrifices; but they often find it difficult to keep up with the, hum… velocity I tend to live at. They tend to get left behind, and I suppose it doesn’t help that I can’t… bring myself to see any of them as anything other than trivial. […] I’d say “anytime”, but honestly, if you see me again… I may just throw you off something for a joke. How do you feel about… rollercoasters? MARTIN: Uh… Neutral. SIMON: Oh… [CHAIR SCRAPING] You’re no fun.

That was the only safe possible answer: if Martin was positive about it, it would mean being a potential recruit; if he was showing discomfort, that would make him a sacrifice. And Martin was able to improvise the it, although he had been known as The Assistant Of Many Fears:

(MAG015) ARCHIVIST: I sent Tim to check the details – Martin declined to help with this investigation as he’s “a bit claustrophobic” […].

(MAG022) MARTIN: The light from the window behind me cast it pretty clearly on the floor, and looking at it I swear the edges seemed to move. It was like a… like a, like an undulation, like, like they were being shifted by something. I mean… look, I know you hate the word, but it was really… spooky. […] I think I might have… lost my mind a bit, then. It all… feels very… strange, blurry. I–I remember stamping and stamping as-as more made their way under my doorway. I-I remember grabbing every towel, sock, bit of fabric scrap that I could find, stuffing them under the door, into the cracks around the window.

(MAG039) TIM: Martin’s gone. ARCHIVIST: I’m getting to that. Martin has disappeared. Tim was right about there being fewer worms down here, but they are much faster. More aggressive. None of us have been hit yet but… during one of the more alarming encounters, Martin ran off. TIM: He thought we were behind him, I think. ARCHIVIST: He didn’t think at all.

(MAG040) MARTIN: Sorry. ARCHIVIST: Ah, it’s fine. I just… I only need from when you got separated. From when you got lost in the tunnels. MARTIN: No, I mean… I’m sorry I left you. ARCHIVIST: … Oh Martin. MARTIN: [TEARFUL] It was an accident. I thought you two were with me! I mean, the worms came at us, and they were so much faster, and then there was the gas, and the running, and I just… I, I thought you were right behind me. But when I turned round, you were gone. You were both gone. It was an accident.

(MAG072) ARCHIVIST: I’ve had Martin looking into the case of John Haan, though it’s slow going as whenever there’s a picture he ends up needing to take a breath of fresh air.

(MAG108) MARTIN: I’m really sorry, I… I don't actually… PETER: Do I scare you Martin? MARTIN:  Yes…! PETER: Hm. Probably for the best.

(MAG117) MARTIN: I… I’m scared, I guess. No, wait– No! No, I mean– uh… Oh, I don’t want that to be my last message, the thing that defines me. “Martin Blackwood: he was always scared, then he died. The end.” I don’t want that. … But it’s true, isn’t it? I mean, if you’re right, if these things out there are eating our fears, then I’m a… a luxury smörgåsbord, I suppose. I’m just afraid all the time! I know, I know, I’m not gonna die, I’m not even going to be on the incredibly dangerous mission. Me and Melanie, well… Well, I don’t think “death” is really the worry, it’s just… [SIGH] It feels like an ending? Or… something. Like nothing can go back to normal after this. […] I need them to be safe. I need him to be okay. … So–sorry, hum. I–I’m not afraid for me, though. Isn’t that weird…? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be safe, like, my plan’s not dangerous but it’s… it’s mine? These last couple of years, I’ve always been... running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but… but now it’s my trap. And, well. I think it will work.

From Martin who was regularly presented as incompetent back in season 1 (to the point of surprising Jon when demonstrating otherwise during the worms crisis) and who was too honest for his own good when he met Peter, to Martin who is able to swim through the Fears politics, to ask good questions, to snap and squirm and get out of Simon’s grasp… He has learned to deal with the spooks quite efficiently, huh?

- In Jon’s tracks, Martin has been slowly moving forwards when it came to the Archival work. Pushed by Elias, he was the first one of the assistants to read statements aloud and “ritually” starting season 3, and, although he was aware that they were hard on him, he was the only one who kept reading them – Tim tried once and immediately gave up in MAG086; Melanie read two statements but stopped after MAG106’s (and, given her declaration that she would stop feeding The Eye in MAG150, she’s not planning to go back to it); Basira read one in MAG112 and never tried again (and her distaste of the tape recorders and her unwillingness to stay in the room while Jon is recording in season 4 seem to point out that she doesn’t plan on doing it again either).

(MAG084) MARTIN: [RAGGED BREATHING AS HE REGAINS HIS COMPOSURE] Well, I, er… I think that was okay. Er, yeah. To anyone listening, sorry about the change of tone. Jon, the, uh, Head Archivist is… absent, so I’ll be trying to fill in as best as I can. Um. Maybe Tim as well, if he… if he feels like it. It, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. Just as long as it gets done.

(MAG095) MARTIN: S–s–statement… done. [HEAVY BREATHING & TREMBLING AS MARTIN STEADIES HIMSELF] I don’t like recording these. There. I–I said it. I’m sorry whoever’s listening to this, I know it’s unprofessional, but they f… I don’t like it. I guess we’re past professionalism now. Probably. I don’t even know why I’m still doing them, since Jon’s back now.

(MAG098) MARTIN: I, um, I think I might need to sit down. Oh. Yeah, I am. Right. I don’t, uh, I’m not really sure if these are actually getting easier or harder. I mean I don’t feel–

(MAG108) MARTIN: Statement end. [LOW VOICE] That wasn’t so bad? [BREATHES] Hum, not sure there is anything to say about this one.

(Starting MAG108, it became easier for him: was it because it was a Lonely one, then a Web one? Was it because Jon told him he was okay with Martin continuing to read them in MAG102?)

I’m still eyeing the ways Jon is completing his own set of Fears through live-statements/nightmares/scars/encounters with direct manifestations of the Powers, but Martin, in his own way, has also been completing his own set of Fears through his written&live-statements:

* The Corruption (MAG084, Adrian Weiss) * The Buried (MAG088, Enrique MacMillan) * The Flesh (MAG090, Ross Davenport) * The Slaughter (MAG095, Luca Moretti) * The Dark (MAG098, Doctor Algernon Moss) * The Desolation (MAG100, Lynne Hammond’s (messy) live-statement) * The Stranger (MAG104, Tim Stocker’s live-statement) * The Lonely (MAG108, Adonis Biros) * The Web (MAG110, Alexia Crawley) * The Extinction (MAG134, Adelard Dekker; MAG144, Gary Boylan; MAG149, Judith O’Neill) * The Eye (MAG138, Robert Smirke; MAG142, Jess Tyrell’s live-statement/complaint) * The Vast (MAG151, Simon Fairchild’s live-statement)

He’s missing The End, The Hunt and The Spiral at the moment (although he experienced the latter when Tim and him were trapped in Michael’s corridor in MAG079-MAG080) but… he has already covered almost all of them…?

The previous time we had seen Martin (MAG149) highlighted that he was progressing with The Lonely, given how he disappeared on Georgie. Although Simon pointed out that Martin was fitting with his own conception of The Lonely in MAG151, we also got… clear indication that Martin is still very much aligned to Beholding:

(MAG151) MARTIN: Hm. [SILENCE] Who are you? No, no: who were you? SIMON: Originally? No one you would have heard of; no… great historical figure or atrocity-monger. I’ve been “Simon Fairchild” about, um… eighty or ninety years, maybe? […] Hm! No wonder I’m so sympathetic to The Lonely. You know: this really is a place for self-discovery, isn’t it? [CHUCKLE] “Statement ends”, I suppose! MARTIN: Uh… I’m sorry? SIMON: Oh! Nothing, just my own hubris. I should have known. When I came here, I said to myself: “Simon,” I said, “you’re going to answer this young man’s questions, but you’re not going to give The Watcher a statement. You’re better than that.” But it’s a hard one to resist, isn’t it? You get in the flow of talking about yourself, and it all just… tumbles out. MARTIN: Mm, does seem like it. SIMON: [CHUCKLING] And this has been fun! [INHALE] Now. [CHAIR SCRAPING] If we’re about done– MARTIN: We’re not. Sit back down. SIMON: Boooold~ [CHUCKLE] [CHAIR SCRAPING] I like it. MARTIN: You said you were here to answer my questions for Peter, but so far you’ve told me basically nothing of any use.

Martin’s shortness and impatience reminded me of Jon’s when he was trying to get answers from Jude Perry (MAG089: “You don’t even know what this is about, do you?” “So tell me!” “An Archivist pleading for knowledge. That, oh that is satisfying to see.” “Look, if you’re just… You’re just about my only lead, and if you’re… Just kill me, alright? If it’s so easy? If you’re not going to tell me anything worth my time.” “Now you’re sounding like an Archivist.”), but more importantly, it seems like Martin was used as a channel for the Institute to get Simon’s live-statement?

It’s certainly not going in-depths like Jon’s, but Simon still identified it as something he hadn’t been planning on giving and as, specifically, a statement. And that’s the third time something like this happens with Martin: he got Tim to tell him his story in MAG104, he managed to get Jess Tyrell’s complaint in MAG142 (although it was explicitly less complete than with Jon: “… And I start to tell him… everything. About the job, about the collapse, ab–about the hand… And more than I told you, even”). I’m guessing that it’s mostly thanks to the Institute’s effect, and I doubt that Martin could manage to get a statement outside like Jon did starting MAG089, but it has still happened thrice.

So. The Lonely got Martin, but he’s still very much Beholding? Peter’s goal relied on Martin becoming able to use two powers (MAG126: “The sort of power you’re going to need relies on your–” “Obedience.” “Isolation. It needs to be you, Martin. You’re the only one who could possibly balance between the two.”), and Simon confirmed that it required The Eye and The Lonely, so… Martin is getting there. Or is already there.

(- Obligatory Honorary Web-sounding Reminder (BECAUSE YES, I WON’T GIVE UP ON THAT EITHER AS LONG AS WE DON’T HOLLOW MARTIN OUT AND CONFIRM THAT HE’S NOT FULL OF SPIDERS) (… wait no, that’s a bad idea, no, don’t hollow Martin out, Jonny–) that:

(MAG138) MARTIN: … What? [HUFF] That’s it? No, no monologue, no mindgames? You love manipulating people! ELIAS: That makes two of us. MARTIN: [HUFF]

Which Martin masterfully demonstrated when he made Elias want to keep him at the Institute during The Unknowing, when he made Elias use his powers on him and lower his attention while Melanie was stealing stuff in his office, when he threw Elias in jail, and which Martin is demonstrating again by… finding loopholes in his agreement with Peter to still send information to the others. And Basira’s suspicion:

(MAG151) MARTIN: … I didn’t know Jon had listened to them already! BASIRA: Well, he has. He seems to think you’ll come to him when you need him. I think you’re feeding him what he needs to hear so he doesn’t bother you. MARTIN: Look, I don’t have time for this.

… sounded very very Web-y to me? So, is that paranoia or is that well-founded.

Also, it’s Aza’s pet-theory so, updating the list:

(MAG104) MARTIN: Elias seems to think that he’s the best chance that we have to stop them. TIM: And what? I’m supposed to just trust Elias now? MARTIN: Please. TIM: [EXHALE] Fine. Fine. I’ll tell him in person, when he gets back from… wherever it is that he’s vanished to.

(MAG118) MARTIN: Melanie. Melanie, please. MELANIE: … Alright. Let’s get these somewhere safe.

(MAG129) MARTIN: Stop. Stop, please, I–I shouldn’t know any of this, I… [PACKING UP] I–I–I really need to go, I–I’m… ARCHIVIST: Right. … right. MARTIN: Please, stop finding me.

(MAG142) MARTIN: Just… just tell me what happened. Hum, please. I–I won’t judge. [SILENCE] WOMAN: Alright.

(MAG151) MARTIN: Yeah… [PAUSE] Don’t… tell Jon. [SILENCE] Please. BASIRA: Fine.

… people’s tendency to do exactly what Martin Asked after he has said “Please”, although they were initially reluctant.

(Counterexamples: “just everyone please, make it back home…?” in MAG117 didn’t work, and neither did all his desperate “Please” to Jon in the season 4 trailer, but.))

- HEY MARTIN??

(MAG151) MARTIN: Look, I don’t have time for this. I–I don’t like that I have to work with Peter any more than you do, and I didn’t know that Simon was involved until today. But I would hope that you and Jon understood the importance of preventing an apocalypse.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH YOU’RE SOUNDING LIKE ELIAS

(MAG102) ELIAS: I should have thought preventing the horrific transformation of our world is not solely my concern!

(MAG135) ELIAS: I rather feel the real shame would be letting the entire world fall into Darkness because of a single person’s wounded pride. Detective. The stakes are far too high for that kind of… indulgence.

BECAUSE YOU ARE.

- This season, we saw Jon fumbling around, and only getting “victories” through personal accomplishments: saving Melanie from the bullet, saving Daisy from the coffin – and even then, those were tainted with the reveal that they had been followed by Jon attacking people from their statements right after, to feed/heal/feel good. Whenever Jon tried to meddle with bigger spooks, it resulted in disaster: trying to Know Peter’s plan hurt him in MAG139 (and that’s probably why he was so “ravenous” against Jess Tyrell?); going to Norway made him encounter Floyd and take his statement; the journey didn’t even serve the expected purpose – sure, he destroyed the Dark Sun, but it wasn’t an active threat and the act was probably the origin of his current “hunger” (as Jon has since then mentioned multiple times having not fully recovered from it). Given how Elias made sure that Basira would leave Jon alone with the coffin because he wanted Jon to develop his powers, and then sent them to Norway (and then claimed that it had been a “miscalculation”), it’s more than likely that they’ve just… been playing his game all through this season. That, or Elias indeed didn’t have any plan and constantly improvised and only pretended to be in control. The end result is still: Jon managed to save both Melanie and Daisy from the spooks, but hurt (and is still hurting) five more people in the process – and we heard Jess Tyrell, Jon didn’t “just” plague them with a few bad dreams, he directly and personally shattered them and their lives.

In parallel, Martin has been cutting his own (lonely) path, is getting more personally involved with spooks, and might be becoming our “protagonist” of the season: getting the “big” picture, receiving the input of other avatars (Peter, Simon) about the Fears architecture and the way they work, getting involved in active and current threats… So, what will be the downside to his actions – who will he hurt, outside of himself…? What is Peter expecting regarding his “progress” if, at this point already, his presence is enough to get an old avatar to give his statement, and if he is able to disappear on someone as he did with Georgie, what more could he need? Is it to simply grow more powerful in the Lonely area? … Because, as we saw with all the avatars, Jon included: using powers or simply staying alive comes hand in hand with sacrificing people. Martin told Basira that his current actions were motivated by the idea that “no one else needs to get hurt”, and I’m really afraid that he hasn’t factored in the idea that no, if some power is required, it will be from other innocents. And I don’t trust Peter to not put Martin in front of that fact at the last moment, when he would have no time to duly consider whether to sacrifice people or let The Extinction emerge completely…?

(…………… That, or Peter already has leverage to crush Martin last minute? Timeline-wise, Martin began to work with Peter two months after his mother’s death but. I’m still a bit afraid that The Lonely may have been involved in that one, to further cut Martin off from anything or anyone…………………)

- One of our current new mysteries is the thing Peter is planning to use:

(MAG151) MARTIN: Is Peter attempting a ritual? SIMON: Not in the sense that you’re used to. Him and his family made their play a few years ago and they failed. I’m sure he’d like me to explain it, but I think he can do that one himself. […] As for his plan… [INHALE] I don’t know the details. But I believe there’s something in the Institute that he thinks can help his cause. MARTIN: … And he needs me to use it. SIMON: Presumably – from what he said, it must be “powerfully aligned to The Watcher”. If he wishes to use it, it would need someone already touched by The Eye. And if he wants to control that someone… MARTIN: They need to serve The Lonely.

That’s technically only confirming what Peter had said in MAG134 (and Elias confirmed in MAG138, regarding the part where he hadn’t been willing to help):

(MAG134) PETER: [BREATHES] I’m still working out some of the kinks. But I believe I have a plan. However, it requires this place, and it requires someone touched by The Beholding. Elias was, perhaps unsurprisingly, unwilling to help. MARTIN: And you thought that since I’m so lonely already, I’d be ideal. PETER: Yes! MARTIN: You see, the thing is, Peter, I’m still not all that keen on being part of any ritual you set up. You know, in fact, if I were to be blunt, I’d say that would be suicidally stupid. PETER: Martin… it’s going to be decades, if not centuries, before I get another chance to bring Forsaken into this world. Your last Archivist saw to that.

… except for the part where it’s presented as a “ritual”: Peter denied that it was one, or changed the subject to mention that it wasn’t The Lonely’s; Simon… is less categoric – it’s not The Lonely’s ritual, but it’s kind-of-a-ritual still, and it requires… something.

* The Watcher’s Crown? The way Robert Smirke had worded it, it sounded like a physical, tangible item (MAG138: “I warn you again that if you have any remaining ambitions to use our work, to try and wear The Watcher’s Crown, you must abandon them! Not simply for the sake of your own soul, but for that of the world!”).

* Barnabas Bennett’s bones? They’re technically a link between Beholding and The Lonely, Elias pointed out that they were in his office (“[Jonah Magnus] retrieved those bones sadly enough when the time came. Bones that you can still find in my office, if you know where to look.”, MAG092), and we haven’t heard anything more about them since.

* Jon himself…? As he has proven with the Dark Sun (and potentially Breekon): he can be lethal towards other powers, and The Hive had been very angry towards the Institute because of how the Eye was… weakening? it through its study (MAG032, Jane Prentiss: “You can see it and log it and note its every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so.”). We’ve seen all through season 4 that Jon was affected by Martin’s absence – Martin has definitely grown to become a weak spot of his. But, aouch: if Martin was mostly meant to give Jon his Lonely scar, or to be used against Jon to stop The Extinction… it would be awfully nasty for Martin, who spent the last 8 months selling himself in the hope of protecting Basira&Melanie + now Jon (“… and Daisy I guess”). (Though: it would have required for Elias and/or Peter to know/guess that Jon’s weak spot would be Martin and… I have trouble picturing Elias going for it back in season 3 already? And from Peter, it would require taking into account the connections and affections of people; can he… even… do that…)

* The tunnels under the Institute? They’ve been thematically important since Jon&co discovered them at the end of season 1, they’re remnants of the Millbank prison (with the Panopticon sounding… very much like a Beholding project – maybe what powered the Institute in the first place? Was “the Fear/feeling of being watched” originally from the prisoners who couldn’t know when they were actually seen?), Robert Smirke was involved in their construction, even Jurgen Leitner (who had lived down there for years) wasn’t absolutely sure of the way they worked, Elias agreed to allow Jon to keep exploring them when he used… very Beholding-aligned arguments (“I need to know!”, MAG067); there is still the mystery of the “ring” of worms found by Tim and then Jon… and Martin was suspecting that Peter was mainly interested in them:

(MAG138) MARTIN: I don’t know what he’s talking about when he mentions Millbank. The old prison, I guess? Tim said the tunnels under the Institute were all that was left of it, but… Jon said he’d checked them pretty thoroughly. [SILENCE] [SIGH] I’m not the one who knows all about this stuff…! I wish– … No. No, it’s fine, I’m… fine, I… [EXHALE] I can do this. I don’t know what Peter’s planning, but my-my guess is that it might involve something below the Institute.

The tunnels have been… there, in season 4, too: it’s where Basira&Melanie took shelter, and Basira has been cautious about them (MAG125, Basira: “Got a camp bed at the other end, near the tunnels. I like to keep an eye on them.”); it’s where Jon and Basira operated on Melanie; judging from the sounds, it’s where Helen’s door has occasionally been (MAG131).

- Aaaaaaaaaand Martin is putting up his own death flags:

(MAG151) MARTIN: Look, I don’t have time for this. I–I don’t like that I have to work with Peter any more than you do, and I didn’t know that Simon was involved until today. But I would hope that you and Jon understood the importance of preventing an apocalypse. BASIRA: [SIGH] I guess I’m just a bit burned out on the end of the world. MARTIN: Yeah, well… that’s your problem. BASIRA: And if you really think this whole Extinction thing is it… why not come to us for help? MARTIN: I can’t. Peter’s the one with the plan, and… it needs me to be alone. […] I need to do this. For everyone. [SILENCE] BASIRA: You’re not expecting to come out of this, are you? MARTIN: … I’ll do what I have to. If I’m right… no one else needs to get hurt. [SILENCE] BASIRA: [SIGH] … Okay. You want to do whatever “grand sacrifice” you think is going to save everyone, go ahead. But you’d best be sure you’re not just playing their game. MARTIN: I know what I’m doing. BASIRA: We’ll see. [PAUSE] Don’t make me regret this. MARTIN: Yeah… [PAUSE] Don’t… tell Jon. [SILENCE] Please. BASIRA: Fine. I can’t promise you he won’t just know it, though.

… on the one hand: the fact that Martin is expecting it to happen, is getting ready to die… could mean that, precisely, it won’t happen, and he will come out of it somehow. On the other hand: Tim was spitting out his own death flags until the end (MAG116, MAG117, MAG118), was downright saying that he wasn’t expecting to come out of The Unknowing alive, even said that he wasn’t sure he wanted to survive it, and it didn’t prevent him from going out with a bang. On the third hand: it already happened with Tim, so rip Tim but Martin could be… different.

I have no idea. I think that for Martin, surviving while others die and/or surviving without having managed to achieve his goals is probably a worst outcome (meaning, more likely to happen) than sacrificing himself and reaching his objective in the process. He’s adopted the stance of sacrificing himself from a distance for a while: with his mother (she was refusing his visits), with Basira&Melanie (he accepted Peter’s deal to protect them and the Institute from external threats), plus now for Jon (he went to talk to Elias in MAG138, he has accepted to discuss with Daisy in MAG142, with Georgie in MAG149, now with Basira in MAG151… but Jon had been off-limits in MAG129). That, or… becoming something that would have hurt, or has to hurt innocents to survive.

(Does he even think that he matters for them? Basira had described to Jon that Martin had been in a very bad place after his mother’s death, and Elias had confronted him about the fact that she didn’t care about him two months prior. Begging Jon for help while he was in his coma in the trailer also didn’t result in anything; Martin had confirmation that he wouldn’t receive any help. But I… don’t think that Martin is aware of how much Jon has been impacted by his absence this season – would it make him reconsider/waver about the self-sacrificing bit…?)

- Basira agreed to not tell Jon but. She was the one staying behind with the tape at the end of the episode (Martin was the one to leave, while Basira was sighing).

The tape could disappear on its own but… so far… it means that it’s now in Basira’s possession. Would “giving the tape to Jon” count as “not telling him directly”.

- Currently: Jon is going cold turkey and still “hungry” and “weak”; Melanie is risking a slow death by Eye-deprivation, à la Tim in season 3 (his attempt to flee to Malaysia); Daisy has stopped Hunting as well (… although Jon’s “Daisy is… [PAUSE] [SIGH] Yeah. She’s managing.” from MAG148 makes me incredibly worried: was it to point out that their circumstances were different? Was it about a relapse that only Jon knows about? Was it about Daisy being actually slowly dying from the deprivation, like the people in MAG112?); Basira is deep into paranoia territory; and now, Martin… is going for a self-sacrifice.

That’s. Not a pretty picture right now, and the question goes back to “who will die first”.

(And I’m really not sure that Jon wouldn’t give up the “trusting Martin” trajectory and do something rash, if he learns about Martin’s plan to… not come back. Melanie already announced that she was ready to die: from Jon’s point of view, he’s been seeing the assistants disappear or going for their deaths. Sasha died because of the table that Jon wanted to keep. Screaming at Tim “I knew none of us might be coming back, and I’m not gonna let anyone get killed for nothing!” and “I am not losing you as well!!” (MAG118) still didn’t prevent Tim’s death. Martin is the last one of the original assistants and… so far, Martin’s plans had been based on the idea of everyone making it out alive at the end: imprisoning Elias was the way he had found to keep him away without risking to die with him. Right now, Jon&the others are apparently waiting for Martin to get on with his plan, but… probably on the assumption that Martin is planning to come back to them once he’s done. And it’s now officially not the case.)

MAG152’s title is a funny one considering that we’re bidding goodbye to the Kanto dex to head into the Johto region and it’s thus “the Chikorita episode” (the title is… quite fitting for Chikorita) /o/

I’d say End (nothing since Oliver; would Jon mention him in the post-statement…?), Corruption (so… unloved…) or Buried (… DIG/the tunnels?)? Or Lonely again?

[irondadgroupie]

Bohemian Rhapsody: Chapter 7

A/N: Caring for a comatose patient, Tony and May bonding, one of the two was not originally in our to-do-list @intoresus

May was curled up in her chair, dozing off, relaxed by the soft humming Tony supplied. Peter's heartbeat was calm and slow.  

“How did you know it?” May couldn't help asking. She'd been battling herself but couldn't take the quiet anymore. Tony blinked and raised his head.  

“What?”  

“Earlier when I was sucking the breathing tube clean, you told me to stop it then.”  

“Yeah, sorry, I shouldn't have-”  

“No, no,” May shook her head and planted her feet on the ground, her lower back was getting sore. “You were right. It's just that medicine isn't your field.”  

“I'm a curious person.”  

“Noted, but that was quite specific knowledge.”  

Tony lifted Peter's left hand and began to rub the boy's fingers. “When I have downtime, I read medical articles about coma patients and how to care for them. There are some excellent educational videos about different procedures.”  

May nodded, a bit surprised by the revelation. She wondered when Tony had time to do that. Did the man even sleep?  

“I shouldn't have stepped on your toes, May.”  

“No, it's okay, I was just shocked.”  

They were silent for a moment.  

“You know, things like that can't be learnt from books.”  

“I understand and I won't be in the way anymore,” Tony admitted.

“No, no,” May shook her head. “I might not be here every time so it's good you learn how to do everything. I can teach you, or at least try. If it looks like you are not getting the hang of it, the task rests on my shoulders. That good?”  

Tony smiled. “Sounds good.”

May was still hesitant, but had to admit that Tony was putting all his effort in doing whatever she told him as perfectly as possible, without ever once getting impatient or careless. His voice was always soft, and he explained to Peter what he was doing in excessive detail, no matter how minor it was.

“Tugging you in tight. I know you like sleeping like a burrito,” Tony cooed as the adults silently co-operated the blanket. May helped him by wrapping the right sight of the blanket around her nephew’s small body, so that Tony could focus mainly on the left one. “And it keeps you all warm and cozy.”  

May smiled sadly. “I never understood how he can sleep like that.”

“It’s not like he actually sleeps in that position,” Tony rolled his eyes. “He closes his eyes, falls asleep, and as soon as he does, he starts freeing himself. I usually find most of the blanket towering over the floor.”  

Tony paused, looking up. “But I guess that’s nothing I have to tell you.”

May shook her head with a sad smile: “Not really, no. I really have my own share of stories when it comes to Peter.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Tony slumped back into the chair, taking a deep breath in.

“Bet you don’t know he can snore like a sawmill on a good day.” May laughed quietly, partly at the memory and partly at the sight of Tony’s bewildered expression.

“He does?”

“Did. Not that much since the Spider-manning started, if that’s what he’s calling it. But he used to when he was starting to get sick.”  

She turned away, trying to blink away a sudden rush of tears. “We have a small flat, you know? And after a particularly rough day at work, it was pretty hard to fall asleep with an electric drill in the next room. But right now... I’d happily listen to snores twice as loud instead of this.”

“Me too,” Tony admitted quietly. He lowered his head, eyes focused on the sight of Peter, his kid, unconscious and helpless. “I’d be damn happy to have him walk through the lab doors, rambling at a speed quicker than light about things I have no idea of - without him ever taking a breath once.”

“Yeah, he can have quite exhausting monologues sometimes.”

“Quite some -“ Tony huffed, half a smile gracing his lips. “Let me show you something.”  

He grabbed his StarkPad and quickly searched for the file he had in mind. He flipped the screen so that May could see the video recording of a very enthusiastic Peter almost running down to the lab, dropping his bag while giving a speech about black holes and how they meant that time was both a finite and an infinite concept and how it was being a paradox from probably greater value than every other astrological and physical phenomenon combined.

“I was nodding in agreement, but I had to listen to the recording after he left to understand at least half of what he was telling me.” Tony turned for Peter, squeezing the kid’s hand fondly. “Sorry kiddo, but I fear I’m getting too old to follow someone at your speed.”

Peter did not respond, the mechanical breaths only movements he gave.

“At least you got the gist of it.” May countered after a silent moment both reserved for the young man alone. “I’ve never had a perk for science, so most of what he’s saying feels like he’s speaking another language. Not to mention that I sometimes watch him doing his homework and realize that I would have no idea how to solve anything.”

Tony hemmed in agreement: “Believe me or not, I went to MIT and sometimes find myself frowning at some of the problems when we’re doing his homework.”

May raised her eyebrows. “You help with his homework?”  

Tony gave half a shrug as he closed the tablet and set it back on the table “Occasionally. When he’s having questions on it. Has gotten somewhat of a coming in rite - once he’s finished his monologue, of course. We’re usually having a lot of fun with it, don’t we?”

Peter didn't give an answer but Tony and May still acted like he was an active participant in any conversation.  

“You're gonna have a lot of homework to catch up on,” Tony stroked the boy's hair. He lifted his eyes to meet May's. “I have no idea how long he is going to be in coma and then the recovery- I read it can take weeks or even months.”  

“Yes, it's very individual,” May nodded. “He might have to skip the semester.”  

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” The man bit his lip. “Maybe I can bring his school books here and read them aloud.”  

“Yes, because that is every teenager’s dream: History lessons while hooked on a ventilator.”  

“Maybe not anything boring,” Tony saw the point,” but sciences. Spanish texts, Italian books. I could go and buy the latest Science Journals. Does Peter like medicine?”

“Not until a few weeks ago.”  

The remark hung in the air between the two adults like the metaphorical sword of Damocles. May had said the words without a conscious thought but the accusation resonated in her voice nonetheless. A part of her wanted to apologize: she was not oblivious to the pain and guilt in Tony’s eyes whenever he looked at Peter. But she wasn’t ready to let her guard down and definitely not yet ready to believe that things had been a mere coincidence.

Tony swallowed hard and tried to buy time. He was playing versions of apologies in his head until he realized that none of them sounded convincing. If somebody harmed Peter, even indirectly, there was no kind of apology Tony would accept.

At the same time, he couldn’t deal with the reproaches either. He looked at Peter.

“Yeah, medicine has been an interesting mental field trip, kid. Who knows. maybe you’ll even settle for medical engineering when the time comes?

The ventilator hushed a wordless response. Tony leaned forward and grabbed Peter’s hand while giving a small kiss on his knuckles.

“I still remember the day you came up with the idea,” The man’s voice was soft as he reminisced, for a moment not plagued with guilt. “Right out of the blue, while working on the webbing formula. I thought you were just playing around, seeing how sticky and imperishable you had made the webs. You got some stuck on your hair,” Tony chuckled and caressed the place the substance had rested on like the most devilish gum drop. “I had to give you a haircut. And it took forever to get the stuff out of your hands.”

The man shifted in his position and closed his eyes, trying to focus. “Who could’ve guessed you suddenly had bigger things in mind than mere Spiderman?”

“He always wanted to change the world for the better.” May said, her fingers gently tracing her nephew’s facial features. She remembered well how Peter had come home, eager and words falling out of his mouth.

“He already has.” Tony corrected. “And he will.”  

He looked away while saying the following sentences. He had to tell Peter, even if it meant possibly increasing May’s anger. “The final formula you designed is in testing stage right now. I don’t have the results just yet but if it didn’t look promising, we would’ve definitely been informed already.”

Before May could huff her disbelief over the pronoun “we”, Tony was again talking.

“I’ll keep you tuned if they leave me any messages for you. And don’t you worry your pretty little head if they send it back to us with twenty pages of issues the testing brought up. No good invention has worked properly at the first try.”  

After installing the life lesson, Tony forced himself to smile and squeezed the boy’s hand. “But no matter what happens, keep working, don’t give up, because this could very well revolutionize the field of applied biological chemistry.”

“He will,” May’s eyes flashed at Tony. Her demeanor switched 180 as she looked down on her nephew. “You will, sweetheart.”

“May.” Tony sighed, his eyes on Peter. He had to maintain his temper, Peter need peace, his heart was weak, he was so weak. “I made a mistake, alright? And you can be sure that I’ll be beating myself up for that for the rest of my life. It was my car, I drove it and I should’ve held the wheel straight but couldn’t.”  

The man raised his glance, forcing himself to look at May. “I can never put into words how sorry I am. Never. But I didn’t do it on purpose. It was an awful accident that’s going to haunt my nightmares forever. And if you can’t believe that I could never do that to Peter as it is, then I guess the only chance I have of convincing you is to tell that this project won’t work without Peter.”  

Tony’s eyes wandered to the kid again, tears of pride and pain stinging. “Honestly, I’ve lost track of the details of the formula. I’ve seen it work, and I know the basic science that makes it work but the details are beyond my scientific horizon now.”

“You can’t be serious about -“

“I am.” Tony disagreed vehemently. “He had the basic formula for the webs he uses down before we even met. Secretly made solemnly with the material that his chem class could supply. Believe me when I say that he outsmarted me with that feat alone. When I want to invent something, I just order the material.” The man shrugged. “All I ever wanted was to give him a place where his ingenuity could blossom in the best way possible.”

May found herself just staring at Tony, at the visible tear tracks on his face, even if the man tried to wipe them away. Tony was inhaling air heavily in an attempt not to sob. She tried to swallow all the new information. The fact that Tony helped Peter with his homework just as much as the fact that he was still there, sitting at her boy’s bedside, using the time reading journals when he should be sleeping and watching videos just to know how to take care of her nephew. Finally, she could look beyond the curtain of her own grief.

“Tony?”  

The man looked at her, eyes holding the guilt and worry from all the previous days.  

“I believe you.”

The sentence was simple, too simple maybe, but it was enough to have the last ice between the two adults melt.

“Huh,” Tony stated after reading an article in a Medicine Journal aloud. “You live, you learn. But again, engineering is my specialty, not human anatomy.”  

The man tossed the journal to the bedside table, almost knocking over a vase of flowers. Pepper had practically bought out a flower shop: all kinds of plants inhabited every corner, window shelf and table. Tony both appreciated and hated the gesture.

The fumes were relaxing and he had a fun time moving Peter's fingers over different textures on petals. He would stroke the boy’s face with leaves and bring the buds close to his nose, in hopes that the aroma would awaken his brain.

But again, flowers dying was a cruel reminder of how long they had been here, how long this had been their normal. It had been too long since Peter had opened his eyes, since that day on the shore he had gotten the boy's breathing back and clutched him in his arms. Tony had thought after that the worst was over but no.  

The man sniffed and wiped his eyes. Peter needed positive attitude, not pity.

“You want to take a nap?” Tony asked softly while stroking the boy's hair. It was ridiculous to ask it but he wanted, needed to keep up some resemblance of normal day rhythm. And around this time of the day Peter’s crazy metabolism would require the boy to crash and take a short rest from the stress of the day.

Tony frowned and stroked a strand of hair between his fingers. The usually soft, slightly rough curls were slick and matted. Tony grimaced. “You need a bath. Yeah, it's about time. I'll take it up with May when she comes back from her break.”

An hour later, May opened the door, freshened up and carrying a tray of food. “Pepper asked me to bring you this.”  

“Just leave it on the table.”  

May raised an eyebrow. “Tony, if you don't eat, you'll get sick. If you get sick, you can't be here because Peter is extremely vulnerable to any kind of germs and diseases.”  

The man grunted and offered his arms. “Fine,” He took the tray and started nibbling on meatballs and mashed potatoes.  

May sat in another chair and planted a kiss on the boy's hair. “Hello, sweetie. You need a bath.”

“Just told him that,” Tony began to get his appetite back. His stomach was screaming for meat. “I can do it, just talk me through the motions.”  

“Yeah, no,” May shook her head. “The nurses are here for it.”  

“Why pass it on to them?” Tony did not see anything wrong with the issue. His mouth was half-full and he placed a hand over it discreetly. ” They have enough work as it is.”  

“Yes, but I would rather they do it.”  

Tony raised an eyebrow. “It's nothing to me, May. I have seen him naked before, we are both male, what is the big deal?”  

May sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  

“Try to think it from Peter's point of view, would he like you to wash him up?”

Tony crossed his arms. “What about you? Whom would you choose more: Me, a trustworthy adult who loves the kid to the moon and back or some sleazy old woman who would probably fantasize about the kid's body and do who knows what?” 

“Okay, first of all, there is nothing sexual about washing a comatose person and two, yes, I would rather it's someone Peter doesn't know.”

“May, that’s really irrational. I don’t think -“Tony interrupted himself. Even after only a few days, he could instantly hear if something about Peter’s condition had changed. May seemed to recognize it too, now that the room was silent aside of the sounds of the ventilator and the steady beeping of the monitor, in a quicker pace than usual.

“You don’t like it when we fight, do you?” She asked, fingers stroking Peter’s cheek in an attempt to calm him. Tony was immediately down on earth too.

“Sorry kiddo.” He whispered, hand moving to take Peter’s, kissing the kid’s knuckles, he’d learned it relaxed the boy a lot. “We didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll sort it out.”  

May frowned at him, gaze steady and leaving no doubt that she wouldn’t give in to Tony’s plea no matter how rational he made it sound.

“Fine.” The man complied. He didn’t like it, however, putting Peter under any more stress was not worth winning this argument. “But I want to oversee them washing his hair. It’s a delicate process with the breathing tube and the weakened neck muscles, and I want to make sure none of the nurses are too distracted to do it properly.” 

In the first days, May would’ve disagreed with him, trying to explain that he was overly careful, but time had taught her that it was a blind end. Tony cared for Peter so much that no rational argument could be used to change his mind.

“Keep your hands behind his neck!” Tony ordered, heart thumping hard in his chest while he watched. He hated the risk of Peter suffering a spinal damage - even if it was minor and more than unlikely - just because some of the nurses made a reckless mistake. Next time the physiotherapist would visit, he definitely needed to have a talk with them about how to strengthen the kid’s neck too, because that’d only get more important in the long run. Until then, he had to endure the torture of helplessly watching until the nurses finished their work.

Thirty minutes later, nurses were gone and Tony was drying up the water droplets from Peter’s ears.

“There you go, kiddo. All clean and fresh. Feels good, huh?”

“It sure does.” May said, smiling, ruffling the now finally washed hair. The nurses had listened to her when she’d asked them not to brush it neatly. Now, he at least looked a little like her boy again. “I have a surprise for you, too.”  

Tony raised an eyebrow, smiling. He knew Peter loved surprises. Good ones, at least.

May rummaged in her bag, and retrieved a stuffed animal. It took Tony a while, but he recognized it as Roo, the little kangaroo kid from Winnie Pooh, looking like it had been loved for a few years.

“Remember? Ben bought it for you when you had that really awful flu and watched the new movie all day long.” She gently moved it along Peter’s fingers, intending him to feel the plushy texture and love. “You didn’t go anywhere without it afterwards, especially not when you were sick.”  

Tony saw her lips twitch with emotion and didn’t dare disturb the moment. But May wasn’t finished yet. 

“Brought something else too. Although that’s probably something Tony and I will enjoy a little more.” 

The next thing May had in store was an old photo album. 

“He has been sharing some of his good memories, so I thought it’s only fair if we show him some of ours? I brought your favorite album” She told Peter and waited a few seconds before turning to Tony. Normally the two adults took places on both sides of Peter’s bed. Now, however, the boy had been positioned on his side to hopefully avoid bed sores. May and Tony sat beside each other, both facing the boy.  

It’s the only one with some pictures of his parents in it, “May explained and Tony nodded understandingly. Peter didn’t really talk much about his biological parents, given that his aunt and uncle had been more of a family to him than they ever could, but he had once found the boy scamming some very old audio recordings of Richard Parker and Mary Fitzpatrick. “I... don’t want to forget how their voices sounded, you know?”  

Tony could only assume how hard it must be for a teenager that has lost his parents at an infant age to find a balance between moving on and mourning a loss far beyond his comprehension.

“You’re one of the people that thinks newborns look like old potatoes, aren’t you?” May remarked, closely observing Tony’s reaction to yet another ‘newly welcomed to the world’ Peter in the arms of his mother. He was about to say something on the contrary but May only laughed. “It’s fine, really. Infants do look like unpeeled potatoes. Even Peter.” She squeezed the boy’s hand. “But you were an extraordinary cute little vegetable.” 

Pictures of 2001 passed, then 2002 and the following years, and Tony saw a change in the facial expression of that once happy rambling, chaotic little toddler that May had described. As if the light in the bright eyes was suddenly missing. 

“He didn’t know what was happening. He cried, all day, all night, asking for his mom and dad.” She explained, sighing. “It’s been a decade, but I still remember the first time he smiled afterwards.” The next page revealed a picture of a roughly four-year-old, curly-haired Peter, face covered in ice-cream, obviously giggling. All hearts in the room melted and May smiled while telling Peter which picture she was showing his mentor.

“And I’m sure you’re going to love these ones, too.”

The following ten pages were all scrambled with pictures of a young Peter at Stark Expo: Eyes glistening with joy whilst pressing his face against the glass surrounding the exhibits, broad smile on his face posing next to a life-sized cardboard stand-up of Iron Man. Tony felt another wave of tears welling up at the admiration in the kid’s soft, brown eyes. If Peter didn’t idolize him so much, he probably wouldn’t be where he was now, but instead having a sleepover with Ned, like any normal sixteen-year-old. He should never have-

“It was probably the greatest thing that ever happened to him at that time. He just wouldn’t stop talking about it, ever. Imagine how hard it was to get him to sleep that evening. I could still hear him whisper about what he’s seen at two the next morning.” May went on, forcing Tony to get his mind away from blaming himself.

The distance in time between pictures became wider in the following years, but the most important moments were still captured: School events, Christmas eves, the hugs following. And then, yet again, there was a change in the pictures, more subtle in the face of the teenager, but still there. Faked smiles in the rare pictures taken of him.

“We... had a lot to deal with. I still do, and I assume Peter has, too. Maybe that’s why I never realized it and couldn’t help. Neither with his grief nor with the superhero identity. So, I guess I really have to thank you for taking him under your wings. Both him and Spiderman.”

“May I -“

“No. I mean it. That internship - working with you - has made him become more like the boy he used to be. Happier. You helped him find a mental balance and purpose again. These last couple of weeks, before the accident, have been the first time I’ve seen him at the top of his game ever since Ben died.”  

May paused, clearing her throat. “Certainly, it cheers me up, too. Although, I don’t know if there’s a single sticky note without a chemical formula on it left in our apartment.”

That was certainly something Tony could relate to.

“You think I have any clean napkins left?” The man chuckled.

“You care about napkins?” May teased. “I was doing laundry and found a note on one of his socks!”

“Ever seen a formula written in letter-shaped noodles?” Tony returned, finding himself grinning at the memory of Peter eating two bowls of hot soup just because he was searching for a ‘2’

“Ever seen your living room covered in schematic blueprints from door to window?”  

The competition went on for a little while longer, given that Peter had taken the saying “never leave a good idea waiting” very literally. 

The good mode broke when both of them slowly sunk back from joyful memories to the reality of machines beeping around them.

“So... Steak formula was the last one?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, but his eyes were fixed on Peter’s face. Ignoring the breathing tube, he could easily pretend the boy was just sleeping peacefully after a rough patrol. “‘Steak formula’?”

“The nickname Pepper and I gave, after the two of you were rude enough to leave the dinner you invited me to halfway through.”  

Tony finally remembered the evening. The pride he had felt warming his body when he heard Peter exclaim “I got it”, knowing that this time, the boy didn’t just have another idea how to fix the issues they were having – Peter had fixed them.

“It is. As of now, at least.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“Sure.” Tony leaned forward, grabbing for Peter’s hand, massaging the boy’s fingers. “And if not, he’ll just continue to work on it until it does.”

[probably-not-star-lord]

Guardians of the Galaxy Volume Two: Part 7 (Peter Quill x Reader)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

A/N: I’m sorry it took me a little longer than expected to post part seven but I hope you enjoy it! Also PLEASE keep sending me asks and stuff in my inbox cause they are so fun to answer while I’m writing. Thanks loves!!

Warnings: swearing, mild violence, fluff if you squint

-

You and Peter join the others on the ship just as Drax and Rocket bicker over if Rocket is really helping. 

"We had it under control!" Drax argues.

Just before Rocket can reply, Mantis speaks up. "We did not." She shakes her head. "That is only an extension of his true self. He will be back soon."

Ignoring Mantis' warning, Peter notices Nebula the second he steps into the ship. "What's Smurfette doing here?" he asks.

"Whatever I need to do to get a damn ride home," she answers.

"She tried to murder me!" Rocket exclaims.

Nebula rolls her eyes. "I saved you, you stupid fox!"

"He's not a fox, Nebula," you correct.

"I am Groot."

"I'm not a baboon, either," Rocket replies.

"I am Groot."

Rocket brushes the correction off. "Raccoon whatever..."

Suddenly, the blue tentacles that were stabbed through Peter only moments ago break free from the ground. More follow as each tentacle rips through the floor until there are several surrounding the ship.

Drax looks outside the window, fear in his eyes. "How do we kill a celestial?"

"There's a center to him," Peter explains. "His brain, his soul, whatever it is...some sort of protective shell."

"It's in the caverns below the surface," Mantis announces.

Peter climbs up to the flight deck, you following not far behind. He notices Yondu flying the ship and is taken aback. "Yondu?"

"Thrusters are out," Yondu delivers as Peter takes a seat next to him. The tentacles wrap around the ship and rock it aggressively, making it hard to stand. Noticing you're wobbling, Peter pulls you onto his lap and holds you close so he can still manage to have his hands on the controls. 

Yondu turns to the two of you and smirks. “You better keep her around, boy, she seems about the only person that knows how to take care of you.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter tells him. “She ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Good. I like her.”

You smile at the surprisingly kind man. “You’re not so bad yourself, Yondu.”

"Guess I should be glad I was a skinny kid," Peter says, the ship rocking continuously. "Otherwise, you'd have delivered me to this maniac."

"You still reckon that's the reason I kept you around, you idiot?"

"That's what you told me, you old doofus."

"Once I figured out what happened to them other kids, I wasn't just gonna hand you over," Yondu assures him, causing you to notice that he has always been the true father figure for Peter. You keep your thoughts to yourself as they argue.

"You said you were gonna eat me!" Peter defends.

"That was being funny!"

"Not to me!"

"You people have issues," Rocket retorts.

"You're telling me," you add, nodding in agreement.

"Well, of course, I have issues," Peter scoffs pointing to the horrifying form that Ego is now. "That's my freaking father!" He plays with a few switches allowing the ship to fly properly again. "Thrusters are back up."

His arms come around you quickly as he grabs the wheel and takes control of the ship. He flies it right through Ego's form and crashes into the window, allowing the ship to fall straight downward. As it falls, Peter leans forward as much as he can, squeezing you close to him to prevent you from falling out of the seat. Screams erupt from the entire ship.

"We should be going up!" Yondu acknowledges.

"We can't! Ego wants to eradicate the universe as we know it. We have to kill him." Peter smiles at you and you realize he's aiming for the ground. You’re going to fight Ego like the countless other people you fought before. "Rocket!"

"Got it!" Rocket nods, turning on the blasters and destroying the ground before your impact with it. As the ship continues to dive down, Rocket continues shooting to make more open space to fly through. Peter lets out a cheerful yelp.

"So, we're saving the galaxy again?" Rocket questions.

Peter turns to you with a smirk. "I guess."

"Awesome!" Rocket renders excitedly. "We're really gonna be able to jack up our prices if we're two-time galaxy savers."

"Rocket! That's really what you're worried about?" you ask the raccoon.

"I seriously can't believe that's where your mind goes." Peter shakes his head.

"It was just a random thought, man. I thought we were friends," Rocket answers. "Of course, I care about the planets, the buildings, and all the animals on the planets."

"And the people," Peter adds.

"Eh," Rocket shrugs.

"The crabby puppy is so cute," Mantis squeals. "He makes me wanna die!"

The ship continues digging downward toward Ego's core. You remain seated on Peter's lap and feel slightly bad that you could be distracting him from piloting the ship. Yet, if he isn't going to say anything or deliberately ask you to move, then you sure as hell are fine right where you are.

"Tell me why Ego wants you here." Yondu demands.

"He needs my genetic connection to the light to help destroy the universe. He tried to teach me how to control the power."

"So, could you?" He inquires.

"A little," Peter says. "I made a ball."

"A ball?"

"I thought as hard as I could. It was all that I could come up with," he clarifies in response.

"You thought?" Yondu laughs. "You think when I make this arrow fly, I use my head?"

Suddenly, the ship smashes right into something, causing a few pieces to fall off as it bounces into a few more rocks that are in the way. You hold onto Peter tighter for stability until the ship slows down and floats. Sitting before you is a red and blue orb with numerous pathways attached to it.

"That's Ego's core," Mantis announces.

"That core is thick, Rocket," Gamora states worriedly.

"I got it covered," Rocket reassures

"We must hurry. It will not take Ego long to find us," Mantis mentions nervously, shaking in her spot. Peter lines the ship up to face the core, therefore signaling Rocket to get the guns ready.

"Keep it steady!" he calls from below, firing up the weapons. The guns blaze and fire right at the core. The bright, fiery light from the impact creates smoke as it burns through the thick shell.

"We drill into the center, we kill him!" Peter exclaims.

The core continues to get a hole burnt right through it and you know you're getting close. A sigh of relief washes over you for the first time in a long time. You are going to be able to go home soon and be back in your normal life with the rest of the Guardians.

The speaker that rests beside Yondu buzzes. "Captain?" A voice says.

"What is it, Kraglin?"

"Hey, remember that Ayesha chick?"

"Yeah, why?"

You and Peter share a look. "Fuck," he mumbles.

"Uh..." Kraglin stutters just as the ship is blasted with countless shots from a Sovereign fleet led by the High Priestess.

"Oh, hell!" Yondu shouts. He and Peter steer the ship away from the core, tearing you away from your desire to head home. As the ship is hit again and again, Drax, Gamora, and Mantis hop out. Luckily, they land on the ground safely.

Peter discovers that no one is defending the ship as it dodges the attack. "Why aren't you firin’ the lasers?" He asks Rocket.

"They blew out the generator,” he explains. “I think I packed a small detonator."

"A detonator is worthless without explosives," Nebula hisses.

"Well, we got these," he says. Peter lifts you off of him and the two of you head below the flight deck to see Rocket holding up the Sovereign's batteries.

"Is that strong enough to kill Ego?" Peter questions.

"If it is, it'll cause a chain reaction throughout his entire nervous system," Rocket discloses.

"Meaning what?"

"The planet will explode," you answer, shocked.

"Yup." Rocket nods. "We'll have to get out of here fast. I rigged a timer."

The three of you line up at the edge of the hole in the ship. Groot hops on Rocket's back as he readies his aero-rig. Peter puts on his mask and activates his own aero-rig. He slaps one onto your back and turns it on, taking your hand in his with a nod.

"Go!" He hollers as you all fly around, avoiding shots from the small aircrafts. Peter directs you into a cave that leads to the core, everyone slamming onto the ground abruptly on impact.

You all stand up with some groans. Rocket turns on a flashlight to illuminate the rest of the cave. "The metal's too thick. For the bomb to work, we'd actually need to place it on Ego's core. And our fat butts ain't gonna fit through those tiny holes." He discloses.

"Well..." Peter yammers, turning down to look at Groot.

You follow his gaze. "I can think of someone who might fit."

Rocket looks back to see the two of you staring at a dumbfounded Groot. He furrows his eyebrows. "That's a terrible idea."

"Which is the only kind of idea we have left," Peter asserts truthfully.

"Unbelievable," Rocket huffs crawling into one of the holes with Groot and the bomb. "'Rocket do this. Rocket do that.'"

Peter takes his mask off and his eyes meet yours. He looks exhausted and you know you're both concerned for each other. "How you holdin’ up?" he asks.

You shrug. "I'm alright I guess. I just...I really want to go back home."

He strides over to you and his hands find themselves at your hips. "We'll be home soon, I promise," he assures you as your arms wrap around his neck. He wiggles his eyebrows with a smirk. "Now that we're alone I want to tell you that your ass on my lap earlier was pleasantly distracting-"

"Peter!" You chuckle with a bright grin on your face.

"But, while you were being super hot and totally distracting, I still somehow managed to fly a spacecraft. So, like, I'm kinda badass," Peter brags obviously, looking to you for validation. "I could be the next Han Solo or somethin'."

"Sure, Peter, you are totally Han Solo," you laugh, placing a quick kiss to his soft lips.

"You can be my Princess Leia."

"For sure," you agree. "And I could remind you all the time that I think you're the most badass man in the entire galaxy. I have no idea how you manage to do it all, Star-Lord."

Peter quietly moans at your words, but your moment alone is interpreted by approaching ships. He takes a step away from you and puts his mask back on. He prepares himself for the two of you to fly outside the cave and kick some Sovereign ass.

"What a day," he exhales, flipping his blasters around in his hands.

"Peter," you state, gaining his attention as you pull him closer to facing you. "I love you."

Those are three words Peter never thought he would hear from a woman in his life. At least, he never thought he would enjoy hearing them. Yet, after all this time has passed since the day he met you, it's the only thing he's been longing to hear. You couldn't keep the way you feel inside anymore, and Peter is so glad you made the unspoken thing so spoken. He grins wildly within his mask. Peter thinks of exactly the right words to say.

"I know."

With that, Peter leaps from the edge and fire profusely at any surrounding ships. Leave it to the man you love to pull a Han Solo right before a deadly battle. Laughing, you jump from the edge and fight alongside him. Your anger from the past few days bubbles to your surface and you feel stress wash away as you take it out by shooting your guns at the enemies.

After several minutes, you land back inside the cave, doubling over as you take a breath. Peter follows quickly behind. He takes off his mask and meets his green eyes with yours. The two of you are breathless.

"I love you too, Y/N," he finally says. "More than you'll ever know."

The both of you share a genuinely sweet smile. It had taken a long time to reach the point of properly communicating your feelings with one another, but you finally did it. You love him. He loves you. Even with the Sovereign attacking you and Ego trying to dominate everything, you feel a sense of peace within the galaxy knowing Peter Quill will always be by your side. You wouldn't have it any other way.

Suddenly, you hear Rocket scolding Groot in the distance and you retreat toward to the smaller caves, Peter following. "Rocket? How's it going?" You ask. "You better not being worrying him!"

The only response is more yelling from Rocket. Peter takes off his mask and glances down to where they are. "Hey, you're makin’ him nervous!"

"Shut up and give me some tape!" He responds. "Does anyone have any tape out there? I wanna put some tape over the death button."

"I don't have any tape. Y/N do you have any tape?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Do you think I have tape on me right now?"

"So...I'm gonna take that as a no."

You shake your head and laugh. "No, I don't have tape, Peter."

Peter puts his mask back on and flies out of the cave. "Lemme check! Yo, Yondu! Do you have a-" An explosion cuts him off. "Do you have any tape? Gamora! Do you have any tape? TAPE! Ah, never mind!" More explosions interrupt his quest for tape and you can't help but snicker to yourself quietly. Only Peter and Rocket would worry about this during a battle. "Drax! Do you have any tape? Yeah! Scotch tape would work! Then why would you ask me if Scotch tape would work, if you don't have any?" He reappears in defeat.

"Let me guess, no one has tape?"

"No, nobody has any tape."

"Not a single person has tape?" Rocket grunts.

"Nope!"

"Did you ask Nebula?"

Peter hesitates, thinking for a moment. "...Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think I heard you ask Nebula," you mutter sarcastically to piss him off.

"I asked Yondu, and she was sitting right next to him!" Peter defends himself.

Rocket groans with an eye roll. "I knew you were lying!"

"You have priceless batteries and an atomic bomb in your bag!" Peter points out, shooting at a few more passing ships. "If anybody's gonna have tape, it's you!"

"That's exactly my point," Rocket spits. "I have to do everything!"

You sigh. "You guys are really wasting a lot of time here."

Peter puts his mask on and goes back to fighting off ships. Just as you're about to follow him, you see Groot snatch the bomb and head for the core. You silently wish that he will know the correct button to press when the time comes. You whip your head back around to focus on the battle, but Peter is nowhere in sight. Your eyes follow where all of the Sovereign crafts are and they're surrounding the ship, Peter laying down on the floor.

"Guardians," you hear Ayesha's voice ring out into space. "Perhaps it will provide you solace that your deaths are not without purpose. They will serve as a warning to all of those tempted with betraying us. Don't screw with the Sovereign."

Your eyes widen in terror as they all fire immensely at the ship, explosion after explosion occurring. The flames grow more and more and you know that the entire ship will blow. You fall to the ground, unable to find your breath all of a sudden. Everyone is so close, this can't be how it ends. Rocket made a stupid mistake and you're all being prevented from saving the entire galaxy from Ego just because of it. You crave Peter by your side, back in this cave or running around asking people for tape. You want him anywhere but where he is right now.

You look up to see them firing lasers, demolishing every single Sovereign ship. Your spirits lift, but only for a mere second. A flaming ship part launches right next to Peter on the ground. You're instantly panicking again and all of your worst fears come true. The ship creates a massive explosion with the glowing, orange flames you have seen too many of today. You just want everything to be over and to go home. You want to be back on the Milano with your best friends. You want to be sleeping in bed next to Peter on a lazy morning again. Is that too much to ask for? Is being with him too good to be true?

Tears fill your eyes and your lip quivers as you search the debris falling from the sky after the explosion. "Peter...Peter!" you scream. But there is no answer.

He didn't make it out.

A/N: I’m sorry this part was short and basically sucked cause it was literally just the plot of the movie. Also, y’all can’t be upset with this cliffhanger cause I assume you have all seen the movie.

Part Eight: Here

taglist: 

@ikbenplant @ggclarissa @octo-cow52 @peterfromtheavengers @londonalozzy @mymandrake @condy-wants-a-cookie @greenarrowhead @spn-is-baee @verkyun @seninjakitey @kiersten-xoxo @lookclosernow @theflash-trash @itskitties4life

[broken-clover]

12 Days of Whump- Delirium

Here we are! And close to Chrimbus, too. Merry Christmas, here’s some more pain. I kid, I kid. I still hope you like this one! Thanks for tuning in, I had a lot of fun with this project!

Day 12 of the 12 days of Whump- Delirium, with Amang!

Sapphire eyes watched intently, keeping close attention on the dozen and a half boys working in front of him. His gaze was just as much worried care as it was calm observance. While the children nailed planks, looped ropes, and drilled holes, he made sure everyone was remaining safe, with no loose extremities getting snagged or nicked or banged up.

“Well done, boys, very well done!” Amane smiled warmly, offering a little clap. “I couldn’t be more proud. We’ll be as good as new in no time! Haruka, watch your sleeve, I don’t want you getting snagged on the tarp.”

“Ok, papa!”

“Sora, try to keep your arm straight when you hammer, it’ll make it easier to aim.”

“Got it, Ama-san!”

The dancer caught a blue-haired old boy as he was walking past with a box of tools. “Madoka?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to step out for a little while, can I trust you to be in charge?”

His dour expression lit up immediately. “Absolutely, sir!”

“Wonderful. Be good while I’m gone.”

As soon as Amane turned and began walking away, he heard Madoka make a panicked squawk. “Yuji, put the saw down right now!!”

He laughed at that, knowing full well that Madoka was overreacting as he tended to. Amane didn’t even break his gait as he walked away from the half-repaired caravan and towards the nearest building. Ronin-gai really was a pretty little place. He really would have liked to visit more often, when they weren’t using it as a place of refuge while the caravan was being fixed. The locals were always good at making them feel welcome. He attributed it at least in part to the open-hearted nature of their leader, even if that was a little biased.

The house he entered was simple, modest. There was very little obstructing Amane between the front stoop and the bedroom. The feeling of tatami under his feet was familiar as he kicked his geta off by the entrance. It had become an odd kind of comfort, a sensation associated with a familiar place and a familiar face.

The bedroom’s curtains were pulled back, letting in the sight of the afternoon sun and falling leaves. Amane hardly paid the sight a look as he knelt down by the bed and reached for a wet cloth.

“This one’s gotten warm, hmm?”

He dropped it in the bowl by his side, fishing around and pulling out another one that was less warm to the touch. After wringing it out to keep the material from dripping, Amane replaced the one he’d taken. Almost immediately after, he had to move to put it back in place, due to the displeased squirming underneath.

Amane frowned. “Bang, please hold still.”

He got no reply, of course, because the man was still half-conscious as best. It didn’t stop Amane from talking to him either way. “I’m going to replace the bandage now, so just try and stay calm. I promise it’ll only hurt for a minute or two.”

He tugged down the blanket that he’d tossed over Bang after the last time. The arm nearest him was wrapped in a stained bandage, which he eyed with concern and faint disgust. Despite his hesitance, he unpinned the end and began unraveling the material.

The task gradually grew more difficult as more came off. Even without being awake, Bang started wriggling and squirming, which only made the whole ordeal take longer. Amane tried not to flinch as the layers grew more soaked underneath, with rust-colored flakes of dried blood flaking off onto the tatami.

“Oh, Bang…”

With a bit of morbid curiosity, the dancer leaned in a little, slender fingers lightly fanning over the too-warm, reddened skin. He didn’t dare drift too close to the large chunk of flesh that was missing, more than slightly due to the unpleasant-smelling muck that stained the wound.

Amane discarded the old bandage immediately, using his Drive to summon some extra fabric. He continued to glance at the injury between measurements, trying to determine how long to make the new strand.

“Don’t I always tell you to not be so reckless? I’m just trying to look out for you.” The man sighed, slicing off the end of the new material with one of his hairpins. “...Then again, you did save my boys. I think Koichi would have lost his whole arm if you hadn’t jumped in the way.”

One end of the strand was carefully placed by the wound’s edge, and he began wrapping it back up. “I’m not sure why bandits keep trying to attack us. Perhaps now they’ll learn not to try. Even if they do bring wolfhounds with them…”

He laughed a little at his own poor joke, but it petered out in the otherwise quiet room. Amane leaned over to stroke a warm cheek, burying fingers in the shaggy sideburns.

“Litchi will be here soon with the antibiotics. Just hold out a little longer for me, okay? You’re strong, I know you can do this. Please.”

As he finished wrapping up the infected wound, he felt muscles tensing under his touch. He tried to be gentler, thinking that the roughness was making the injured man recoil in pain, he pulled back in shock when Bang started sitting up, rubbing at his eyes with his good arm.

A moment later, he caught sight of Amane.

“T-Tenjo-sama?”

Amane tried to push him back down, gently but firmly. “It’s alright. Just lie still.”

The ninja complied, but he continued to stare with wide, feverish eyes. After a moment, he began tearing up.

“Oh, no, no…” Amane’s face fell. “Shh-shh-shh, it’s alright. You’re alright.”

“Ten-Tenjo-sama…”

He tried to think of something to say. How bad had the fever gotten? “She’s busy right now. She’ll be back as soon as she can. I’ll look after you until then, alright? I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

In spite of his efforts, Bang sat back up. And to Amane’s eternal confusion, despite his teary eyes, he began to smile.

“Tenjo-sama! Tenjo-sama! You came back!”

“I- what?” Even with all the oddness he had seen, Amane was utterly lost. He’d heard Bang mention his beloved master before, but he didn’t have much to piece together aside from her cruel death and the fact that Bang had a great fondness and respect for her. He assumed, though the infection and fever, the man had gotten a little delirious and begun hallucinating.

He was proven wrong rather quickly, as a pair of arms wrapped around his lithe body is a bone-crushing hug. “I missed you so much! You’re finally back!”

Amane glanced around, not entirely sure how to react. He managed to push Bang off and briefly looked over his arm, just to make sure the bleeding hadn’t worsened.

The ninja tilted his head, a smile still on his face. “Aren’t you happy to see me, Tenjo-sama?”

“Ah...y-yes, that’s right. Were you good while I was out?” Amane spat out without really thinking.

He nodded fiercely. “Uh-huh! I did all my lessons! And I’m getting better at climbing walls! I managed to scale the west edge without falling once!” His grin somehow grew even wider. “So you know what that means!”

The dancer put on a nervous smile. “O-of course I do, Bang!”

“Pat my head! I did good, so that means I get a head-pat!”

In spite of the confusion and awkwardness of it, Amane had to stifle a laugh of his own as he ruffled Bang’s hair. He seemed positively elated by it, practically bouncing in place.

“Haha! I missed you so much, Tenjo-sama! I’ve got a bunch of stuff to tell you!”

Amane figured, if he kept the man talking, he wouldn’t do anything reckless. And if he was very lucky, it would tire him out enough to make him go back to sleep.

“Oh? Why don’t you tell me everything, Bang?”

“Ok! Ok!” He clapped his hands together. “I met a really cool new friend! His name’s Amane-kun! And he’s got pretty purple hair just like yours!”

He was starting to put the pieces together. It seemed that in his delirious mind, he looked just enough like Tenjo to have them confused. It took him far too long to recognize the rest of what had been said.

“You think I- that he’s ‘cool?’”

“Uh-huh! Amane-kun is super super cool! He’s got a fancy scarf too! Not as cool as my hero scarf, but he can do magic with his, and I can’t do that!”

Amane was torn between blushing and laughter, so he did a bit of both. “Aww. He sounds interesting. Is he nice?”

“Mmm…” Bang paused. “A little scary. But he’s really nice when you get to know him! We sparred under the big tree the other day!”

He could vaguely recall that fight from a few months back. He also distinctly remembered the part where they both crashed into each other, with him landing on top of Bang in a very...awkward position.

“Well, I’m very glad you’re making new friends, Bang.”

“I really like Amane-kun! He’s awesome! He can fight and is really pretty and he dances with a bunch of people, an- and he promised to show me sometime!”

That Amane recalled much more thoroughly. In fact, it had been the reason they’d been heading that direction in the first place. He had finally wanted to put on a show at Ronin-gai.

If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Bang was blushing. But with the fever, it was difficult to tell. “Are you alright?”

“Can I marry Amane-kun?”

“Wh- I-” The dancer was at a loss for words, with a blush of his own overtaking his face.

Bang hardly seemed to notice, turning away and picking at one of the tatami panels by his bed. With a few attempts, he managed to pull it back, and retrieved something from a crevice underneath.

He gave Amane a conspiratorial look as he turned back around, keeping something concealed in his big hands. “Can I show you something super-super secret?”

“I...of course you can, Bang. You can always trust me.”

With shaking hands, the ninja revealed a little blue box. He flipped the top open, revealing a beautiful silvery ring, set with a glimmering sapphire stone.

“I wanna marry Amane-kun! Then we can be heroes and dance together and stuff!”

Amane felt like he was experiencing something he wasn’t meant to. He suddenly felt much more aware of the fact that he was more-or-less impersonating someone who had been dead for at least a decade and being privy to his own surprise proposal. Then again, he wasn’t sure just how much of it had to be real, and what had to be fever-induced babbling. The ring was clear as day, though. Was it really for him? Could it be?

Just as quickly, Bang closed the box and stashed it back away. “Shhhh! You can’t tell him! It’s super-secret!”

Still, Amane nodded. “Of course. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Haha! Thanks, Tenjo-sama!”

Before the dancer would think of something else to say, he watched Bang stretch, letting out a noisy yawn. He flinched, grabbing at the bandaged portion of his arm.

“Bang, are you alright?”

“I think I hurt myself today.” He replied, tone swiftly saddening. “I think I hurt myself real bad, Tenjo-sama. Am I gonna die?”

With a little smile of his own, Amane reached out to pat his head again. “No, Bang. Just as long as you get plenty of sleep. Can you do that for me?”

He nodded affirmatively, though it was sluggish. “Can I sleep in your lap again?”

Amane tried not to go red again. “You’ve gotten awfully big. I don’t think you’ll fit.” He noticed the man slump immediately. “Ah- um, but you can rest your head on me, if you’d like! But you’ve got to go to sleep right away.”

That seemed to be enough of a compromise. “Ok!

He moved to help guide the man down, to make sure he didn’t slip or hit his head on anything. While initially a bit hesitant about the concept, Amane found the feeling remarkably pleasant. Bang found a comfortable spot leaning up against the other man’s leg, and quickly settled down.

“G’night…Tenjo-sama...”

Amane let his fingers get buried in dark brown hair once again, gently petting it until Bang fell asleep in his lap.

[letstrysomefanfic]

Frostbit PART 3 (Peter Parker x Reader)

Word Count: 3.1k (wow what a doozy)

Warnings: there’s a robot attack on the school which I just realized, in the way I wrote, it might be triggering so be aware of that, swearing, fighting, mention of death

Request: n/a

A/N: woweeee it’s been waayyyyy too long, about two months AT LEAST for original writing in general and more than that for a writing from THIS series. anyway been rly pushing to get this one out (as it’s been sitting in my head for you-would-not-believe-how-long) I’m gonna try get part 2 to YCHHW out within these next few days, some of those fic requests that have been staring at my face for the past few months, and maybe even my first drabble too? (if you have requests for those please do send in i rly want to do one but ideas = 0000) 

anyway hope you enjoy! (sorry the ending isn’t very exciting but it’s late and i’m v tired so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

EDIT: Edited this to change it from specifically fem!reader to gender inclusive, and also grammar stuff

Part 1   Part 2   Part 4

Peter did not end up running into ‘Pretty Much Elsa’ that night, nor the night after, nor the night after that. In fact, a whole month had gone by without any sight of the ice-masked vigilante.

“Ok so they’re probably just, like, really good at hiding from camera’s.”

“You already said that, Ned, but what if something happened, you know?” Peter muttered. “They’re kind of a newbie at this, and it’s a pretty dangerous gig.”

Ned shrugged, “Well they did say that they’ve been icing-it-up for what, four months? And after all that time there was only 20 seconds of footage! And you’d only seen them that one time too, so…?”

“They said three months,” Peter muttered. “But I dunno man. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Maybe if you set a fire somewhere, they’d definitely have to go right? Because them having ice and all that and ice could beat fire—OH! Maybe they’re like a type of like hybrid water bender, but instead—”

Peter shut his locker. “I’m not gonna start any fires, Ned!” He tried to avoid the weird looks from a passing group of girls. He started walking down the hall, turning his head a little towards Ned following alongside, “Look, I’ll just keep my eyes peeled, and you see if you can find anything else online or—”

A tingle shot through Peter’s arm.

Thunder ripped through the hallway. The entire building lurched and shook. A wave of heads shot down, the rapid descent rippling through the hallway like a wave. Screams echoed after the thunderous booms, and metal clanging followed, bounced off the walls.  

Vibrations began shaking the floor, reverberating up from Peter’s feet. His knees were set in Jello. His chest rattled. His jaw clenched against the additional thundering between his ears. His brain was ready to explode.

“Ned,” Peter croaked. Ned was doubled over also, hands gripping the sides of his head.

“What the hell is that?!”

“I dunno! Just go!” Peter shouted over the clamor. “Get people out and go!”

Ned looked at Peter. Students had begun scattering past them. “No way. Not here—”

Peter’s eyes pleaded, “You know I have to, Ned, please. Please help get people out of here and go!”

“Why don’t YOU get people outa here too?!”

Peter struggled to scramble up, yanking Ned with him. “Ned please!” The vocal chaos began to rival that of the metal roaring. 

Ned reciprocated Peter’s shoulder-grabbing. “Fine,” he sighed. “But please. Be. Careful.”

The hold on Ned’s shoulders was lifted as Peter bounced away, gripping the bag on his shoulders. He launched toward the crossing hallway, but not before looking back at Ned, who saw the “GO” leave his mouth more than he heard it.

Your hand gripped the railing, straining more than you should to lift yourself back to your feet.

“What the hell?” you muttered. You could hear a few other students in the stairwell were having a harder time. The walls were definitely closer together than they were before the slam, which still felt like it was happening over and over.

“Is the door up there opening?” a voice echoed up the shaft. You reached for the handle, already fearing why someone would be asking. Push. Nothing. Push harder. It budged a little. You launched yourself at the door. All that moved was your shoulder out of it’s socket (or it at least felt like it). Great job, idiot. 

“No. Is that one not?” you called, gripping your left shoulder. Evan from first period stuck his head up from the second floor as you glanced down from the third.

“No. Neither is first floor.”

“Shit.”

Voices began traveling between the three floors.

“Oh my God are we trapped?” “Holy shit.” “Was that an explosion?” “I think so…” “Oh God…”

You raised your not-dislocated arm at the door as the panic continued.

“Fuck no, please no, fucking hell—” “What do we do?” “Where was it?” “I don’t think explosions can squish entire stairwells…”

Glance around and down; make sure no one is coming.

“Okay, nobody panic.” “How the hell do we not panic?!” “Yeah! That was a freaking explosion!”

Everyone was heading for the bottom. Good. You pressed your palm to the cool, painted steel. 

“What do we do?” “Maybe it’s just locked?” “Why the fuck would it be locked, Janice?!” “I’m just trying to be—”

Please let no one be on the other side. 

“Have you guys tried kicking them down?”

The surge traveled down your arm. You concentrated it to puncture beneath the surface.

“Can anyone kick it down?!” “Are we not gonna talk about that, though?”

Soft tinkles and crackles spread out from under your hand.

“What’re we gonna do, people?!” “Guys let’s just shut up and think this out, okay?”

Frail wisps of smoke curled around your fingers. 

“I can’t even think during class, dammit, how am I supposed to think now?!” “I think I’m gonna faint, guys.” “Explosion, everyone. A goddamn explosion—” “WE GET IT!”

Push.

“Let’s just find a way out so we can get to the fire exits—” “This IS the fire exit you dumbass!” “HEY—”

Your arm was throbbing. Push harder. 

“Guys please calm down, we don’t need to—” “Who the fuck you callin’ ‘dumbass’?!” “Fucking forgot my fucking inhaler…”

Cracks turned to crevices. You hoped this would work.

“Guys—” “Why is no one saying anything about what to do?!” “How do you not remember this is the fire—”

Ice began to grow, a thin layer coating the splitting piece of metal. 

“This isn’t even the exit, it’s just stairs—” “I’m not a dumbass—” “Ohmygod what if we die here.” “Can everyone just shut up?” “Still no suggestions on what. The hell. To do.”

Push. You concentrated. Willing more ice, more concentrated than the spreading before, it shot through, bursting inside the metal. Too much pressure. Good. More. Just a little more…

“Wouldn’t have to take that Bio test, though…” “Ohmygod, Zane?!” “Shut up!”

Push, dammit. You were scared; what if you were doing this wrong, ended up shattered your arm or something?

“Should we be at the top guys?” “No, what if everything falls?! Then we fall!” “But then we’d get crushed down here.”

Just PUSH. 

“I heard somewhere that you’re more likely to—” “Shut. Up.” “You shuddup, dumbass!” “I wasn’t even saying anything!” “WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GONNA DO—”

BOOM

Wind sucked around you and chased after the cracked pieces of the door into the hall. Your hair danced up, your palm still feeling the presence of the door against it. 

“Guys, I think this one’s open now,” you called. You grinned ferociously, trying to let out all your pride and excitement before anyone got there.

“What the hell?”

“Did you do that?!”

You scoffed, feigning surprise, “No. It kinda just got sucked out that way? And I saw someone running to the other stairs after.”

Everyone came running up the stairs. Most stared in bewilderment. Others ran past after momentarily pausing to register the sight, “I don’t care, let me the fuck out.”

Once they all had run out (you had to drag one of them out; they were trying to deduce how the whole door thing happened), you ran off in search of the original explosion that had squished the stairwell.

Peter felt like the cliche “salmon fighting upstream,” but there was no better way to put it. Bags and shoulders knocked him side to side like a rag doll as he struggled to stay on his feet enough to advance to where people were running from. His “excuse me”s and “sorry”s fell upon deaf, fleeing ears. He strained his ears to concentrate on where the vibrations were coming from. Peter pushed past teacher’s shaky directions, panicked cries, adrenaline-filled screams, and even the obnoxiously echoing pulses themselves; he could faintly hear them drifting in more from the West wing. 

As the river of students thinned, the intensity of the clanging intensified. Peter broke out into a run. It was his turn to bump people with his bag and shoulders, still muttering apologies as he raced past. To his dismay, he began to see more and more pairs—sometimes even threes—holding each other up as they hobbled past him. Thankfully no one looked too seriously injured. For now. 

The jackhammer pulsing all around and through Peter hammered away more feverishly than ever. The ground shook so bad that he could barely run in a straight line. As soon as he turned the corner past shattered display cases and ceramic pieces, he saw the cause of it all. He immediately stuck his outward foot planted on the ground, pivoted, and pushed himself back around. He braced himself against the wall, back facing the direction of the giant humanoid drill.

Peter leaned his head out from behind the wall slowly to peek. Yes. Humanoid drill. It was a large exoskeleton that resembled a human body, but five times bigger and with massive drills for arms and a head. The robot’s knees had funnels attached, open side out, sucking up certain bits of the ground that had been drilled. It looked like it was made entirely of various thick metal scraps. Peter wondered if maybe someone was inside, operating it. Maybe it was remote-controlled. He hoped it was remote-controlled. 

Something was glowing yellow on it’s chest, casting an amber light in the hole it was digging. It wasn’t too much like a flashlight, more like… 

Peter groaned. Again with this alien rock shit.

Oh yeah. It was digging a big-ass hole. Right there in the hallway. Literally two small steps from the art class and reaching out past the hole in the wall (which was probably the result of the explosion). Had to be at least five feet wide, easy. Peter struggled to get to the bathroom just a classroom away. 

Moments later, Peter ran out, clad in the spidey uniform, firing webs as he slid into view of the drill. They stuck on the funnels, which he easily ripped off. The robot seemed unfazed as the metal boxes bounced past Peter. 

“Okay… so it’s definitely a robot,” he huffed, leaping to the wall. He crawled onto the ceiling until he got behind it, shot more webs, then leaping down. He yanked with all his might, effectively yanking the robot backwards onto its back.  

“Web grenade!” Peter threw a bunch around it’s neck area as he clambered onto its chest. The drills continued whirring above him, but he had much easier access to it now that the whole robot couldn’t move to block the orb. Just as he was assessing how to get it out, the earth shook. Peter stuck his hands on the metal as the mass heaved below him. The drill-bot had plunged it’s now-still drill-arms into the ground and was pushing itself upright.

“Aw come on!”

With the start of the drills came the start of the whirring and rumbling once more. As Peter began furiously pounding on the metal around the stone, he could feel the air behind him blowing increasingly rapidly. He whipped his head around to see the blades of the drill dangerously close to his face. With a yelp, he dropped down to the ground, uncharacteristically ungracefully collapsing onto his back. The drill-bot began bending down, drills pointed right at him.

“Ricochet web!” Peter screamed, pointing at an area on the ceiling a few feet away from the robot. The web bounced off and shot right back, attaching onto the back. He began reeling it as much as he could, slowing the robot’s descent. But it wasn’t enough. The drill-bot pulled the webbing as it fought to bend, drill extended as far as it would go. Much too far for Peter’s liking.

His arms were shaking. Biceps were cramping. Hands were sweating. The screeching of the drill blew air around his face, growing closer and closer and closer and clos—

WHAM

And then it wasn’t. The webbing in Peter’s hands suddenly went slack, and his fists whacked his face. Nose felt broken. Great. He shoved himself up onto his elbow. The drill-bot was halfway down the hall, careening forward. Suddenly, Peter felt the air lightly blow behind him. He sprawled flat on the floor, face up, watching a stream of water blast above him. 

No, not water…

Small bits of hail dropped from the stream. He glanced back.

After a whole month, there they were.

You tried to get a shot at the yellow thing in the middle of it’s chest, but it wouldn’t let up. Icing it’s face-drill wasn’t doing anything to distract it, and the other two drills caved forward, blocking a shot at the orb. That had to be the source of it’s power. If not… you didn’t feel like thinking of a backup plan right now.

“Can you get it to bend backward?” you called to the red a blue figure sprawled pathetically on the floor. Seriously? Queen’s proclaimed hometown hero, just lay there… staring. He didn’t even respond.

Whatever. I’ll do it myself. 

You kept one hand trained on the robot as you took off toward it, your right hand building up a ramp in front of you. As you ran up it, it tilted higher and higher, attached to the wall on your right, making an ascending curve around the robot that was struggling to pivot as quick as you were running. It suddenly lurched forward, the direct opposite way you wanted it to be lurching if it was gonna lurch anywhere. You saw Spider-man pushing himself backwards, holding a web attached to somewhere in the middle of the robot. 

“What are you doing?!” 

“Cut through it!”

“What?!”

Spider-man reached behind him to grab the wall, still struggling against the bot to pull it toward him. You blasted ice at a drill that was raising toward the web.

“Cut through to that yellow thingy there in the middle! You see—”

“I know where it is!”

“Well—” he slid forward as the robot staggered back “—ice expands, so if you can get it—”

“I know!” You didn’t need to be lectured on how ice worked. You, of all people.

You jumped off the ice ledge you had created and onto the robot’s back, forming a chunk of ice on it to grab onto. You immediately regretted your decision.

The robot turned into one of those bull-riding machines you see on fail videos. A constantly-earthquaking bull-riding machine. And you thought the vibrations were bad on the ground; the entire world was a never-focusing blur, a jackhammer pounded away in each ear, every sense of orientation was lost. You gripped the fast-melting ice for your newly-shortened-in-length life with and pressed your right palm onto the machine. Your shoulder was throbbing almost as bad as your ears were. 

This was going to be so much harder than the door. 

“Could you maybe hold it still?!” you called.

“You’re kidding me, right?!” you barely heard over the clanging. 

“Just do it!”

The surging pulsed through your arm and quickened until it matched that of the drill’s. You concentrated once more, lessening the pressure to seep through the metal but not let the ice rebound against it. A little harder. A little harder. You didn’t let the ice spread throughout the metal; you focused it like a spearhead, driving it straight through from your palm directly into the body and through to the other side. 

“I can’t stop it!” you heard.

The robot was stepping backward, threatening to sandwich you into the wall. With a roar, you shoved the ice through with as much pressure as you could muster. Metal groaned and cracked until—

The whirs died, the static movement halted. A tiny clink sounded from far below—you had to guess that was the orb. The robot didn’t fall to the ground (like you expected) or self-combust either, for which you were thankful. It just stood stiff in place. You slowly turned to look behind you, at the wall the robot almost squished you into, just inches away bouncing your hot breath back to you.

Your hand gleefully let go of what remained of the ice chunk and slid down. Grimacing and groaning, you lowered your arm to your side. 

“Wow… great teamwork.”

You turned to see Spider-man stoop to pick up the glowing yellow stone. Part of you wanted to immediately jump him before he used it to claim this victory as his own, but you decided against it. You were tired enough already, and besides, what the hell were you gonna do with a glowing rock?

“It makes the dream work,” you shrugged but mumbled. “Even if you were getting your ass kicked before I stepped in.”

“What?”

“Hm?”

Spider-man just shook his head. Unbeknownst to you, he was wondering the same thing you were wondering about him. How did they get there so fast? 

He cautiously turned the orb over in his hands. “I hope you’re not gonna try to take-then-break this one, too,” he teased. 

“Well—” you were about to retort when something caught your hearing. Even though you barely could hear from the thundering still echoing in your mind, you picked up the faint sound of sirens. Shit. “Just, uh, you keep it,” you called as you turned to run back the way you came. “Let it make up for you almost getting your ass kicked!” 

“What?!”

You pushed aside the questions racing in your mind as you focused on your race down the hall. The lonely sound of rubber slapping tile made the only sounds of life within the school walls. Pounding through corridors, past the gym, around corners, you remembered to dissolve the mask on your face just before you rammed into one of the science rooms. Your shoes squeaked as you dodged desks, lunging for the back emergency exit. 

Creeping around the corner, hugging the brick wall, you peered out to see the clamor outside. Some students crying, some recording, some just dazedly walking around confused, teachers frantically trying to count heads and unsuccessfully create some order, ambulances, firefighters, police cars parked this way and that, their operators dashing about. Perfect. You slipped into the crowd and started calling for your best friend, easily blending in among the chaos.

Tag List

@parkthepeter @general-stormpilot  @acciowaffle

[buckysdiary]

Pain is in the Mind - An Avengers Story (Prologue)

Characters: Lorelei

Prologue - You are here!

Read This on DeviantArt!

Summary: Lorelei has just discovered her ability to control the minds of others - and her own. In a world full of mutants and superheroes, she finds it difficult to find her own place. So she heads down a path of uncertainty and difficult choices. And when she meets the Avengers, it only makes her all the more confused about who she is and what she does. Either she will have to face her fears and own up to her sins... Or she will continue her lifestyle and avoid any confrontations, like she always does.

Words: 6,876 

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Blood

A/N: I haven’t uploaded a story in a long time, and I feel like shit for that very reason. But here’s a new one! And one I’ll be working on for a while. I don’t think I’ll be making any more X Readers... but I’ll try and finish the ones I started. I hope you guys enjoy it, and I’ll try to come out with the next chapter ASAP!!

   "I'm trying to make you stronger, Lorelei."

   Click.

   "I want to help you."

   Click.

   "Turn the pain back on me. Make me feel the pain."

   Click.

   "Get revenge for what I'm doing to you."

   Moving my jaw helps distract myself from the pain. I grind my teeth, click them together, bite my tongue... anything to avoid this searing, scraping, burning, blinding pain in my mind. I could hear Momma's fingernails tapping the table in front of me.

   "Don't just sit there and take it, Lorelei! Fight back!"

   Click click click click click-

   "Stop clicking your teeth. Don't avoid it."

   I stopped, now unable to divert the pain in my head. It was excruciating, as if holes were being drilled into my brain. It was getting worse by the second. I could feel tears burning against my eyes, threatening to fall any minute.

   Control the pain, move the pain...

   Suddenly, it stopped. The torture washes out of my head, like water rushing from a river. I gasp in relief, but only to start crying. Before, when there was pain, I didn't have the concentration to cry. Now, all of the tension that had accumulated over the past hour was releasing itself through tears.

   I opened my eyes. Momma was glaring at me... she's mad again. I failed again. It was the same as always. The only thing that had developed over time was my ability to not scream in pain. But that was far from what Momma wanted; the power to control the pain, not to ignore it.

   She sighs through her nostrils. "How long..." she says, her eyes now closed, "... how long is it gonna take you to learn? How long are you gonna waste our time?"

   I didn't answer. I knew she didn't want me to answer. But, in all honesty, I didn't know the answer. I was just as frustrated and angry with myself as she was. We had been working for eight years to try and implement mind control in my head; I was fourteen. My older brothers, Jessie and Peter, were able to use their powers when they were four. It was quite the opposite of me: Momma was teaching me to use it, while she had to teach them to tone it down. I kept asking myself the same things, day after day. What was wrong with me? Was I mentally different from the rest of my family? Or was I just stupid? Did I even have the ability to use mind control at all?

   Momma stood up from the table, muttering to herself. I stared at my hands in my lap, listening to her pour herself a drink of whiskey. I remembered, a few years back, when Jessie and I were younger and more careless, I had dared him to take a large gulp of the alcohol. He accepted the dare, as his pride was too great to turn anything down; but once he took that swig, it was like watching a dragon choke on it's own fiery breath. He started coughing and crying hysterically, and I couldn't help but laugh. His face had turned so red, and so had mine. That was probably the hardest I had ever laughed in my life.

   "Stop smiling." Momma ordered.

   I looked up at her, hearing the harshness in her voice, and dropped the grin hanging from my face. She was staring at me with anger, swirling the whiskey in her cup. I could feel the fury seeping from her brain into mine. She scowled and looked away, taking a sip of the whiskey.

   "You're too emotional." She commented. "You got too many emotions running through your head, it's no wonder you can't control anything."

   I looked back at my hands; they were soft, almost feathery. Much unlike the rest of my family's hands. Because I didn't do nearly as much as they did. Which made me even more pathetic.

   Click click click click-

   "Dammit, Lorelei! Stop clicking your teeth!" Momma's voice was raised now. "You gotta stop avoiding things."

   That's what I'm best at. I thought. Avoiding problems, thinking about random things to steer away from the pain, clicking my teeth to distract myself from physical pain. If I can't control it, I just avoid it.

   "Don't think like that, you know you've got it in you. You can control minds just as much as the rest of us." Momma said, taking another swig of her whiskey. She was reading my mind again; one of the side effects of her powers which I didn't particularly like.

   But, in all honesty, I knew I wasn't like them. It had been so long since she started 'training' me, and we were still waiting on a result. Why couldn't she just accept that? Why was it so awful that I didn't have what she has? Why couldn't anyone just accept me for the normal human being that I was? It was exhausting to go through this training every day, not to mention painful. And we both knew it wasn't doing anything. So why did we keep doing it?

   I decided to voice my questions. "Momma- "

   "Don't give me that crap, I won't hear it!" she slammed her drink on the table. I jumped, quivering at the intensity of her anger.

   "I know you can do it!" She continued. "If I can, and both of your brothers can, then so can you! I can't figure out why the hell it's taking so long for you to learn, but I know you've got the juice for it! It's in there somewhere."

   Hearing her say this made me frustrated and tired. "Momma, you know that's not true! You've known that for the past seven years! I can't do it, I'm not like you. I'm just a simple person with nothing better than my dusty brain. Why can't you see that? Why can't you understand that I'm no more than that!"

   I paused, giving myself a chance to breathe. Tears were flowing heavily from my eyes, and my hands were now balled into fists. I wanted to run upstairs and hide in my room. I wanted to cry for hours and not have to worry about the next day's training session. I wanted... I wanted a change. A change of routine, a change of emotion, any kind of change.

   "I'm tired." I said, my voice shaking. "I'm just so tired, and it's not the tired when I'm sleepy, or even when I'm annoyed at something. It's different. I'm tired of something I can't see, I can't figure out what it is... but I need and end to it. Sleep don't do it for me. I need something stronger."

   Momma sat next to me at the table, and I could feel the slight concern flowing from her head and into mine. "What do you mean, Lorelei? Help me understand."

   I wiped my eyes on the back of my sleeves, which only made me cry harder. "I don't know. I don't understand it. All I can say is that somethin' is happening to me. It's wearing me out, but not physically. Like it's wearing out my soul. And I can't figure out how to get rid of it. I've tried sleeping it off, that didn't work. I've even had Peter try and push the stress outta my head, that still didn't help. It's somethin' invisible to me, and it's always nagging at the back of my mind. And I need an end to it. Y'know, how sleep ends tiredness? How eating ends hunger? Somethin' like that. But I don't know what it is. All I can say is I need an end to it, and it has to be a big one."

   We both sat in silence after that. I could tell Momma was searching my mind, trying to figure out what I was talking about. But if I didn't know, then neither could she. And she hated that, when she couldn't read my mind. Her face clearly showed the frustration when she searched my eyes, coming up empty for any answers. A part of me hoped that she would find something, just to get rid of the nagging feeling. However, another part of me wished that she wouldn't let herself in and out of my mind so freely.  

   "If it turns out that I can't do nothin'," I say, quivering, "no mind control or anything... would you have wished I'd never been born?"

   At those words, Momma's eyes widen. "Baby, of course not! Where'd you get such a horrific idea?" She gently held the sides of my arms and stared into my eyes.

   I choked on my tears. "I just seem to cause so much trouble to you, and you and Peter and Jess are always doin' the hard work. You'd probably have a simpler life if I was either able to control my emotions, or if I didn't exist."

   "Oh, honey..." she wrapped me in a tight hug. "Don't think that way. I love you. I want you to be able to protect yourself. There are so many bad people out there who would want you dead, and I just- " she paused, holding back a sob. "I want you to live a good, long life. I can't stand to see you walk into the outside world unprepared. That's why I'm so hard on you. I don't want to see you get hurt."

   She pulled back, looking me in the eyes again. "Powers or no powers, you are my child. You are my only daughter. You are a piece of me that I'll always need. And if anything were ever to happen to you, I wouldn't be the same as I am now. I would be so lost, Lorelei. I wouldn't know what to do with myself, knowin' that somethin' terrible had happened to you. You understand that?"

   Hearing her words made tears flow from my eyes. I hugged her back tightly, pressing my head against her chest. "I love you too, Momma." I said; and it was true. She could be mean, she did hurt me, and she wasn't always the best at being a mother. But everything she did was to help me, to protect me. I knew that, even when she got mad, she loved me. And I loved her just as much, if not more. I knew that if anything would ever happen to her, if she was ever taken away from me, I would also fall apart.

   She sighed and ruffled my hair. "Let's not dwell on this too long, I gotta start supper." She kissed my forehead and pulled away. "Go wash up and get the boys ready too."

   I nodded and inhaled deeply, capturing the scent of her cheap, yet comforting, perfume. I turned to run upstairs.

   "Oh, and Lorelei?"

   I turned back to face her. She was putting on her apron, a smile spreading across her face. "Could you draw another picture of me? You're so good at it, and I'm afraid I don't have enough of your drawings."

   Smiling, I nodded. "'Course, Momma." Then I turned to dash up the stairs.

   The content feeling I had moments ago washed away as soon as I walked into my room I shared with my brothers. Jessie was carving something into a thick piece of wood, muttering to himself. I stopped in the doorway, watching him slowly sculpt away at the wood. Hopefully, he hadn't heard anything Momma and I had said downstairs; but, giving that he was very nosy and invasive, I doubted it. He may have had a small brain, but he had the largest ears anyone had ever seen in Yukon. Slowly and quietly, I tried to move to my side of the room unnoticed, praying that he would just ignore me this time.

   "Anything happen?" he asked.

   I sighed, and refused to answer. That was my only defense against his teasing. Again, avoiding the problem. I didn't care, though. I searched around my mattress on the floor for my drawing supplies. "Jess, did you see my pencils? Not the colored ones, just the sketchin' ones."

   He scoffed. "So nothin', I guess."

   "Do you have to say somethin' every damn time?" I snapped. "Momma says I'll get it, it just takes a while."

   "Yeah, probably 'cause you got bricks for brains."

   Says the one who's too dumb for school... I thought. Problem is, he can read my thoughts.

   "Shut up!" he shouted. "You know that ain't true! Momma just don't have the money for it!"

   "I never said nothin', and that's only half the reason." I replied. "She told me that you ain't got good English, 'cause you're stupid." I taunted him, emphasizing the word 'stupid' and sneering at him.

   "I said shut it!" He screamed.

   A white flash blinded me, and my head was filled with a searing pain. I cried out and covered my ears, desperately trying to drown out the feeling. "Jessie stop!!" I shouted, tears welling up in my eyes.

   Almost instantly, the pain vanished. I crumpled to the ground and began to cry; even though he had stopped, the memory of the torment was all to vivid. My brain was still screaming in agony from the previous moments.

   Smack!

   Startled by the sound, I opened my eyes to find my older brother, Peter, standing between me and Jessie.

   "Stop it." Peter said, his stance tense. "Both of you. You can't go one day without fightin' like pack animals!"

   "You heard what she said!" Jessie said angrily. "She said I was stupid, you heard her!"

   "Yeah, I heard her." Peter said, now facing me. "And while that may be true, you shouldn't have said it, Lori."

   I snickered; Peter never had a filter on his words, and I loved that.

   "Shut it!!" Jessie spat at me, and another searing image of pain blinded me.

   "HEY!!" Peter shouted again, smacking Jessie a second time, and the pain vanished from my mind almost instantaneously. "I said knock it off!"

   Jessie glared at Peter hatefully, then stormed off downstairs. I watched him go, feeling relief wash over me. Ass. I thought, knowing he could hear me.

   I crawled over to the mattress I shared with Peter, pulling out my sketchbook from underneath. Flipping through the pages, I let the drawings of my family, my home, and multiple quiet, serene landscapes jump to life in my head. I wasn't good at mind control, like the rest of my family was; but momma would tell me I was the best artist in Yukon. She would say, "I've never seen a finer line in all of Oklahoma than the ones you make." I smiled, remembering how she would trace the marks with her finger, almost as if she was trying to absorb the emotion in my sketches.

   "No luck?"

   I turned to Peter, who sad beside me on the mattress. His face was solemn, though he smiled. His clothes were stained with motor oil and grease, probably from working on the car, and he smelled like sweat. He had asked the same question Jessie had, but I knew he was truly concerned about my progress on my powers, whereas Jessie just wanted to tease.

   I sighed, turning back to my sketchbook. "Peter, you know the answer to that."

   Peter clicked his tongue in understanding. He couldn't think of anything to say, I could tell. We've had this conversation so many times that it's pointless to repeat it.

   "It's difficult." he stated. "Even now, it's difficult to control certain things. When I get angry, my emotions get the best of me, and I don't get time to stop them; like with Jessie. When I saw what he was doin' to you I couldn't stop the anger in my blood."

   "Yeah, but you can still control some things, at least."

   "Try to remember..." he said, putting an arm around my shoulder, "... if you can make yourself feel nothin', your mind can be open to everythin'. Blockin' out emotion leaves room for so much more. You can do anythin' you want, be whoever you want to be. You're detached, free from anythin' holdin' you back."

   I wiped my eyes on the back of my hands. "But aren't you ever afraid that you'll lose yourself? What if, one day, you take away the emotion you're feelin', and you never get it back?"

   "What's wrong with that?" he asked. "Then you ain't even have to worry about holdin' your emotions back, because they ain't even there."

   "I dunno," I folded my knees and placed my head in my hands. "I just don't wanna get lost in my own head."

   "Don't think about it as gettin' lost," Peter said, "think of it as expandin' your mind. For your emotions, you have room here..." he tapped the back of my head, "... and for when you want to stay away from those emotions, you have room up here." He tapped the front of my head. "Also, imagine: what're some of the things you could do once you're able to control your and others' emotions?"

   Dumbfounded, I searched for an answer. "Uh... I could... I could help people calm down?"

   He nodded, but was still unsatisfied with my answer. "Ok, what else?"

   "Er..." What else? "I could help people remember things they'd forgotten... like memories, I could look for memories inside their head that they'd maybe forgotten."

   "Right." Peter said. "But, try to think of what you can do for yourself."

   Again, I didn't have an answer. "What would I use it on myself for? I ain't got no reason to, other than makin' myself shut up."

   Peter chuckled. "That's a good start. Until you get it, just think of what you would do if you were able to."

    I continue to stare at my drawing of Momma: she's sitting at the table, reading a book and sipping a cup of coffee. One of the few moments that I caught her in such a serene state.

   Suddenly, the drawing came to life; she slowly turned the page and took a drink of the coffee, now steaming. I smiled even more as I watched the image move, following it closely with my eyes. Turning the page, I came across another drawing; this time, it was Jessie and Peter working on the truck. They moved here and there, fixing the engine and wiping the sweat off of their brows. I couldn't help but chuckle when I saw Jessie's strawberry-blonde hair now dark with engine grease.

   As I noticed my spirits being lifted substantially, I rolled my eyes. "Peter, you don't need to do that. I feel much better already."

   He chuckled, and returned my mind to its own use. "Well, I'm glad. You should know that those sketches don't just make you happy, they make me happy too."

   "You want another one?" I asked. "Momma's already asked for one, but I can make you one too."

   "Sure, that'd be fine. Could you color this one though?"

   "For a dollar, sure."

   "How 'bout I buy you a pop next time we go into town?"

   "Deal!" I said firmly, and we shook hands.

   "Alright, now go wash up; see if Momma needs any help with supper."

   I quickly hopped off the mattress, heading to the restroom wash myself up, sending Peter a quick smile. He nodded in response, and then I turned and left the room.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

   After supper, Momma had sat down in front of the television, where she would usually stay until she went off to bed at ten. Peter was fast asleep on the mattress, changed into his old sweatpants and an old sweater he always wore. I was sitting against the wall, drawing a picture of Momma; she was kneeling outside in the garden, picking the tulips to be set on the dinner table. Her face was calm, and I even added a smile to it. Though, she most likely wouldn't have been smiling. She would have looked solemn, too caught up in her work to smile.

   I hear Jessie walk into the room, dragging me out of my thoughts. His eyes were glazed over with sleep; his strawberry locks, which were usually curly, were matted down from him brushing them out. He had on a pair of black sweats and a grey tank, his typical sleepwear. I turned back to my sketchbook, not wanting to be bothered by him.

   "Lorelei..." he said, making his way over to where I sat. I continued to ignore him and kept drawing.

   He sighed. "Lorelei, I want to say I'm sorry."

   I looked at him. "What for? For goin' through my head with that stupid mind crap thing? You know, that really does hurt, Jess. It really does."

   "Can you please not make this any harder than it has to be?" he said in an annoyed tone.

   I groaned. Like apologies are supposed to be easy...

   Jessie continued. "I'm sorry for hurtin' you. And I'm sorry for tellin' you to shut it." He stared at the ground while saying everything.

   "Did Peter tell you to say that?" I asked, not buying his apology.

   "No, he didn't. I actually feel bad for doin' that to you, and I wanted to apologize. I would have been fine with it if you could hurt me back, but since you can't, I feel bad." He began to look genuinely upset.

   I glared at him, trying to find any sort of deceit or facade. However, he did look sorry. I could tell because he never looked me in the eye when he tried to convey any emotions.

   "I forgive you." I said reluctantly. "And I'm sorry for callin' you stupid."

   "It's fine." he said. "I guess I'm a little stupid."

   I chuckled. "Ain't we both?"

   He smiled, before sticking his tongue out at me. "Goodnight, Lori." He said, before laying down on his mattress.

   "'Night, Jess." I said.

   I went back to finishing my sketch of Momma. I made her look beautiful, her auburn hair dancing in the breeze, her purple, flower-patterned dress rested around her knees. Momma was always beautiful; I just didn't think she saw it. She was always trying to doll herself up with makeup whenever we went into town, but she didn't need it. She was just as pretty, if not more, than the tulips outside, or the china dolls that sat on the family room's bookshelf. I closed my eyes, trying to remember every time I had seen her smile. Once, when she had seen a butterfly land on Peter's head. Another time, when Jessie had bought her Erasure's Wonderland album, which was her absolute favorite. And then the time I first showed her the picture I had drawn of her sitting at the table, reading a book and drinking coffee. She was so happy, so beautiful. So calm.

   So lovely.

   So joyful...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    "Lorelei!!"

   I jolted awake; I was still sitting against the wall, and my sketchbook and pencil had fallen by my sides. The sky out through the window was completely black. What time is it? It was awfully chilly, and my legs were shaking in the cold. Looking up, I saw that Peter was kneeling by me, his eyes wide. Jessie was behind him, peering through the door of our bedroom and down the stairs. They were both trembling with fear.

   Something's wrong.

   "What's goin' on?" I asked.

   Shh. Peter said, only speaking through my thoughts. Be quiet. Someone's downstairs.

   I tensed up. Who?!

   He didn't answer me; he didn't know. Instead, his head was turned towards the doorway as he tried to see what was going on. Jessie was staring into space, supposedly trying to hear the thoughts of the person downstairs.

   It could just be Momma. I thought.

   It's not. Peter replied. I can't hear Momma, I can't tell where she is.

   I didn't know what to do next. I was frightened beyond comprehension, and my hands were quivering in my lap. Jessie turned to look at Peter just as I was; we were both turning to him for direction, hoping that he would have an idea of what to do. He looked back at us, and he was clearly afraid. But he kept a calm face to keep Jessie and I from freaking out.

   Suddenly, there was a crash from downstairs. We all jumped at the sound, and Jessie grabbed my hand in fear. Peter motioned for us to stay quiet, before telling us to follow him. He made his way to the door, carefully peering around the corner and down the stairs. I quietly followed behind him, making sure to avoid the creaky floorboards here and there. Jessie was behind me, his hands now squeezing my shoulders tightly. He reached over and tapped Peter to see what was going on.

   Shh! Peter snapped. Stay behind me, and don't make a sound!

   Jessie and I both nodded. Peter then began to climb down the stairs, and we followed. I grabbed the back of Peter's shirt, seeking some kind of security in the moment. My mind was racing; What's happening? Where's Momma? Who's downstairs? I could hear my heartbeat over my own thoughts, and I was afraid that everyone in the house might hear it as well. Peter and Jessie were still wide-eyed and staring down the stairs. It was at this moment that I wished I could hear what they were thinking. They obviously knew what was going on, while I was left wondering and assuming the worst.

   We finally reached the bottom of the steps, where everything seemed as quiet as it should be. Peter's body was blocking most of my view, but I felt him freeze. His stance became tense, and he planted his feet firmly on the ground. I slowly craned my neck to see what he was looking at; searching the room at first, I saw nothing. But as soon as I looked behind the table, my breath got stuck in my throat.

   Momma was on the ground, limp as a towel. Her eyelids were half open, and there was a bloody hole dead center of her forehead. There was also a hole in the middle of her stomach, and the fabric around it was stained blood red.

   She was dead. She was gone.

   Jessie's grip on my shoulder grew tighter at the sight. I completely froze; my hands were gripping Peter's shirt as much as they could. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move... I couldn't even tell if what I was seeing was really there, or if it was just a terrible dream.

   "Who are you?!" Peter shouted at an unseen person.

   I looked further to see a man, dressed all in black. I couldn't see his face clearly, but he looked dirty and mangy. He held a large rifle in his hands, and there was smoke emitting from the barrel.

   Suddenly, he turned the gun towards the three of us. My heart began to rise in my chest, and a wave of adrenaline flowed through my body. "Peter- "

   The man cocked the gun. "Your death sentence, you dumb shit." He aimed the gun at Peter.

   Peter quickly took a step back. "Go! Ru- "

   Next thing I knew, my ears were ringing from a shot, and he was on the ground next to me.

   "PETER!!" I shouted, and began to reach for his limp body in front of me.

   Seconds later, another shot sounded, and Jessie dropped cold behind me.

   Instinctively, I screamed and shrank to the ground. I covered my ears and hid my head behind my knees. My heart was pounding in my chest, feeling as though it might try to escape. This isn't happening... this isn't real... wake up!!

   After a few seconds of silence, I dared to look up. The man was rushing to load his gun again. I could see his pockets stuffed with the money Momma kept in the cabinets. A burglar? Just a burglar? What's happening?!

   He looked down at me, taking a few steps closer. I tried to push myself away, bumping into Jessie's body as I did. My breath had rapidly increased and my lungs felt cold.

   "I'm sorry." he said. "This was just supposed to be a robbery. I just needed money. I just need money to get high! What's it take to get a few grams here and there?!" he spat on the ground next to me. "I never wanted to kill no one. Gettin' caught for murder puts you in jail for a long, long time, if they don't just kill you then and there. But then, that stupid bitch..." he waved the gun at Momma, "she had to find me just when I was fittin' to leave. Stupid! We're both so stupid! She shoulda just stayed put, an I shoulda worn a mask." He chuckled. "Well, we all make mistakes, right?"

   I continued to stare at him in fear. Why is he saying this? I thought.

   "I don't plan on making another mistake tonight." He said. And with that, he pointed the gun at me, inches away from my head.

   The panic I felt in the next moments set off a spark in my brain. It was a small one, but it took control of my body.

   "NO!!"

   "Ahh!!" The man screamed and grabbed his ears. "What the Hell?!"

   His scream scared me, and I pushed myself further against the wall. He looked at me, confused, and very, very angry.

   "What the fuck did you just do?!"

   What did I do? I stared at him, still terrified, but also confused.

   "What bullshit was that just now?!" he said, pointing the gun at me once more.

   Suddenly, an instinct ignited in my brain: I looked the intruder square in the eyes, locking all my concentration on their head. I could hear thoughts... not my own, I assumed they were his. I read every word, every picture in his brain. His mind became a weak puddy when it was met with my own - and I got to work destroying it.

   He responded with screams, grabbing the sides of his head once more and thrashing around. I continued to mold his mind through my own thoughts, crushing everything that was coming from his brain. I could see his thoughts, fearful and in agony. He was afraid he was about to die. He was afraid of what I was doing to him. He was angry that he had been beaten. So many of these panicked emotions were flying around in his head as I continued to tear down the walls of his mind. He clawed his head in pain, screaming and cursing more and more each second, until he could only emit sounds of agony.

   And then he stopped; his eyes opened wide and his hands dropped to his sides... and he slowly tumbled to the floor.

   I shied away as he and the gun hit the ground with a thud, and I was still trembling in fear. His face terrified me, as his eyes were wide and pained; but his mind was empty. I could feel the space where his emotions had been running wild, frantic and searching for the source of the pain in his head. I could still see his memories here and there, but I knew he was gone. It was just a used brain in a dead body, with fragments here and there of the soul that had occupied it.

   I killed him. I killed him, I murdered him, I tortured him... What did I do?

   But, his eyes... the way they were open and fearful was too obscene. I quickly made use of my newfound power and probed his mind, somehow finding the neuron that closed his eyelids. Now he looked asleep, which was better than before.

   But I still knew that he was dead. I still knew that I had killed him, and that he had killed my family.

   I looked at the rest of the scene; Momma was on the ground, her green checker dress just a bit more red than it was minutes before. Her fingernails were broken and bloody, consistent with the fresh scratches on the man's face. The blood on her forehead from the gunshot wound was now dried, though it had trickled down over her face and under her eye. Peter was crumpled face-first on the ground, and blood was still pooling around his forehead. Jessie was propped against the wall behind me, his eyes slightly open, just like Momma's. His hands were resting gently beside him, and the hole in his forehead was still angry and fresh. Everyone was dead. And everything was quiet.

   Except for my head. Vivid memories of gunshots, blood, and screaming continued to play on repeat in my mind. Tears filled my eyes as I remembered the shock when Peter and Jessie had fallen. I curled my knees to my chest and began sobbing loudly, cursing myself for being completely useless when my family needed me most. Momma was right; I could do it. But why now? Why not when I could have saved them? Why did I waste so much time, so much of everyone's time, running in circles, trying to awaken this power I had inside me... and now of all times, it decides to show?

   It hurt so much, to see them lying there, to remember it all. I couldn't hold back the sobs that choked me. There was just so much... pain.

   I don't want this... I didn't want this... I never wanted any of this... Why did it happen? What did I do wrong? This hurts, make it stop...

   And it did.

   The more I wished for the pain to subside, the more it did. I started to feel heavy with languor; my mind was getting number and number. Am I doing this? I asked myself, though I already knew I was. I continued to let the numbness wash over my brain and welcomed the emptiness of emotion. The strain in my eyes from crying subsided, slowly but surely. My soul began to feel weightless, as if the violent scene that had occurred only moments ago had never happened.

   Is this mind control? Is this what it feels like?

   Not only could I control others' minds... I could control my own. I could make myself feel nothing. I could completely detach myself from emotion. This was what Momma had wanted for twelve years, what I had failed to obtain for so long... and now, I finally had it. I finally had... control. Over myself, over others. Over anything. But she'd never see what I'd achieved; she'd never know.

   My mind was telling me to cry, as a normal reaction to what had happened. Of course, who wouldn't cry when their family had just been brutally murdered? Who wouldn't cry, when they had been able to save them, but didn't get the chance? When they could have killed the man where he stood, and everything would be alright. Everyone would still be here. However, as I thought these things, I didn't feel tears threatening as they usually would have. I didn't feel sad anymore. I felt... empty. A good empty. A clarity - not in the sense that anything had been revealed to me, just a clearing in my mind where there was no emotion. I couldn't tell if it felt good or not... but it was definitely better than crying my eyes out.

   I didn't have the faintest idea of what to do next. My family was dead, I murdered a man, and I was only a few minutes familiar with my... powers. What would any normal person do? Then again, I wasn't normal. So, what would any telepathic, upset, murderous, stupid fourteen-year-old do? That still didn't give me an answer, but I knew what I couldn't do; stay there.

   I went upstairs to my room, leaving the gruesome scene and its horror behind me. I grabbed Peter's backpack and began stuffing it with clothes, toiletries, and other basic necessities. I took Jessie's diary, a pencil, my sketchbook, and a map of Oklahoma. Lastly, just as I was leaving the room, I snatched a framed picture of my family when we visited Oklahoma City: the only photo where all four of us are present, smiling, and happy. There was no emotional attachment to any of these things (I was keeping my feelings numb until I could get a safe distance away from the house). However, I needed something memorable to bring with me, just in case... in case I ever lost myself in this mind-control crap, and started to forget anything.

   Back downstairs, I began rummaging for anything I could; I took the man's wallet, discarding his ID somewhere on the ground. I also snatched Momma's money pouch; there wasn't much in it, only forty-seven dollars, twenty cents, and a few foreign coins she carried with her. I never knew what they meant to her, but I knew she treasured them, which meant I treasured them. I also snatched a few granola bars from her purse, along with a water canteen on the counter. Walking over to Jessie's corpse, I slipped of his shoes and put them on my own feet. They were four sizes too big, but they were better than the torn ones I was wearing. Either those, or my church shoes, and those were too pretty.

   Taking one last glance around the kitchen, I made sure I had everything I needed. Of course, I was leaving behind plenty of things that would be necessary for a long trip. However, now that I was able to suppress my emotions, my needs... I didn't really need anything. Guaranteed, I still had to eat. But what if I could repress the feeling of hunger? I could go a whole day without eating and end up saving so much time. But whether or not I could block my body's needs as well as my mind's emotions... that was a question for another time.

   And then, deciding that I was fully equipped for the journey, I stepped out of the house.

   The cool evening air welcomed me into a soft breeze. The sound of crickets chirping made me feel nostalgic for home, although I hadn't even left it yet. The laundry was still hanging on the line, fluttering gently in the wind. I tried to savor the smell of the oak trees and honey suckle plants that were growing against the base of the house. Thinking of all of these things, I realized that it would be hard to control my emotions when I was so close to breaking out into tears. A part of me said that pushing the emotions back would free me from emotional ties; I could leave the sorrow behind with the house and the people inside, and go out, experience the world without a burden on my shoulders. However, the last bit of hope I had screamed that, at this point, emotion was the only thing I had left to hold on to. It was all I had that could link back to my family.

   Why would I want that? The only emotion connected to the memories of my family was sorrow and anger. I didn't want that.

   I slowly let my emotions sink to the back of my mind, almost like water running down a drain. The emptiness of my mind made me feel strong. Steady. As if I could conquer the world. 

   I had made it twenty feet from the house, when I stopped. Where am I going? What will I do? Who will I run into? What's going to happen to me? Fear began to seep into my mind, and I forgot to control my emotion. Everything at that moment was unfamiliar, broken, strange. It was new and unexpected. My family was dead, and I was alone. I was walking into a world so different from the one I had known for fourteen years. What was out there?

   There's only one way to find out, I thought, blocking the fear and anxiety from my head. I just have to do it.

   I turned my back to the house and ventured down our long driveway. My mind was clear, and ready for the trip that lay ahead of me. I pretended that this was the beginning of my life, and everything that happened from here on out was a new experience. As if I had just been born, and this was the chance to figure out the world for myself.

   "Also, imagine: what're some of the things you could do once you're able to control yours and others' emotions?"

   I could use it to hurt people. I could use it to defend myself. I could use it to kill people. I can use it to control people's minds. I can use it to get anything I want. I can use it to control my pain. I can use it to numb my body's needs. I can use it to keep myself from being attached to anything or anyone. I can use it to forget. I can use it to remember. I can use it however I want, whenever I want.

[raekuulsreadfic]

[PS] Chapter 1: The Book What Was Read

NOTE: I do not own Harry Potter. I own a copy of each Harry Potter book, I own a copy of each of the audiobooks (British recordings, oddly), I own a copy of the fifth and sixth movies. But the Intellectual Property belongs to J.K. Rowling, and that’s how it should be.

ALSO NOTE: All other incidental characters belong to their respective owners.

ALSO ALSO NOTE: In a vague attempt to not completely violate copyright law, I’m just including the parts being commented on (except the first bit from chapter 1 because tone). Ms Rowling’s lawyers, If this is still a significant violation please let me know quickly so that I can remove those as well.

“The Boy Who Lived”, Dumbledore read quietly. Snape groaned. Himeko disappeared unnoticed; she wouldn’t be needed here for some time.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

“Never mind the fact that Tuney once tried to get into Hogwarts.”

“And how do you know about that, Severus?”

“Just keep reading, Albus.”

...The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

“Dudley Dursley, small? This must be an alternate universe!”

“Or, Severus, it could be that this is back when he actually was small.”

“Just keep reading, Albus.” Snape was starting to get annoyed at the fact that both times he had a smart remark to make, Albus had an equally disarming rebuttal.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it.

Snape, determined to at least get a chuckle out of Dumbledore, tried again. “Yes, their greatest fear is that people will find out that Vernon’s secretly a trapeze artist.”

Dumbledore smiled a little, but continued reading.

...Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years...

Both men were sad at this. “That would have been at Lily’s wedding, I think. It was the last time I saw Petunia and Lily together.” Snape said.

“How did you get invited to James Potter’s Wedding?” Dumbledore asked.

“Have you ever known me to pass up a chance to see Lily Evans?”

“Not what I asked. How did you get an invitation?”

“I asked for one.”

Dumbledore suspected that he wasn’t going to get a real answer to his question, so he just kept on reading.

...The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street.

“Who is that ugly man and how did he get such a beautiful wife?” Snape offered.

“Severus, it said the neighbors, not the jealous former friend of Mrs. Dursley.”

...they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

Dumbledore chuckled. Snape looked at him, trying to fix a glare at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, Severus. Just imagining what you could have said there, is all.”

“I’ve met Dudley Dursley. If Harry does end up being James Adrian Potter reborn, I’ve decided to blame it on him instead.”

Dumbledore looked at Snape thoughtfully, and then continued reading.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country.

Dumbledore frowned. “Halloween. It has to be.”

Snape nodded.

Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work...

Snape chuckled. “At least Petunia got someone with her sense of humor.”

It was Dumbledore’s turn to look confused. “What do you mean?”

“Petunia was always someone for visual puns like that.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Severus.”

“Vernon’s most boring tie. Another word for what drills do is ‘boring’, as in boring a hole in a piece of wood.”

Dumbledore considered this for a moment, then groaned and continued reading.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

Snape buried his forehead in the palm of his hand. “And so begins our descent into insanity.”

...and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls...

Dumbledore looked at Snape, expectantly. There was an awkward silence.

“What?” asked an irritated Snape.

“Nothing” Dumbledore said simply, and read on.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map.

“Minerva” muttered Snape. He bit back a smile; anytime McGonagall got involved with Muggles, there was always something funny to tell afterwards.

...There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight.

Snape was trying not to laugh.

...Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back.

Snape looked at Dumbledore. “Has Minerva ever actually lost a staring contest?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Only once, and that was back when Tom Riddle was at Hogwarts.”

...It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs.

“Typical. Muggles saw something that they can’t believe, so instead they pretend it was something that they can believe. Show them veritaserum, and they think that it’s sodium pentothal.”

“What is sodium pentothal?” Dumbledore asked, curiously.

“It’s a muggle drug that works like veritaserum, and it has some of the same drawbacks.”

Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

“He got a lot more than drills that day.” Dumbledore said, somewhat sadly.

...there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.

Snape frowned. “A muggle is noticing them. A fine thing it would have been, if the day the Dark Lord finally fell was the day all muggles learned about magic.”

Dumbledore smiled nostalgically, and kept reading.

...He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.

Dumbledore laughed. “We’ve been dressing like that for hundreds of years. If anything, it’s a stupid old fashion.”

...why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak!

Dumbledore coughed nervously, and continued reading. Snape raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it.

Dumbledore swore under his breath. Snape raised his other eyebrow, but still said nothing.

The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

A tray of food materialized between the two men. It was covered in sandwiches. Snape took a sandwich and nibbled on it. “Albus, I’m assuming we’ll be taking turns reading?”

Dumbledore nodded, and continued reading.

...they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime.

Snape frowned. “And so continues our descent into madness.”

“Severus, it hadn’t even been one day yet, and everyone wanted to know what happened.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened. The Dark Lord attacked Lily’s house, murdered two innocent people, and exploded before he could kill an innocent child. Thank you for that, Sirius Black.” Snape finished bitterly.

Dumbledore didn’t like that Snape was bitter about his enemy from school still, but knew that it was Sirius’ fault that the Potters had been killed. How else could Voldemort have found them? And then there was what got him thrown into Azkaban… even if Sirius hadn’t betrayed the Potters somehow, he still blew up a street and killed people. Albus shed a silent tear for Peter Pettigrew, and continued reading.

Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning...

Strangely, Vernon Dursley had been having a nearly identical day to that today. Not that Snape or Dumbledore could have ever known that.

...This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin.

Making a mental note to try and convince Fudge to hire actual muggles in the Muggle-Worthy Excuse office, Dumbledore continued reading.

"...The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"...

“I don’t know what’s worse,” said Snape, “the fact that we couldn’t keep any secrets at all that day, or the fact that we’re bleeding lucky we were only really noticed by this particular muggle.”

Dumbledore took a sandwich and handed the book to Snape. “Severus, I think you should read for a bit.”

Snape nodded. “End of a chapter or something?”

“No; I just want a sandwich, and I need a drink.”

Snape frowned, but found the spot where Dumbledore left off and continued reading.

...He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid.

Continuing in his reading voice… “He opened the newspaper, and was shocked to read the headline ‘Vernon Dursley Admits He’s Stupid’.”

Dumbledore choked on his sandwich with laughter. After taking a large drink of water, he took the book back from Snape. “As much as I found that humorous, I’d rather read the book and still be alive rather than take a lunch break and risk choking to death because of your wit.”

...It might have been Harvey. Or Harold.

“Harvey Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone… Harold Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone… no, they just don’t have the same ring to them.” Dumbledore said, chuckling.

“Shouldn’t it be Philosopher’s Stone?” Snape asked, genuinely curious.

“Hmm… now that you mention it, that does seem a bit odd. Then again, maybe the Stone was called a Sorcerer’s Stone in the universe these books came from. Assuming, of course, it even is Nicolas’ stone they’re referring to.”

...if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

Snape growled, but said nothing.

"... Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

Both men facepalmed. “Leave it to Dedalus Diggle to completely blow the Statute of Secrecy out of the water.” Snape said. “I’m guessing he’d had a bit too much firewhiskey by that point.”

“How do you know that’s Dedalus?” Dumbledore asked. “It could be any number of wizards.”

“I just know. I don’t know how I know it.”

...He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“She was sitting there all day, Albus?”

“She was sitting there all day, Severus.”

...Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.

“The man’s never met a normal cat before, I guess.” Dumbledore said.

“If this was his only encounter with creatures of the feline persuasion, then he still hasn’t met a normal cat.” Snape replied. There was no more denying it; Dumbledore was enjoying Snape’s wit. With a chuckle, Albus returned to the book.

"...Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern."

“It’s because the one wizard that was keeping us from acting like complete idiots has just exploded.” Snape said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “So, naturally, we ignore the Statute of Secrecy in order to spread gossip.”

"...Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

Dumbledore had to keep himself from laughing loudly at the mental image; thousands of owls falling as though it were raining them.

...And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

“Even Dursley knows there’s something weird going on!”

“Severus, we’d had precious little reason to celebrate prior to that.”

“That’s no excuse to all but advertise to the muggles that we’re still here.”

"...Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

Both of the old men tensed, but for different reasons. Dumbledore knew that this would have been their last Harry-free conversation, and Snape knew the resentment that ran between Petunia and Lily for years.

"...Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

“I don’t know if I should be offended by that or not.” Dumbledore said, knowing Snape’s response.

“Given that it’s Vernon and Petunia, I would err on the side of yes.”

...The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Snape and Dumbledore simultaneously said “or for someone.” Snape flushed a little, while Dumbledore just chuckled and read on.

Was he imagining things?

“I thought he didn’t believe in imagination.”

“You don’t need an imagination to hallucinate, Albus.”

“Quite right, but not quite the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now he’s questioning whether or not his imagination does exist, as opposed to his strict disbelief in imagination.”

Snape facepalmed. “Correct conclusion, wrong reasoning, Albus. As always.”

...he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them....

“How very wrong he was.” Snape mumbled under his breath. Dumbledore laughed. “What?”

How very wrong he was.

“Oh. Ha ha, very funny, let’s all laugh at how Severus Snape said the exact same thing as the book.”

...A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Snape stroked his beard in mock thoughtfulness. “Hmm… I wonder who that could possibly be.”

“Who, me or the cat?”

“I am not going to dignify that with a response.”

“Why not, Severus?”

“It’s a clear setup with me as the fall guy. Besides, we both know it’s you and Minerva, soon to be joined by Hagrid and Potter. What I want to know is why any conversation between the two of you at this point in the story would be relevant.”

Snape had to avoid looking directly at Dumbledore as he said this, for the older man was giving what Snape had heard called “puppy-dog eyes” – a pleadingly adorable begging for something. In this instance, it was for a response to the setup.

“Please keep reading, Albus.”

...This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

“Really? I thought it was Aberforth!” Snape said acidly. Dumbledore chuckled and resumed reading.

...Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer,

“That doesn’t sound like a good name for it, but it’s better than most of what I’ve come up with.” Dumbledore said.

“Might I suggest ‘Deluminator’?”

Dumbledore considered the name for a moment, then continued reading.

"...Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

“I will silence you if you say it, Severus.” Dumbledore said warningly. He hated the rumors that he was having an affair with the members of his staff. How much easier it was for him that he had no interest in such things, yet all the harder at the same time. “I hear enough about it at Hogwarts; even if you only say it in jest, I will not take such comments lightly.”

"...My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

“Albus, even you’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day.” Snape said before he could stop himself. Dumbledore chuckled and continued on.

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall... People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

“This sounds oddly familiar…” Dumbledore mused, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“...I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore.

“Wait a minute.” Snape held up his hand. “You never use the word ‘seems’ unless there’s reasonable doubt that what appears to be is what is.”

“Severus, please, we’ve been over this before.” Dumbledore sighed. “Do you really think Mister Flight-From-Death isn’t going to have something in reserve for in case he’s died?”

Snape chuckled at the name the two of them used to refer to Voldemort. “And yet you refuse to elaborate on what those alternate plans could be.”

Before Dumbledore could respond, Himeko reappeared from a wooden door that had materialized. “Did I miss it?”

“Miss what?” asked Dumbledore. The door faded into non-being, as though slowly vanished.

“The part where you blush.” She said simply.

“We have not yet gotten to any blushing that may or may not have happened,” Snape said silkily, “though I will be listening closely now that I have reason to.”

"We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

Snape and Himeko both started laughing. “Only you, Albus. Only you.” Himeko said as she calmed down.

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops.

And now all three of them were laughing. It took a few minutes for everyone to calm down, only to start laughing again at the absurdity of them laughing over something that really wasn’t all that funny to begin with. It took a few more minutes after that, but finally the reading resumed.

"...It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Himeko laughed. When confronted by the confused looks of the two others, she explained. “The Dumbledore in my universe had an affair with the Pomfrey in my universe. The day I went to investigate some temporal loops in the Hogwarts area, I walked in on them just as they were starting in on a good snog…” Her voice trailed away when she saw the dangerous look on Dumbledore’s face. “Keep reading please.” she said hurriedly.

"...The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "

Dumbledore and Snape bowed their heads in silent remembrance. Himeko held a silent memorial for all those that lost their lives in the war, both before and after the brief armistice that Voldemort’s first death resulted in. With a slightly cracked voice, Dumbledore resumed reading.

"...We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Snape looked at Dumbledore. “Your guesses have usually been accurate, Albus. Take one.”

“But you’re not handing me a ticket.”

The other two looked at the aged warlock for a moment, completely nonplussed. Dumbledore sighed, and started talking to nobody in particular. “My guess is that Lily, when she died, created a special barrier inside of Harry’s blood. It was that barrier that protected Harry from the very next person to do him harm.”

Himeko nodded. “It was also because of the blood barrier that Harry was able to survive the Dursleys in my universe. Albus, you may have protected three arguably innocent people from inadvertent doom and torture by placing Harry there, but would it have killed you to have placed him with a Wizarding family?”

Dumbledore glared at Himeko. “Would he still have been Harry Potter if he had grown up knowing that he was famous?”

Himeko opened her mouth, then closed it again. After thinking for a moment, she said quietly “You never know. I’ve seen universes where Harry was raised by Gilderoy Lockhart of all people, and most of those Harrys were still fundamentally good people, even if admittedly big-headed.”

“Why would I send Harry to live with Lockhart?”

“Because he’s a conniving Slytherin that’s made himself rich and famous by classified information?” she supplied.

“…run that by me again?”

“I said, he’s made himself rich and famous by classified information.”

The two men looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “Never mind, you’ll learn soon enough what I’m trying to say. Read please.”

"...I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

“And I can already name one good thing that came out of my dad’s movie hitting it big in Surrey ten years ago.”

“What would that have been, Miss Nonohara?”

“Sei Arei was at the zoo last year. My Harry’s worst times were after the zoo thing and before he started at Hogwarts. These Dursleys aren’t as bad as mine were, but they probably would have abused Harry worse had you not intervened after that.”

“Abused? How badly?” Dumbledore’s eyes started to widen. If other universes had Harrys that were abused, what of his own?

“Mine was locked in the cupboard under the stairs for two days, without food or water, because he broke his arm. When he was six. Thankfully, your Dursleys didn’t do that to your Harry.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Do you really think I wouldn’t have kept an eye on things if given the choice? Our Harry never cared for the Dursleys until almost the very end, and even then it was because of classified information. This one has a chance for a normal home life, although it may still be wise to keep him out of that home, blood barrier or not.”

“But the Death Eaters-“

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” Himeko began, bringing the full weight and power of her station into her voice, “sometimes what is best for one person is better for the greater good than what you think is best for the greater good. Remember those words as you read.”

Snape was shocked. He had never seen someone do that to Dumbledore and walk away unscathed. He resolved to ask Albus exactly what that meant later on.

"...I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

Snape looked at Himeko, his eyes betraying his fear. “Is there a Harry Potter Day in the future?”

Himeko smirked. “That’s classified.” Snape just groaned in response.

"...Can’t you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

“I’ll give you that point, Albus, but Petunia? Really? Miss Petunia ‘Jealous Of Her Sister’ Evans? Surely Graham and Janet Evans could have helped find someone else if the blood barrier was so bloody important.” Snape, emboldened by Himeko’s words, was now tearing into the headmaster. “And I know they were still alive for a year after Lily’s death, because they kept in contact with me. They didn’t know any of Potter’s family, and they would have raised him without any Wizarding anything if you had asked.”

“Do you really think I didn’t go to them first? It was they who suggested Petunia. They, like myself, were hopeful that some people could get over their childhood grudges for the sake of a person’s well-being.”

Snape folded his arms angrily. “As long as you didn’t just leave Harry out on the doorstep or anything. ‘I know, I’ll place all sorts of protective enchantments on this house, tie them to Harry’s blood, and just leave him out on the doorstep, in the middle of a cold autumn night, for anybody to find. What could possibly go wrong?’”

Dumbledore shrugged. “It’s not like there are people that go door-to-door in the wee hours of the morning. Harry would have been first seen by the Dursleys.”

Snape looked murderous. “Have you never heard of milkmen, Albus? They do go door-to-door in the wee hours of the morning, leaving bottles of milk on the doorstep. It’s a miracle that nothing newsworthy happened. At the very least it should have made it into the muggle news. ‘Boy found abandoned on doorstep, family mortified.’”

Dumbledore shrank in his chair, clearly embarrassed. Himeko turned to Snape. “As much as I enjoy watching you chew out Mister Omniscient here, it happened in the past. There’s nothing we can legally do to change it. That’s partly why I’m here, anyway.”

“Why else are you here, Miss Nonohara?”

“That’s classified.”

Frustrated at the universe’s sudden dislike of himself, Dumbledore resumed reading.

"...I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

“As would I, Albus.” Snape said.

“And I.” Himeko said. Dumbledore seemed heartened at this, and continued reading.

"...Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

Both of the men clenched their teeth at the mention of Sirius Black. Himeko sighed. It was not fair that they had to think that Sirius was evil and Pettigrew a martyr, but rules were rules. Besides, Snape would more than likely tear the Burrow apart if he heard Pettigrew was hiding there, and that would definitely create instability. Actually, now that she thought about it, that bit of information would come out anyway, wouldn’t it? She decided to handle that when the time came.

"...Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground...”

“You couldn’t have removed the scar anyway, because classified information.”

Snape threw a sandwich at Himeko’s head. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“What, classified information?”

“Yes, that.”

“I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut about certain things, so I had one of the other time witches put a spell on me. If I were to reveal something that would create instability if you were to act on it now instead of at the proper time, for instance if I were to mention classified information during Harry’s fourth year, what ends up coming out of my mouth instead is the phrase ‘classified information.’ I don’t always notice it until after I’ve said it. Anyway, the scar is classified information, classified information is classified, and Harry names his second son after the two of you.”

“What was that last thing?”

“…classified?” Himeko tried weakly. “Okay, so I guess I can tell you that Harry marries classified information and that his sons are named classified information and Albus Severus Potter.”

The two men smiled, and continued reading.

"...Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.

“Why does it seem like Minerva and myself are the only two people at Hogwarts with any degree of common sense?” Snape lamented.

“Why did Erika have to look like me?” Himeko said in response. Neither of the two men knew what she was talking about.

"...I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

“I suspect that, had I told Hagrid that Sirius had been James’ secret keeper, and therefore directly responsible for James and Lily’s deaths, he would have taken Sirius to Hogwarts and kept him there.”

Himeko sighed again. Stupid time-travel rules.

"...Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

Snape threw the entire tray of sandwiches at Dumbledore’s head. “Idiot. You should have at least stayed there, or woken up the Dursleys, or something. November is a cold month!”

Dumbledore sighed, and finished the chapter. After a brief pause, he handed the book to Snape, then started to wipe his tears. He had never realized just how badly he had handled the Harry situation until today, when he had started to read this book. He could only dread what sort of things he would do in trying to protect the boy, all in the name of the Greater Good.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

Author’s Note: Woohoo, finally completed the first chapter. In the universe where this Himeko is from, Dumbledore and Snape both survived the war and was able to learn about them directly. The ‘classified information’ bit is from Haruhi Suzumiya. For those that missed it, the Himeko in this story is a Sailor Pluto, studying under Setsuna Meioh. I have not yet decided if she will be in Kingdom of Magic, but I don’t think she will.