#mild ed warning for the next few tags

[rogueddie]

NSFW Steddie Fic Rec, Part 2: Bottom / Sub Eddie

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 💦

And for this one too, heavy emphasis on 'read the tags'. 🔞

Screw Todd, Steve's Her (His) Daddy Now

ArtaxLivs

Steve keeps calling himself Daddy "unintentionally" and Eddie...well, Eddie's about to lose it and do something he might (probably won't) regret.

Words : 5,087 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Light BDSM

AO3 : x

When You Sweat That Toxic Haze, I Love Your Smell

astromirage

“I’m sorry, shit ‘m sorry,” he whines, desperately needing to rabidly thrust into Steve’s cunt, to hold him down, fuck him until he’s cock stupid, drooling, only being able to beg for release, and Eddie’s dick.

“You better fucking be, don’t do it again,” he begins moving, propping himself up, just to work back onto his dick, doing this a few times, each drawing delicious noises from both of them.

Steve settles in, rocking against Eddie, the most pornographic sounds tumbling from his lips as he arches his back, burying Eddie’s cock in him deeper. His thighs burn as he fucks himself on Eddie, clenching around him, causing Eddie to groan, faltering in the stance he had sitting up. Their sweaty skin slaps together softly as Steve methodically uses Eddie, slowly working Eddie up.

Words : 3,661 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : FTM Steve

AO3 : x

In My Boxers, Half Stoned

Eddywow

"You can," Eddie said, almost sounding like he was nodding along to his words. The image was too pure for Steve. "You could say anything you want to me and I'd- I think I'd be into it. Because I saw your pics and like, I know your face isn't in them but- but I really like them. Is it okay that I liked them?"

Words : 12,338 Chapters : 2/2 ❗

AO3 : x

Melt Me On Your Tongue

indelicate

“This okay?”

“Yeah it’s— shit, it’s more than okay, Steve.”

“… you’re crying, Eds.”

Eddie can’t hold back a choked off noise then, somewhere between an overwhelmed laugh and a sob.

“No one’s ever done this to me before.”

He doesn’t know if he means no one’s ever given him a bath, or braided his hair, or just any of the things Steve does for him, really.

Eddie's never had a Steve before.

Words : 5,879 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Mild Painplay

AO3 : x

Done Deal

morningberries

“I’m sorry, your royal highness, but I don’t accept trades, or favours, or IOUs, or promises, or anything relating. I accept cash. That’s it. End of story.”

“Are you sure?” Steve stepped forward into Eddie’s personal space and was pleased to see the other man’s round eyes grow impossibly larger. “I feel like I could offer you something that you want, that isn’t cash.”

Words : 3,644 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : D/S

AO3 : x

The Bartender Was A Trap

MixAddams

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Steve was just naturally amazing at DND?

Like he can see the strategy clear as day and can’t understand why the other players are taking so long to decide on their next move. He’s never caught by surprise by the story. He built his nearly flawless absolute weapon of a character in less than twenty minutes.

Eddie fucking hates it but oh boy does it turn him on

Words : 2,889 Chapters : 1/1 ❗

AO3 : x

Ozzy sucks

dirtyvalentine

And the pièce de résistance comes when Eddie tells him, "You could cover my mouth."

That one scares him most.

Because, well, "How are you going to use your safeword?"

"I'm not."

"What if you need to?"

"I won't."

"How do you know?"

"I'll never need to. Just trust me."

Words : 14,465 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Non-Con

AO3 : x

Emphasis: Major Trigger Warning for Rape Obviously I'm recommending this fic, but I do want to be clear; the content, what actually happens, in this fic? It's tagged Dead Dove for a reason. Heed the tags!

Open Up Baby

murdertrashbabyrat

Eddie calls him mommy one time, one fucking time, as a joke, he swears just a joke but then Steve looks at him, expression stern, hands on his fucking hips of course, and says, “Behave,” before snapping at Robin that she wasn’t putting this album on again and if she puts it on again he’s gonna destroy her and then she puts it on and he’s chasing her across the house and it’s funny and he should be laughing but instead he’s a little bit stricken over the fact that he’s fucking hard.

Words : 5,008 Chapters : 1/1 ❗ : Mommy Kink

AO3 : x

Whatever you want, Birthday Boy.

FluffyChicken

The club is fucking crowded when they arrive. Robin announces to the security man at the door that it's his best friend's birthday, and to Steve's dismay, she starts telling everyone who's listening that it's actually Steve's twentieth five birthday.

Fuck. Steve wishes to have twenty five years again.

"There you are, birthday boy!" He announces with a pretty smile that makes Steve go hot all over. Maybe he should take off his jacket.

Steve looks at his drink, the glass decorated with a silly pink umbrella, and smiles, reaching for his wallet and opening over the bar to pay.

“This one it’s on the house, handsome!” The bartender yells at him, putting his hand over Steve’s, stopping him. "Happy birthday!"

Words : 15,783 Chapters : 4/4 ❗

AO3 : x

[seraphimsinful]

Mmm :(

[xbunny-k]

The Actor & I: PART TEN – Austin, You Don’t Have to Come get Me

This is part TEN of a very long, SLOW BURN series on Austin Butler and a Production Assistant on set of Elvis (2022).

Masterlist here!

Anything italicized is main character’s thoughts!

Warnings: Fluff, eventual Spoilers for Elvis (2022), mild language (If i missed anything, please comment so i can add!)

Tags: @manddor @pumkiinpasties​ @its-funny-til-its-not​ @karamelcoveredolicity @butlerstyles @feral4austinbutler @mirandastuckinthe80s @emilykolchivans @atombombbibunny @francescababy @starry-night-20 @yeetfack-blog @milaa24 (Let me know if you’d like to be added!)

Please, if you like this, share it, comment, like it and enjoy! xx

The rest of the day flies by and by 8 PM, I’ve gone to the gym, showered and made some dinner. As I sit down to eat, I pick up my phone and feel a bit of sadness Austin hasn’t texted me at all today. Ana, he’s literally a famous actor…with a famous girlfriend… And he had the biggest day of his career so far.

I eat dinner, get ready for bed and then slide into my bed and pull up Instagram. As my mind wanders, I decide to send Austin a text. Couldn’t hurt, right? I did say I’d call him later, maybe he was waiting on me?

“Hope you had the best day celebrating Aus. Warner Brothers is so proud you’re our Elvis!!”

I hit send and wait a few minutes before feeling a wave of disappointment flush over me. I decide to call it a night and go to bed…the earliest I’ve gone to sleep all week. As my alarm goes off the next morning, I feel instant disappointment to see I have zero notifications from Austin. I get ready for the day and head to the office.

The workday drags on, but eventually it’s almost 7 PM and time to head home. Still nothing from Austin? Did I do something? The rest of my night feels as routine as my day. Gym, shower, dinner, get ready for bed. What did I say to him? It feels weird to go a day without talking to him. As I double check my alarm is set for the next day, I fall asleep wonder what I could have done or said.

The next morning, I feel a bit of ease knowing at least it’s Friday. As I get ready for work, I decide since I have plans right after work to put a little more effort into my appearance. Spending more time now just means I have less to do later when I get back from work. I put on a black, tank blazer dress with some black strappy heels and my signature gold jewelry. I look professional, but chic at the same time. My long hair is curled but brushed out for soft waves. I have a good “no make-up” make-up look on and I’m lotion-ed up to the nines. I spray my favorite perfume, grab my work bag and coffee and head out the door.

My car gives me a bit of trouble, but eventually starts. Not today, just let me get to work and back today and I’ll take you in tomorrow, please. I make it to the office and relax a bit. The day flies by, it seems everyone is in the mindset that it’s summer, time to head home for a summer weekend. I have quite a bit to do as I was given a ton of reels of film, press clippings and more that I offered to organize and bring to Austin next week. If he still wants me to that is… I wonder where he’s been… I miss him…

As I start to wrap up, I realize it’s almost 7:30 PM and I’m the only one in the office. Crap, I have plans tonight! Get out of here, Ana. I finish up and head to my car…which won’t start. Shit, shit, shit! Come on. Just get us home, please. After much pleading in my mind, I’ve given up. This car is not starting.

Before pulling out my phone to call for a tow, I sit there and stare ahead. What started as such a great week as turned into a week of loneliness. Why did I miss talking to Austin so much? He’s clearly just busy and this is just a work relationship, not a friendship to him. As I’m on the verge of making myself cry over literally…nothing, I pull out my phone and send a text to my friends to let them know I’ll either be very late or not coming. I’ll keep them posted. I’m really not in the mood to even go out. I want to change into some pajamas and curl up with some wine and a book in bed.

As I go to google for a local towing company, my phone is buzzing with a phone call. Great, Kelsey is calling to harass me into having a tow truck drop me off directly at dinner. I don’t even check who it is knowing my best friend won’t let me out of plans so easily and answer with a bit of an attitude that soon turns tear filled, “Kels, I can’t get to dinner. I’ve had a bad few days and now my car won’t start. I’m alone in a dark parking lot and just want to get home and do nothing.”

“Anastasia, are you okay? Do you need me to come get you,” Austin firmly says back. Shit, what did I do? I put the phone down and see the contact says Mr. Presley, not Kelsey. Shit, you stupid idiot! Why would you answer like that? Austin cuts off your train of thought, “Ana, are you sitting alone? Where are you? Can you go inside so you’re not alone outside.”

I sit there for a second, trying to stop sounding like I just finished crying from feeling overwhelmed and finally respond back, “I’m outside my office, I think the door locked when I left, but I can see if I can get back in I guess. My car won’t start, it’s an older car, so it happens sometimes.”

I hear a sigh of relief come through the phone and Austin firmly responds, “Grab your stuff and see if you can get back in. Did you call a tow truck already?” My stomach feels like its tying itself in knots and I choke back, “Not yet, I was in the middle of…” and before I can finish Austin cuts me off, “Send me your location and I’ll get one sent to you, but Ana, don’t hang up.”

I giggle and for the first time today, feel a bit more at ease. How does he make me feel like this? I feel like I’m floating. As I head to the office door, the ID badge buzzes, but the door doesn’t unlock. Shit. “Ana, was that the door,” Austin asks in a very serious tone. “Uhh, yeah, it won’t unlock. I’m gonna go back to my car.” As I get back into my car, I feel more tears coming on for some reason. Ana, what is with the crying? “I’m gonna call a tow truck, Austin. I’ll give you a call later,” I sniffle through the phone trying to hold back tears. “Ana, lock your doors, send me your location please,” Austin demands. I put him on speaker and text him my pin. “I just sent to you, but I need to call a tow truck, it’s gonna take them so long to get to me.” As I’m about to hang up, I hear a dial tone coming through.

“I’m calling one with you on the line right now so you can give them the info about your car,” Austin says. Ana, keep it together. He’s just being nice. I can’t hold it in, I mute my phone and burst into tears. I feel so overwhelmed and just don’t understand why I feel so emotional. Ana, snap out of it. You can keep it together for a call. “Thank you, Austin,” I whisper hoping he can’t hear my bubbling tears.

A towing company answers and Austin takes the lead of the conversation and I confirm my location, car, and instructions on how to get through the gates. As the towing company gives me a sixty-to-eighty-minute range, they hang up and I just sigh. What a Friday night. “Thanks Austin, but I got it from here. I really appreciate your help, but don’t want to keep you from your night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

As I go to hang up before I burst into tears for some reason, Austin firmly says, “Ana, I’m coming to get you. Can you just stay on the line until I’m there?” He’s coming…here? Whaat? Why? Ana, what? Why would he come here? Shit! What do I look like? “Uhhh, Austin, you don’t have to come get me. The tow truck will take me home, it’s fine.” Austin laughs, “I’m already in the car on my way, Ana. It says 20 minutes.” I can hear him smiling on the other end of the phone.

Shit, shit! He’s coming here, what do I do? I was CRYING, I look a mess. I can’t believe Austin is coming here… to get me…

[anotherspnfanfic]

Overloaded

Pairing: Dr Dean x nurse reader

Word count: 1584

Warnings: minor injury

Squares filled: Hospital AU for @spndeanbingo and Doctor AU for @supernatural-jackles Tell Me a Story Bingo

Summary: Working too many hours and being short handed leads to a breaking point.

~~~

Gabe pushed the wheelchair off the elevator into the ED. She bit her lip to muffle her whimper as the small bump jostled her foot. “Sorry,” Gabe murmured as he wheeled her towards the nurses station. “Hey, Charlie, you got an open room? She needs an x-ray.”

Charlie turned to see who Gabe was referring to. “Oh, what happened?” she asked, seeing the pain on her friend’s face.

Before either of them could explain, Dean came out of an exam room and spotted her. “My nurses are not supposed to be in wheelchairs. Especially not my favorite one,” he said as he walked over and squatted down to her level. He noticed her puffy eyes as he carefully pulled up the pant leg on her elevated foot. He echoed Charlie’s question, “What happened, sweetheart?”

She rubbed a hand across her forehead as she glanced at the floor. “I missed a step, or maybe two. I landed wrong on my ankle. I'm pretty sure it’s broken. It hurts a lot.”

Dean raised an eyebrow as he stood and moved to take over Gabe’s position. “Okay, let's get you checked out.”

“Exam 4 is open,” Charlie said.

Dean turned to Gabe as he pushed her toward the room. “Can you go grab the portable x-ray and 25 mcg fentanyl, please?”

Once they were in the exam room, Dean offered his hand to help her stand on her good leg. He leaned over and lifted her carefully and then set her on the bed. She tried not to whine as the movement sent pain shooting up her leg. “Damn it. This sucks,” she said.

He situated the bed so she was laid nearly flat and got her foot elevated on a couple pillows. “1-10—how’s the pain?” Dean asked, as he tossed a blanket over her.

“Uhh, about a 6.”

Dean nodded. “Gabe should be back with the pain meds in a minute. So, you missed a step?” he asked as he started to check her vitals.

“Yeah, I was playing with my phone and I missed it,” she explained. He gave her a skeptical look.

Before he could say anything more, Gabe appeared and handed Dean a syringe. “I figured you’d want that first. I’ll be right back with the x-ray.”

Dean finished recording her temp and BP, then pushed the sleeve of her scrubs up her shoulder and cleaned a spot with an alcohol wipe. “Little pinch,” he warned. “Babe, you can maneuver all the stairs in this building backwards, hands full, and with your eyes closed. You sure you just missed it?” he asked.

She broke eye contact as she contemplated her answer carefully, knowing he could tell when she was lying. “No,” she mumbled. “I might have been a little dizzy, too.”

He reached his index finger under her chin to force her eyes to meet his. “Any guesses why you were dizzy?”

She pulled away enough to drop her gaze back down to the bed and shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Low blood sugar, maybe? Probably,” she mumbled the last word. She fiddled with the corner of the blanket almost nervously, not wanting to see the disappointment and concern on his face.

He hummed. “So you didn’t miss a step. You fainted?”

She sighed in defeat. “Yeah.”

“Have you eaten anything since the granola bar I brought you,” he paused to check his watch, “five hours ago?”

She shook her head and pulled the barely-touched bar from her pocket. “I got busy and then I forgot it was there.”

“What about water? Have you been drinking?” he probed. She simply shook her head, still refusing to make eye contact. “So you’re probably dehydrated, too.”

She shrugged.

He sighed. “You really have got to take better care of yourself. I love how much you care for everyone around you, but you have to come first once in a while. Otherwise, you won’t be able to help anyone.”

“I just get so busy that I forget sometimes.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “We are going to work on that.”

Before she could add anything, Gabe pushed the x-ray into the room, and within a few minutes, they had all the images they needed of her ankle.

“Definitely very broken,” Dean stated. “Gabe, can you run a CBC and BMP and then start an IV of normal saline while I go page Sammy, please?”

“You got it, boss.”

“Wait!” she yelled before he could disappear out the door. “Why are you paging Sam?”

He turned back to face her. “Did you hit your head, too? You broke your ankle; we need an ortho consult. That would be Sam.”

She let out a frustrated groan as Dean left.

Gabe patted her shoulder before wrapping the tourniquet around her arm. “Maybe try not falling down the stairs next time.”

She rolled her eyes and looked away from what he was doing. “Oh, my god. Why didn’t I think of that?!”

He finished the blood draw and got the IV set up. Next, he carefully fluffed the pillows under her foot to ensure it was elevated enough. “You are all set. Do you need anything else right now?”

“Not unless you have a time machine.”

“A day do-over? Let’s see.” Gabe snapped his fingers and then spun around. “Damn. It was worth a shot.”

She tried to contain her smile as she rolled her eyes at him. “Thanks for trying, I guess.”

Ten minutes later, she was dozing off when Dean returned with Sam close behind. Dean ran a comforting hand over her head to ensure she was awake.

Sam took a few minutes to read over the x-rays. He turned away from the light board and walked over to the foot of the bed. “Unstable bimalleolar fracture,” he stated as he inspected her ankle. “You just bought yourself surgery and a vacation.”

“No way,” she blurted. “I can’t. We’re already short staffed.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s not exactly optional. Good news, though: the swelling isn’t too bad yet, I happen to be free in 45 minutes, and you haven’t eaten anything in hours. So we can do this today.”

Charlie joined them to give Dean her lab results. He turned to address her. “Just like I thought: mild dehydration and your blood sugar is at 58.” Dean flipped through the info again before handing it over to Sam. “Okay. So I’ll add glucose to her IV and get her up to pre-op.”

“Perfect. Make sure you keep her foot elevated.”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically. “Do you think this is my first day?”

Sam shrugged. “Just making sure, Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean grumbled quietly.

Sam turned his attention back to her. “I’ll see you soon, Shortie. I’ll getcha all fixed up. Sound like a plan?”

She gave him a lazy thumbs up. “Thanks, Gigantor.”

“Can you send Gabe back in here on your way past?” Dean requested. Sam simply nodded as he turned to leave.

Dean returned his focus to her. “How’s the pain now?”

She scrunched up her nose as she considered her answer. “Um, about one and a half.” She laughed at herself.

“That’s good. I see you’re loopy, too.”

She scowled at him. “You’re loopy.”

He just shook his head. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Gabe returned and Dean gave him the med order and asked him to take her up to the OR.

“You’re not coming up?” She pouted.

He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ll be there when you wake up, though, I promise.” He took her hand and placed a quick kiss to her knuckles.

As if on cue, Charlie leaned into the room. “Dean, trauma incoming. MVA car vs pedestrian. Ambo is two minutes out.”

“Okay, I'll be there in a second.” He gave her hand one more squeeze before he turned to leave. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

~

Roughly three hours later, Sam found Dean in the lounge pouring a cup of coffee. He nodded and offered over the now-full cup.

“Thank you.” Sam took a sip of the dark liquid. “We got her all set up in recovery. She should be awake soon.”

“Okay. I’ll head up there in a minute.” Dean took a sip of his own coffee. “Everything went smoothly?”

“I’d have paged you if it hadn’t.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam nodded. “Yes, it went perfectly. It’ll heal up just fine.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Wandering into her room, he couldn’t help but smile at how peaceful she looked. He placed his hand softly against her cheek, sweeping his thumb slowly over the skin. She nuzzled into the touch as she lazily opened her eyes. “Hi, sweetheart.”

She gave him a goofy smile. “I like when you call me that.”

“I know you do.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Sleepy.” She yawned. “And I’m starving. Can you bring me some fries?”

He chuckled. “Well, I’m glad your appetite is back. You get a little more sleep and I’ll bring you fries.”

“And pizza,” she added. Before he could agree, she gasped. “Ice cream!”

“Tell you what: I will get you fries from the cafeteria for you to munch on on the way home and then we can order pizza.”

She pouted as her eyelids started to droop. “What about ice cream?”

His eyebrows scrunched together as he asked, “When do we ever not have ice cream at home?”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay.” She smiled as she finally let herself drift off once more.

~~~

Tags: @deanwasscaredbyacat @babypieandwhiskey @muchamusedaboutnothing @defenderrosetyler @akshi8278 @like-a-bag-of-potatoes

[2-cute-4-school]

𝘕𝘊𝘛 𝘋𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴

requested by the lovely @m4rshm4llow​ (*ૂ❛ัᴗ❛ั*ૂ)

Mark Lee

i think mark is quite good with children too when he’s not frozen in awkwardness

but i wouldn’t trust with him alone with a kid for too long tbh

like i see him as someone who could probably entertain a kid for a couple of hours succesfully but taking care of them?? yeah no (˵¯͒ བ¯͒˵)

so let’s say he had to tag along with you to babysit because he didn’t want to waste any time he could spend with you *let my boy receive his love*

but he’s not thaaaat excited he just hopes that the kid will get K.O.-ed early in the night so he could have some alone time with you( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°).... TO CUDDLE ya nasties

so when you arrive at your cousin’s house and you come in

he surely DIDN’T expect a kid to literally throw himself onto you and cling to your legs while chanting your name o(*^▽^*)o

the only way you can get him to detach so you can walk is if you pick him up in your arms

“y/n, who’s he?” mark just stares at the chubby finger pointed at him and produces an *HIGHLY AWKWARD* smile like (*′☉.̫☉)

“oh this is mark, my boyfriend”

*silence* “ew”

now hold on rewind

did a kid just ‘ew’ at mark (｡☉︵ ಠ╬)

and then he had THE AUDACITY to cling to your neck while rambling about his new robot toy and mark had to THIRDWHEEL the entire night

now he’s sure you have superpowers how could you tame that!!??!?! even haechan could be considered mild in comparison to... this ʕ •̀ o •́ ʔ

he’s pouty the entire evening while you play and take care of the newly spawned devil in town who HOGS your attention the entire time

so when he finally runs out of energy a bit later than mark would have hoped for, he’s quick to envelop you in his arms and drag you into a well deserved cuddle session ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ

“what took you so looong?”

“sorry sorry, i had to look under his man for boogeyman”

“pffft i think boogeyman is the one looking under his bed for that kid”

but he does melt when he remembers the way your eyes sparkled as the child giggled excitedly on your lap while imagining himself in the picture too (๑°꒵°๑)･*♡

Huang Renjun

renjun as we all know is just a bit short tempered so i’m not sure where he stands in his relationship with kids 눈_눈

but also he brings up his younger cousins quite often and he seems very fond of them whenever he talks about them

so i guess he likes kids but like good kids ya know Σ(-᷅_-᷄๑)

so let’s say you’re shopping in like one of those bigger supermarkets

and you hear cries

your mother instincts literally GO OFF LIKE CRAZY

renjun doesn’t even have the time to blink before you’re dragging him in the direction of the noise with such precision you might as well have a radar at this point ᕕ༼✿•̀︿•́༽ᕗ

turns out a little girl was lost between the tall aisles

renjun is a lil bewildered cause what is he supposed to do? not like he’s tall enough to see other the aisles in his dreams maybe

but you seem to know EXACTLY what to do as you crouch down in front of the girl and speak to her so gently not even renjun can hear properly

and then as if nothing happened she stops crying

just like that so renjun decides to try his luck too o｜◕ˇ▽ˇ◕｜ツ

“come on, let’s go find mommy and daddy”

and lemme tell ya the little girl sprung into your arms and clung to you with everything she had as she mumbled into your neck

“i only wanna go with miss” (つ﹏<)･ﾟ｡

his eye twitched a lil ngl （；¬＿¬)

and that’s how you end up taking a stroll to the announcement desk with a whole child gripping onto your hand

renjun would have never imagined his grocery run to turn into this

he only wanted some damn carrots not a frickin child ಠ╭╮ಠ

thankfully it didn’t take long for the parents to run over and thank you for returning their child safely but there was only one problem left

getting her to let go of you

that was a whole ass dramatic goodbye

poor renjun was left exhausted after this he gave up any grocery run he intended to do and dragged you home pronto (ﾉTдT)ﾉ

he admires you so much for how you handled the situation and how you seemed to be so natural and in your element he can only think of how great of a mother you will be in the future with his beside you hopefully

Lee Jeno

one word, his greatest asset: PATIENCE

i see jeno as a man of patience which is more than just helpful when it comes to handling children ❀.(*´◡`*)❀.

he’s also volunteered in all these programs that involved children and he did really well if you ask me soooo he’s a good ally to have (︶.̮︶✽)

and you really REALLY want to volunteer together at one of those like emergency centres for children or something

and who is he to deny his love? he couldn’t have even if he wanted to, you’re too cute in his eyes so he lets you get your way anyway

so before you step inside one of the caretakers gives you some advice

warns you that the new kid, a little girl still in primary school, is still very closed off and wary of everyone

but as you step inside the kids get drawn to you like moths to a flame, swarming around you and asking you questions while dragging you in the living room to play with them

jeno just trails behind, watching the entire commotion with his soft eye smile as he understands (◍•ᴗ•◍)

he knows that you just have a way with people, he’s been in the same position mesmerized by you, it’s one of the reasons he loves you so much and seeing you so purely happy surrounded by children

MELTED HIM ♡(.◜ω◝.)♡

eventually you drag him into the happy circle too and he seems to fit in just right by your side with giggling children everywhere around you

he ends up using his muscly arms ᕙ[ ˵ ͡’ ω ͡’ ˵ ]ᕗ as swings

“hey!! i’m stronger than you!!! let’s have a fight!!!!”

you just giggle as you colour some pictures with a few kids but stare at your boyfriend from the corner of your eye

jeno is so simply happy and comfortable he doesn’t even notice when you disappear from the crowd at first

but when he does his eyes search wildly for you like a lost puppy Σ(ﾟﾛ､ﾟ;)

but then he spots you

curled up on a small couch in the corner of the room, deep in conversation with the new girl whose eyes seemed just a little brighter as you clutched her hand in yours warmly ｡ﾟ.(*´◡` )

and jeno just realises again

you’re just working your charm once again and once again jeno falls for you for the nth time, deeper than the last time and lighter than the next

Lee Donghyuck

this manchild right here smh ୧༼◔益◔୧ ༽

now don’t get me wrong i’m pretty sure he’s decent at least with children

given he has two younger siblings and he often talks about hanging out with his little brother also have you seen that vid with the little girl?? the was he talked to her ⊂（♡⌂♡）⊃

buuuut BUT he’s also DYING like a fish out of water without attention

so when he invites you to tag along to his hangout with his lil bro

he didn’t expect TO BE THE ONE THIRDWHEELING!!!! (╬ಠ益ಠ)

you keep feeding and pampering his brother who basks in your full attention half because he loves it half because he loves the annoyed look on hyuck’s face

“babe i want some kimchi too” (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*)

“oh!!! sure, i’m sorry for hoarding it all”

and as hyuck awaits with his eyes closed and his mouth open with a pleased smile

you plop a bowl of kimchi in front of him and turn back to his brother as he tugs on the sleeve of your shirt

hyuck, muttering to himself: ‘i should have left you home, you lil brat, both of you traitors!!!!!’ (ノTДT)ノ ┻┻

he pouts and sighs dramatically with crossed arms the entire night while watching you interact oh so sweetly with his little brother

but he can’t deny the warm feeling of fondness swarming is his chest seeing you get along so well with his family and being so genuinely happy when you’re with kids

still complains to you when he gets you alone

“i can’t believe you love my brother more than me!!! ME, YOUR SWEET LOVELY CUTIE BOYFRIEND!!!” ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚

“first of all, i wouldn’t stretch it that far-” “how is that stretching-?!??!”

“i’m sorry i’m sorry, my sweet lovely cutie boyfriend, i just missed him, he’s so cute and i haven’t seen him in so long and he seems to grow so fast every time we meet” (oꆤ︵ꆤo)

NOW hyuck is real soft how can he be mad at you when you’re THIS ADORABLE AFSKSGDFSAF-

hyuck just presses a sweet smooch to your temple and mutters

“he only acts that cute with you, he’s a devil at home”

“sheesh, i wonder who he takes after” *pointed look* (￢ε￢　)

Na Jaemin

my man here will most likely compete with YOU for the CHILD’S attention

it’s like GAME OVER for him if a child rejects him ε-(≖д≖﹆)

he’s never gonna get over this betrayal from both sides

so let’s say he takes you with him when he offers to babysit a cousin or neighbour idk you get where i’m getting at

and he’s already ‘play buddies’ with him as jaemin likes to put it (,,꒪꒫꒪,,)

and you’re slightly acquitanced with him from a previous visit to jaemin’s house when you coincidentally met

so when jaemin opens the door and announces his presence LOUDLY, the little boy doesn’t waste A SECOND to waddle in the hallway and meet you both ლ(＾ω＾ლ)

and jaemin crouches to meet him midway and-

and he *swooshes* past jaemin and into your open arms while giggling

jaemin, a lonely man in the middle of a hallway: (ಥ⌣ಥ)

the entire day, your boyfriend tries to steal the kid’s attention or bribe him over with sweets or toys

now you’re wondering who the real brat is

is salty about the UTTER rejection but also can’t help but watch you both so fondly with a proud hopefully in future for real fatherly smile (*ૂ❛ัᴗ❛ั*ૂ)

“are you practicing, y/n?”

“pardon?”

“practice, are you practicing?”

“for...?” ∑（´△｀○）

“ya know” *wiggles eyebrows* “taking care of our future children”

“learn how to control your own brat at home read jisung first and THEN we can talk, jaemama”

jaemin can’t believe this low blow, how could you after everything he’s done: cooking for you, taking you on bike rides even though he was the one who wanted to, even buying pads!!! or even worse!!!!! STRAWBERRY YOGHURT!!!!!! ∑(ﾟ台ﾟlll

he’s still pouty as you all put on an animation and snuggle a blanket

but then!!!! you fall asleep with the little boy in your embrace

and jaemin!!!!! just!!! CAN’T!!! stay mad!!!!!! cause you’re both just SO absolutely irrevocably CUTE!!!!!! ♡( ૢ⁼̴̤̆ ꇴ ⁼̴̤̆ ૢ)~ෆ♡

so he just HAS TO lay a *meaningful* smooch on your forehead as he sleepily moves closer to you both, one arm wrapping loosely around you while the other caresses the child’s head, lulling the both of them to sleep his protecc instincts kicked in y’all

Zhong Chenle

he has already expressed his wish to have a family someday since he wants to live the same happiness his brother does with his own family

which i think is ABSOLUTELY PRECIOUS

and we all know he’s WHIPPED for his nephew ˞♡ฅ(ᐤˊ꒳ฅˋᐤ)

but unfortunately

that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s good with children yet

let me give you a context over here

so he’s left alone for a short while with his baby nephew which shouldn’t be too bad since technically chenle is an adult at least legally okay??

and right things are all good until BABY STARTS TO CRY i’m talking about the actual baby here although chenle might cry too at this point

and chenle just PANICS when he realises that just shushing won’t work and whacking a hand over his mouth *cough* like he does to jisung *cough* isn’t an option (╬⁽⁽ ⁰ ⁾⁾ Д ⁽⁽ ⁰ ⁾⁾)

but thankfully, you’re there!!!!!!

“may i?” you ask chenle as you stretch out your arms in his direction

chenle has never passed over anything faster in his entire life џ(ºДºџ)

so when you coddle the baby in your arms and just gently bounce him a little he just settles down so cutely and most important QUIETLY as he stares up at you with curious eyes, small fingers curling up around a necklace swung around your neck or just the fabric of your shirt

chenle is all like (๑•́o•̀๑)!!

HOW DID YOU JUST DO THAT!!!!

and he watches with eyes even more curious than his nephew’s eyes as the baby slowly dozes off peacefully in your arms (꒡ ω ꒡ )zzz

it just hits him just how natural the scene looks

he approaches carefully once he’s sure his nephew fell asleep and lays a gentle hand on your head as he peers down at the cute chubby baby face

“you’re a life saver, how did you even manage to do that?” ◎ܫ◎

“you know, i have to take care of you all the time so-”

he flicks your forehead faster than you can finish that sentence

way to ruin a moment (oT-T)

but *SIKEEE* the baby fusses a little as soon as you frown and chenle immediately freaks out

he showers the spot on your forehead with kisses and his nephew settles down once again as you smile at him proudly ໒( ͡ᵔ ▾ ͡ᵔ )७

chenle rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t wish for this scene to become familiar to him sometime in the future

Park Jisung

this chick is still a baby who barely hatched

so he’s still in CONSTANT WONDER of the world ༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つ

and in this episode of ‘jisung the explorer’ he’s discovering... ACTUAL babies

so you were on a date at the local mall when you met with a family friend of your mom’s who was struggling with her fussy baby girl in a carrier while trying to shop for some baby products

so you offer to watch over the girl until her mom finishes up (•́⌄•́๑)૭✧

but just as you’re about to attach the baby carrier to yourself, an old woman asks for directions around the shop

so you pass the baby to jisung for literally a minute to show the lady the way └(>ω<。)┐

and jisung is HIGHKEY PANICKED

he holds the baby by the underarms at arms length and obviously she doesn’t enjoy that and just starts wailing in the middle of the shop

and people just... stare (,Ծ_Ծ,)

and jisung is all like ‘IT’S NOT MINE!!!!! AND I’M NOT STEALING OR MISTREATING IT EITHER!!!!!!’

the moment you’re back in his sight, he’s THRUSTING that tiny loud bald creature in your arms it’s a child jisung ║ * ರ Ĺ̯ ರ * ║

and he expects for you to panic too but right away

the baby quietens down as you cuddle her close to your chest and coo softly in a hushed baby voice

and she plays with your shirt while you glare at your boyfriend (눈_눈)

“y/n, you sorcerer, how did you just shut it off?”

“i didn’t ‘shut it off’, she’s a baby not a tape recorder”

“oh REALLY, i couldn’t tell the difference for a moment there”

you just might consider returning jisung and keeping the baby（ ಠωಠ）

he watches in wonder as you entertain the baby for the next few minutes until her mother comes back

and he swears his heart skips a beat when he sees your smile widen with tenderness once you get a small giggle out of the baby (*ฅ́˘ฅ̀*)

he supposes maybe she isn’t so bad since she makes you so happy

even though she was louder than even chenle which is an accomplishment at this point

and when jisung notices your slight pout once you gave the baby back and parted ways he makes sure to shower your face in kisses until you regain the same smile that made him fall so deep in love with you

[deanstead]

Not A Child Anymore

Pairing: Jay Halstead x HalsteadSister!Reader

Requested by anon: Something like Jay and crew raid a house for a suspect and he gets angry when he finds his sister with the suspect, as they’re old friends? They get into an argument as she’s upset that he’s not treating her like an adult?

Word Count: 1,054

Warnings: mild cursing

A/N: Reposting this because of the tags issue!

---

Jay turned the last corner, following closely behind Kevin’s car as they hurtled towards the suspect’s house.

They had barely made the determination after two days on this case. It had been wild goose chase after wild goose chase but they had finally zero-ed in on one person of interest and if this suspect was indeed guilty, they needed to bring him in and make the charges stick. Fast.

Jay pulled his truck up outside, jumping out of the car with his gun, Hailey following close behind. Kevin pulled the battering ram from the back of his car, letting Adam lead the way in.

Jay exchanged looks with the team, holding his gun up before nodding to Kevin.

Kevin pounded the door with his fist. “Chicago PD!” He hollered just before he rammed the door in, Adam leading the way in.

“Don’t move!” Adam yelled, pointing his gun at three young men in the living room.

Jay moved further into the house, clearing one room after the next until he reached the last room.

“Chicago PD, don’t move!” Jay yelled, pointing his gun at the boy sitting on the chair, his head swivelling to look at the other person in the room.

He froze as you raised your head, his confused expression echoing yours.

You knew better than to open your mouth so you closed it, your eyebrows scrunched together.

“David Bale?”  Jay asked, looking back at your friend. He didn’t respond but Jay didn’t need an answer. “Get up. We have a warrant to search the place and you need to come in with us to answer a few questions.”

Kevin jogged towards Jay, his eyes flicking from you and back to Jay. “I got this, Jay.” He said, moving forward to take David by the arm.

“Wait, what?” David asked, as he was led out of the door by Kevin.

Jay lowered his gun and spun towards you.

“Follow me.” Jay said through gritted teeth, almost kicking open the back door.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jay turned on you the moment the both of you had left the house.

“How about you start with telling me what the hell is going on?” You snapped. “You are the one who burst in here pointing your gun around. What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’ll talk later. Come on, I’ll get Will to pick you up from the station.”

You wanted to argue but you took a look at the expression on Jay’s face and bit back a snarky comment that would do you no good.

—

Jay didn’t speak to you at all after that. Not in the car, not at the station, not even after Hailey had asked you all the routine questions and Will had come to get you.

You were still annoyed that he had called Will to come and pick you up, as if you couldn’t find your own way home, but you didn’t say anything.

By the time Jay walked through the door of the apartment later that night, your annoyance was at its peak.

“Where’s Will?” was the first thing that Jay said as he stepped into his apartment.

You looked up from where you were sitting on the couch. “Med.”

“You going to explain now?” You asked, standing up to look at him.

Jay took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to have anything to do with David Bale, you hear me?” Jay said, his voice rising a little.

“Since when do you get a say in who I hang out with? I’m not six anymore Jay!” You retorted.

“Since you started hanging out with murder suspects!” Jay yelled.

Jay’s voice echoed around the apartment. You took a deep breath trying to steady yourself. “Jay, David’s a friend. He’s not a murderer.”

Jay turned away from you. “Yeah, tell that to Voight. The evidence against him is overwhelming, we don’t even need a confession, Y/N. Okay? So either he’s one unlucky son of a bitch or he’s a damn murderer.”

“Why don’t you let me talk to him?” You said, “Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

Jay spun around to face you again. “No way in hell. You’re not going to talk to him. Ever.”

“Jay! I’m not a child, anymore!” You yelled, feeling a rush of annoyance again.”

“Then stop behaving like one!” Jay retorted, his voice rising again.

You grinded your teeth. “Jay. He’s a friend. He’s a good friend. He’s always taken care of me.”

“We take care of you. Since when did you need someone else to take care of you?” Jay snapped.

“Since you left for Afghanistan and Will left for New York!” You yelled, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes.

Great. You hated angry crying.

Jay froze. “What?”

You turned away. “You guys left me here.” You said after a prolonged silence. “David was the one who was there for me. Okay?”

Jay didn’t say anything.

“He’s not a murderer.” You repeated, turning to look at Jay again.

Jay sighed, softening, looking at you, before moving towards the couch and pulling you to sit next to him.

“You’ll always be my baby sister. And I will never stop looking out for you. But I’ll try to take it down a notch okay?”

You looked at Jay. “Look, I just… I wouldn’t trade you or Will for the world. But you have to stop treating me like a child, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

Jay gave a small smile. “Compromise?”

You gave a little chuckle. “You know, considering you’re not even the oldest, you’re a real hardass.”

Jay laughed. “So we good?”

You shrugged but smiled.

“I have to go back to the district. I promise you if he’s innocent, we’ll find out.” Jay said. “I haven’t changed my mind about him yet.

You gave a dramatic sigh. “I know.”

You shook your head a little as you watched Jay get ready to leave the apartment. He could be really difficult and it really got on your nerves when he got up in your business but you also knew this was Jay’s way of protecting and taking care of you.

“Jay.” You called out, as he opened the door.

Jay turned to look at you. “Thanks.” You whispered.

Jay smiled, “See you later, sis.”

---

This is a repost because of problems with the tags so I won’t be retagging everyone!

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)

Here at last is my entry for the 2021 Rusty Quill Big Bang!

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Word count: ~30k Warnings: Chronic Illness, Mild Body Horror, Internalized Ableism, Canon-Typical Spiders, Mention of Canon-Typical Suicidal Ideation, Alcohol Other tags: Cane-user Jon, EDS Jon, Canon-compliant, Season 5, Set in 180-181 (Upton Safehouse period) Characters: Jon Sims, Martin Blackwood, Mikaele Salesa (secondary), Annabelle Cane (secondary) Relationships: Jon/Martin Summary: While staying at Upton House, Jon and Martin accidentally break their bedroom’s doorknob, and can’t get back into the room until they fix it. Meanwhile Jon tries not to break into literal pieces without the Eye, and also to pretend he’s having a good time as he and Martin lunch with Annabelle, parry gifts from Salesa, and quarrel about whether Jon’s okay or not. He's fine! It's just that the apocalypse runs on dream logic, and chronic pain feels worse when you're awake. Excerpt:

“Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?” “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.” “Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?” Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice. “Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him. “Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.” “Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.” Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

Huge thanks to @pilesofnonsense for hosting this event; to @connanro for beta-reading; and to @silmapeli for their amazing illustration, whose own post you can find here.

If you prefer, you can read this fic instead on Ao3. I won't link it directly, since Tumblr has trouble with external links, but if you google the title and add "echinoderms" (my Ao3 handle), it should come up!

Crunch. “Oh god. Shit! Oh god, oh no—”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

A clatter, then a noise like a small rock scraping a large one. Jon’s heart plunged; halfway through his question he knew the answer.

“I—I broke it? Look, see, the whole thing just—take this.” Martin tore his hand out of Jon’s and dropped the severed doorknob in it instead. Then he dropped to the floor, diving head- and hands-first for the crack between it and the door as if that crack were a portal between dimensions. Jon closed his eyes and shook this image away, hoping when he opened them again he could focus on what was real.

He should have known this would happen from the moment they left for breakfast. Every time he’d opened that door its knob felt a little looser. Why hadn’t he warned Martin? Well, alright, he didn’t need powers to know that one. He just hadn’t thought of it. Been a bit preoccupied, after all. And even if he had thought of it, that was exactly the kind of conversation he’d been shying away from all week. Watch out for that doorknob; it’s a little loose, he would say, and yeah, probably Martin would answer, Oh, thanks. But there was a chance Martin would say instead, Why didn’t you tell me?—and all week Jon had obeyed an instinct to avoid prompting that question. All week he had made sure to enter and exit their room a few steps ahead of Martin, and hold the door open for him. Martin probably just saw it as Jon’s way of apologizing for their first few months in the Archives together, and once that thought occurred to him Jon had started to look at it that way himself. Maybe that’s why he’d forgot this time.

“Nooo-oooo, come on come on!”

“I don’t think you’ll fit,” Jon said, when he looked again and found Martin trying to wedge his fingers under the door.

(Martin used to leave Jon’s office door open behind him—perhaps absentmindedly, but more likely as a gesture of friendship and openness, which the Jon of that time would not suffer. Sasha and Tim, n.b., only left his door open on their way into his office, when they didn’t intend to stay long; Martin would leave it gaping even if he didn’t mean to come back. Every time Jon had sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and closed the door behind Martin, drawing out the click of its tongue in the latch. And a few times he’d closed the door in front of him, so as to exclude him from a conversation between Jon and Tim or Sasha that he, Martin, had tried to weigh in on from outside Jon’s office.)

“What are you looking for?”

“The—the screw, I saw it roll under there. It fell down on our side. Oh, my god, it was so close—if I’d reacted just half a second earlier, I could’ve?—shit.”

“Oh.” Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.

“I can’t believe it. I broke Salesa’s door! He welcomes us in to an oasis, and I break the door. Oh, god—I’ve broken an irreplaceable door, in a stately historic mansion!”

A few more demonstrative huffs of laughter. “No you didn’t.”

Martin paused. He didn’t get up, but did turn his head to look at Jon. “Yes I did. It’s right there in your hand, Jon—”

“I should’ve known. Check for cobwebs, Martin.”

“Oh come on.”

“This can’t be your fault—it’s far too neat. This is all part of Annabelle’s plan.”

“Do you know that?”

“W-well, no. I can’t, not here. I just—”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Jon. Pretty sure it’s just an old doorknob.”

“Did you check for cobwebs?”

“Of course there are no cobwebs. A spider wouldn’t even have time to finish building the web before somebody wrecked it opening the door!”

“Then what’s that?” With the tip of his cane Jon tapped the floor in front of a clot of gray fluff in the seam between two walls next to the door, making sure not to let it touch the clot itself.

Martin rolled over to see where he was pointing, and almost stuck his elbow in it. “Ah. Gross. Gross, is what that is.”

“Christ, I should’ve known this would happen. I did know this would happen,” Jon reminded himself—“just ignored the warning signs because I can’t think straight here.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Jon. It’s a corner. Spiders love corners. I mean, unless you can prove the corner of our doorway has more spiderwebs than anywhere else in the house—”

“Well, of course not. You forget she’s got her own corner somewhere, which we still haven’t found by the way—”

“So, what, you think Annabelle Cane lassoed the screw with a strand of cobweb.”

“Not literally? She could be sitting on the other side of the door with a magnet for all we know!”

Martin peered under the door again with an exasperated sigh. “She’s not.”

“Not now she’s heard us talking about her.”

God, what a delicate web that would be, if all he had to do to avoid the spider’s clutches was reach a door before Martin did. Perhaps if he’d knocked first that’d have saved him. Maybe Martin was right. How could Annabelle know him well enough to foresee this mistake? Most of the time he hated people opening doors for him, after all.

Why do people see someone with a cane and think, Only one free hand? How ever will he open the door!? They don’t do that for people with shopping bags—not ones his age, at least. Letting another person open a door for him felt to Jon like… defeat, somehow. Like admitting the dolce et decorum estness of this version of reality all nondisabled people seemed to live in where he couldn’t open doors. And that version of reality horrified him. Not so much the idea of being too weak to open them—that sounded merely annoying. Like knocking the sides of jar lids on tables and swearing, only with doors. He had beat his fists against enough Pull doors in his time to figure he could live with that. It was more the idea of becoming that way. Letting his door-opening muscles atrophy ‘til it became the truth.

But sometimes you just let a thing happen, and forget to hate it. That was the thing about pride. Sometimes your convictions and your habits stop fitting together—you believe Fuck this job with all your heart, but still tuck in your shirt when you come to the office. And then you fly back from America in borrowed clothes, and pop in at the Institute like that on your way to Gertrude’s storage unit, and that’s what changes your habits. Not the knowledge you can’t be fired; not your now-boyfriend’s plot to put your then-boss behind bars. A thirdhand t-shirt with a slogan on it about how to outrun bears.

On his way out this morning the doorknob had felt so loose in Jon’s hand he almost had told Martin about it. But Martin had been full of let’s-go-on-an-adventure-together-style chatter—like when they’d left Daisy’s safehouse, only, get this, without the dread of entering an apocalyptic wasteland—and listening to him put the door out of Jon’s mind before he’d had time to interject.

Their first day here—or at least, the first they spent awake—Jon had inadvertently taught Martin not to accept invitations from Salesa. The latter had bounded up after Martin’s lunch in linen shirt and whooshy shorts and was, to Martin’s then-unseasoned heart, impossible to deny. So Jon had spent thirty minutes on a creaky folding chair, lunging out of his seat on occasion to collect a ball one of the other two had hit wrong, and trying to keep Salesa’s too-bright white socks out of sight. He’d pretended he preferred to sit out, knowing Martin would worry if he tried to play. But he hadn’t done as good a job hiding his boredom as he thought. “Thanks for putting up with that. Sorry it went on so long,” Martin had said as they re-entered their bedroom. “I just couldn’t say no to him, you know? For such a cynical old man he’s got impressive puppy eyes.”

“It’s fine? You know me, I don’t mind… watching.”

“I just mean, I’m sorry you couldn’t play. How’s your leg, by the way? Er—both your legs, I guess.”

“It’s fine. They’re both fine. I didn’t want to play anyway, remember? I don’t know how.”

“Sure you don’t,” Martin replied, words tripping over a fond laugh.

“I don’t!”

“Come on, Jon. Everyone knows how to play ping-pong.”

Martin had turned down Salesa when he showed up the next day in khaki shorts and a pith helmet with three butterfly nets, without Jon’s having to say a word. More emphatically still did he turn him down when Salesa mentioned the house had an indoor pool, and offered to lend them both antique bathing suits like the one he had on, “Free of charge! A debtor is an enemy, after all, and in this new world I have no wish to make an enemy of” (sarcastic whisper, fingers wiggling) “the Ceaseless Watcher who rules it. I have nothing to hide from you,” he’d alleged, for the… third time that day, maybe? Each morning Jon resolved to count such references; he rarely missed one, as far as he knew, but kept forgetting how many he’d counted.

But Salesa was a salesman, and over time his efforts had grown more subtle. He stopped showing up already dressed for the activity he had in mind, and instead would drop hints at meals about all the fun things they could do if only they would let him show them. Martin loved how the winter sunlight caught, every afternoon around four, in the branches of a tree visible outside the window of their bedroom. “Ah, yes,” Salesa had agreed when he remarked on it one morning. “Turning it periwinkle and the golden green of champagne.” (He poured sparkling wine—the cheap stuff, he said, not real champagne—into an empty juice glass still lined with orange pulp. Over and over, without once overflowing. The oranges weren’t ripe enough to drink their juice plain yet, he said. But they’d still run out of juice first.) “If you think that’s beautiful”—he paused to swallow bubbles come up from his throat, waved his hand, shook his head. “No. On one tree, yes, it is beautiful. But on a whole orchard of bare trees in winter”—he nodded in the direction of Upton’s orchards—“the afternoon sun is sublime. You can see how the twigs shrink and shiver under its gaze; the grass rustles with a hitch in its breath as if it fears to be seen, but with each undulation a new blade flashes gold like a coin,” &c., &c.

“Wow. Sounds like you really got lucky, finding such a nice place to, uh. Sssset up camp?”

Jon knew Martin well enough to hear the judgment in his voice; if Salesa recognized it then he was an expert at pretending not to. “And it's only a two-minute walk away,” he’d said, instead of taking Martin’s bait. “It would be such a shame for my guests not to see it.”

“Oh, well. Maybe in a few days? It’s just, we’ve been outside nonstop for ages. It’s nice to be between four walls again. Besides, we don’t know the grounds as well as you do—and the border isn’t all that stable, you said? Right?”

“It is if you know how to follow it! I could accompany you—show you all the best sights, with no risk of wandering back out into the hellscape by mistake.”

“We’re just not really ready for that, I don’t think. Right, Jon?”

“Mm.”

“Are you sure? If it were me, a foray into a beautiful natural oasis would be just what I needed to convince myself that my peace—my sanctuary—is real.”

“If it is real,” Jon couldn’t stop himself from muttering.

Salesa remained impervious. “You would be surprised how difficult it is to feel fear in a place like that. I don’t think that is just the camera.”

“We‘ll think about it,” Martin conceded.

“Yes—you should both think about it. I am at your disposal whenever you change your mind.”

And so on that morning they had narrowly escaped. Would they had fared so well today. The problem was, on these early occasions Jon had interpreted Martin’s No thankses as being, well, Martin’s. But after a few more of Salesa’s sales pitches Jon began to second-guess that.

“Is it warm enough in here for you both?” Salesa had asked them last night at dinner. “I worry too much, perhaps. I only wish the place took less time to warm up in the morning. At breakfast time, in sunny weather like we've been having, I’ll bet you anything you like it’s warmer out there than in here.”

“It’s alright; we’re not too cold in the mornings either. Right, Jon?”

“Hm? Oh—no.”

“Perhaps we three could take breakfast out there, before the weather changes.”

“Ha—that’s right,” Martin had laughed. “I forgot you still had that out here. Weather changes. Brave new world, I guess.”

Salesa smirked and shrugged. “Well, braver than the rest of it.”

“R…ight. ‘We three,’ you said—so not Annabelle?”

“Mmmmno, probably not her. I have tried taking spiders outside before; they never seem to like it much.”

Nearly every day, here, Jon found a spider in their bathtub. The first time Martin had been with him. Martin had picked the thing up with his fingers and tried to coax it to leave out the window, but by the time he got there it’d crawled up his sleeve.

“Excuse me.”

Martin pulled back his own chair too and frowned up at him. “You okay?”

“Just needed the toilet.” He tried to arrange his mouth into a gentle smile. “Think I can do that on my own.”

The other two resumed their conversation the moment Jon left the dining room. Before the intervening walls muffled their voices Jon heard:

“I suppose that does sound pretty nice.”

“Pretty nice, you suppose? Martin, Martin—it’s a beautiful oasis! What a shame it will be if you leave this place having done no more than suppose about it.”

“It is a bit of a waste, I guess.”

“You wouldn’t need to sit on the ground, if that’s what concerns you. There are benches everywhere.”

He’d been just about to cross through a doorway and out of earshot when he froze, hearing his name:

“Oh, ha—not me, but, Jon might find that nice to know,” Martin said. “Thanks for.” And then silence.

Was that the whole reason he kept declining invitations to explore the grounds? To keep grass stains out of Jon’s trousers? Martin was the one who’d sat down on that godforsaken Extinction couch; why did he think—?

Not the point, Jon told himself as he sat on the toilet and set his forehead on the heels of his palms. He tried to watch the floor for spiders, but his eyes kept crossing. The point was that if—? If Martin was lying about wanting to stay inside—or, more charitably, if he was telling the truth but wanted that only because he thought Jon would have as dismal a time out in the garden as he had at ping-pong—then…?

He imagined holding hands with Martin while surrounded by green. Gravel crunching under their feet. Martin smiling, with sunlight caught in the strands of his hair that a slight breeze had blown upright.

“And if you get too warm,” he heard Salesa tell Martin, as he headed back into the dining room, “we can move into the shade of the pines! You know, they don’t just grow year-round? They also shed year-round. The floor under them is always carpeted in needles, so you need never get mud on your shoes.”

“Huh,” Martin laughed. “Never thought of it that way.”

“But of course there are benches there too,” Salesa added, his eyes flickering up to Jon.

As Jon hauled himself into his seat he asked, in a voice he hoped the strain made sound distracted ergo casual, “So, what, like a picnic, you mean.”

Not a fun picnic. Not very romantic, since their third wheel was the first to invite himself. Salesa neglected to mention how much wet grass they would have to trek through to get to his favorite spot; that there were benches everywhere didn’t matter since they couldn’t all three fit on one, so they ended up sat in the dirt after all—and n.b. it required a second trek to find a patch of dirt dry enough to sit on at this time of morning. Jon was so sick with fatigue by the time they sat down he could barely eat a thing, though he did dispatch most of Martin’s thermos of tea. His hands shook and buzzed, and felt clumsy, like they’d fallen asleep; he ended up getting more jam in the dirt than on Salesa’s soggy, pre-buttered toast. He felt as though the rest of his flesh had melted three feet to the left of his eyes, bones and mind. Eventually he elected to blame his dizziness on the sun. When his forehead and upper lip started to prickle, threatening sweat, he stood up and announced, “It’s too hot here.”

Or tried to stand, anyway. One leg had oozed just far enough out of its joint that it buckled when he tried to stand; indigo and fuchsia blotches overtook his sight. He pitched forward, free arm pinwheeling—might have fallen into the boiled eggs if Martin hadn’t caught him. “Jon! Are you okay?”

God, why was Martin so surprised? This must have been the fifth or sixth time he had asked him that question since they left the house. One time Jon had bent down to brush dirt off his leg and Martin had thought he was scratching his bandages. So he asked him were they itchy, had they started to peel, did they need changing again, were they cutting off his circulation (no, not yet, not yet, and no). How could someone be so attentive to imaginary ills and yet miss the real ones? At another point, an enormous blue dragonfly had buzzed past, and instead of Did you see that? Martin had turned around to ask Are you okay. Now, on this fifth or sixth occasion, for a few seconds of pure, nonsensical rage he wondered how Martin dared stoop to such emotional blackmail. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Jon thought; aloud he snorted, as in malicious laughter. His throat felt thick, like he might cry.

“Fine, I’m just—sick of it here.” He pulled his arm free of Martin’s and overbalanced. Didn’t fall, just. Staggered a little.

“Should we move to the shade? We could try to find those famous pines, I guess.”

Jon sank back to the ground. “What about Salesa? Do we just leave him here?”

“Oh. Right,” said Martin. Salesa had eaten most of Jon’s share, and drunk both Jon’s and Martin’s shares of wine. Now he lay asleep in the dirt, head pillowed on one elbow, the other hand’s fingers curled round the stem of a glass still half full. “I guess, yeah? I mean he seems to know the place pretty well, so. It’s not like he’ll get lost out here.”

“We might, though.”

Martin sighed. “True. Should we just head back to our room, then? Maybe get you a snack.”

“Not hungry.”

“A statement, I meant.”

“Oh. Alright, sure,” Jon made himself say. “That sounds like—sure.”

So then they’d headed back, and only Martin had a free hand, and Jon was too tired by that point to distinguish his mind’s vague warning not to let Martin open the door from his usual pride on that subject—and that kind of pride never does seem as important when it’s your boyfriend offering. So he’d dismissed the warning and, well, look what happened.

When he got up from his knees and turned round Martin frowned at Jon. “Are you alright? You’re sat on the floor.”

Jon frowned, too—at the seam between the floor and the hallway’s opposite wall. “I was tired.”

“You hate sitting on the floor.”

“I sat on the ground out there,” Jon said, with a shrug that morphed into a nod in the direction they’d come from.

“Yeah, under duress,” Martin scoffed. “In the Extinction domain you wouldn’t even sit on the couch.”

There was something odd in Martin’s bringing that up now; somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jon could hear a pillar of thought crumbling. But he lacked the energy to find out which of his mind’s structures now stood crooked. “I think this floor is a lot cleaner than that couch,” he said instead, with an incredulous laugh.

“Even with the cobwebs?” Martin didn’t wait for Jon’s answering nod. “Fair enough,” he said, one hand on the back of his neck as he twisted it back and forth. He dropped the hand, sighed, cracked his knuckles. Looked at Jon again. “Yeah, okay. Guess we don’t have to deal with this right now. Let’s find you another bedroom first.”

“Maybe that’s just what Annabelle wants,” Jon muttered, deadpanning so he wouldn’t have to decide whether this was a joke.

Martin snorted. “I’ll risk it.”

Find was a generous way to put it; in fact there was another bedroom only two doors down. By the time Jon got his legs unfolded he could hear the squeak of a door swinging open down the hall. When he looked up, Martin said as their eyes met, “Nope—bed’s too small. You good there ‘til I find one that’ll work?”

“Seems that way.” Jon tried to smile, relief warring with his usual If you want something done right urge. In the quiet moment after Martin neglected to close that door and before he swung open the next one, Jon made himself add, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Oh wow,” Martin said of the next room, in whose doorway he’d stopped. “This one’s a lot nicer than ours. It’s got a balcony. Wallpaper’s pretty loud though. D’you think that’ll keep you awake?” Laughingly, “I know you don’t close your eyes to sleep anymore, so.”

“How loud is ‘pretty loud’?”

“Sort of a… dark, orangey red, with flowers?”

Jon shrugged. “I won’t see it at night.”

“Oh, god. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Should we do this one, then?” Instead of closing the door, Martin swung it the rest of the way open, then strode back to Jon’s side of the corridor, arm already outstretched. Jon managed to stand before Martin could reach him, but, as it had done outside, his vision went dark for a few seconds. He felt Martin’s hand on his shoulder before he could see his frown.

“You alright?” Martin asked yet again.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“It’s just—you don’t usually blink anymore, except for effect.”

“Oh.”

Out there, none of the watchers blinked. At first, soon after the change, Martin had asked Jon to try, “Because it just feels so weird. Like I’m under constant scrutiny. Literally constant, Jon. You get why that feels weird, right?” (Jon had agreed—sincerely, though he wondered why Martin needed to ask that question in a world whose central conceit was that being watched felt weird. He’d also chosen not to point out that his scrutiny, like that of Jonah Magnus, was not, technically, constant, since he did sometimes look at other things. But he still rehearsed this retort in his mind every time he remembered that conversation.) Turned out it was hard to time your blinks properly when your eyeballs didn’t need the moisture. He’d forget about it for who knew how long, then remember and overcompensate by blinking so often Martin at first thought he was exaggerating it on purpose as a joke. It got old fast, in Jon’s opinion, but even after he learnt Jon didn’t intend it as a joke Martin still found it funny. “You’re doing it again,” he’d say every time, shoulders wiggling. Eventually Jon had asked him,

“You know you don’t blink anymore either, right?”

“Oh god, don’t I?” When Jon shook his head, with a smile whose teeth he tried to keep covered, Martin squeezed his own eyes shut and pushed their lids back and forth with his fingers. “Ugh—gross!” And for the next half hour he’d done the whole forget-to-blink-for-five-minutes-then-do-it-ten-times-in-as-many-seconds routine, too. After that they had both agreed to pretend not to notice the lack of blinking. Jon figured he couldn’t hold it against Martin that he’d broken this rule though, since Jon himself had broken it first, on their first morning here:

“You blinked,” he had informed Martin as he watched him stir sugar into his tea. Martin, who had not only blinked but broken eye contact to make sure he dropped the sugar cube in the right place, replied with a scoff,

“Didn’t know it was a staring contest.”

“No, I mean—”

“Oh! I blinked!”

“…Right,” Jon said now. “I’m—it’s nothing.”

Martin sighed. He closed his eyes, but probably rolled them under their lids. Jon used the inspection of their new room as an excuse to look away, but took in nothing other than the presence of a large bed and the flowered wallpaper Martin had warned him about.

“‘Kay. If you’re sure.”

Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, Jon looked down at his grass-stained knees and prepared himself to ask, Look, does it matter? I’m about to lie down anyway, so, functionally speaking, yes, I am fine.

“So, you’ll be okay here for a bit while I go figure out what to do about the door?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll come check on you as soon as I know anything, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Although—if you’re asleep, should I wake you up?”

“Yes,” Jon replied before Martin had even got the last word out. He heard a short, emphatic exhale, presumably of laughter. “Wait—how would you know, anyway?”

“Oh. Yeah, good point.”

Jon looked down at his shoes. His fingers throbbed in anticipation, but he figured he should spare Martin the horror of getting grass stains on a second bedroom’s counterpane. The first shoe he pulled off without untying, since he could step on its heel with the other one. But he had to bend over to reach the second one’s incongruously bright white laces, biting his lip when he felt his right femur poke past the bounds of its socket as between a cage’s bars. On his way back up his vision quivered like a heat mirage, but didn’t go dark. He scooched himself up to the head of the bed. Made sure to face the ceiling rather than the red wallpaper.

A few months into his tenure in the Archives, Jon had discovered that if you close your eyes at your desk, even just for a minute, you can trick your whole body into thinking you’ve been gentle with it. But that trick didn’t work anymore. Out there, this made sense; interposing his eyelids between himself and the world’s new horrors couldn’t push them out of his consciousness, any more than it had helped to close the curtains at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin’s sentimental attachment to sleep had baffled him, as had his insistence on closing his eyes even though they’d pop back open as soon as his body went limp. Here, though, Jon sympathized with Martin’s wish. He too missed that magic link between closed eyes and sleep. Probably he should just be grateful for this rest from knowing other people’s suffering? The thing he had wished to close his eyes against was gone here. But now that most of his bodily wants had synced up with his actions again, it felt… wrong, like a tangible loss, that he couldn’t assert It’s time for rest now by closing his eyelids. That it took effort to keep them joined. Jon even found himself missing the crust that used to stick them together on mornings after long sleep.

That should have been his first sensation on waking, their first morning here. After seventy-one hours his eyelids should’ve been practically super-glued together. Instead, they’d apparently stayed open the entire time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he hadn’t woken up with them smarting or anything. Hadn’t noticed one way or the other; after all, when not forced awake by an alarm, one rarely notices the moment one opens one’s eyes in the morning. He just didn’t like knowing that he looked the same waking and sleeping. It didn’t make sense. The dreams hadn’t followed him here, so what was he watching? He could see nothing but the ceiling.

He rolled over, hoping to look out the window. Doors, technically. Between gauzy curtains he could make out only wrought-iron bars and the tops of a few trees. A nice view, he could tell; when he got his second wind he was sure he’d find it pretty. For now he wondered how much more energy debt he had put himself in by rolling over.

Drowning in debt? We can help!

How had he not foreseen how horrible it would be inside the Buried? The inability to move or speak without pain and loss of breath—“Just imagine,” he muttered sarcastically to the empty air, as though addressing his past self. “What might that be like.” He’d lived for years with the weight of exhaustion on his back—heavier at that time than it’d ever been before. And he knew how it felt to risk injury with every movement. What an odd frame of mind he must have lived in then, to think his magic healing wouldn’t let him get scratched up down there. Had he thought it would protect him from fear? I must save my friend from this horrible place! But also, If I get stuck there forever, no big deal; I deserve it, after all. There seemed something so arrogant about that now, that idea that deserving pain could somehow mitigate it. That because monsterhood made him less innocent, it would make him less of a victim. How could he have thought that, when he’d known pulling her out of there didn’t mean he forgave her? He should apologize to Daisy for—

Right. Nope, never mind.

He began to regret rolling over. If he planned to stay on his side like this for long, he shouldn’t leave his shoulder and hip dangling. He could already feel their joints beginning to slide apart. But his body had started to drift to that faraway place from which no grievance ever seemed urgent enough to recall it—neither pain now nor the threat of greater pain later. Nor the three cups of tea he’d drunk.

After he and Martin had fallen asleep on Salesa’s doorstep, Jon had vague memories of being led up the stairs to their bedroom, though he remembered neither being shaken awake nor getting into bed. Just a seventy-odd-hour blank spot, followed by pain of a kind he had thought he’d left behind.

It wasn’t that watchers couldn’t feel pain, after the change. They could, but it was like how real-world pain felt through the veil of a dream. Your actions didn’t affect it as directly as they should. In the Necropolis Martin had asked him, “How exactly does a leg wound make you faster?” If he’d had the courage to answer, at the time he would have said something about his own wounds not seeming important now that he had to tune out those of the whole world. That wasn’t it though, he knew now. Pain just worked differently out there. When Daisy attacked him, it had hurt—but the wound she left him hadn’t protested movement. Not until he and Martin entered the grounds of Upton House. You could bear weight on an injured leg just fine out there, because it wouldn’t hurt more when you stood on it than otherwise.

Sometimes, when his joints slid apart while he slept, he could still feel it in his dreams. Up until 13th January 2016 (for months after which date he dreamt Naomi Herne’s graveyard and nothing else), his sleeping mind used to craft scenarios to explain its own pain and panic to itself. Running from an exploding grenade, staying awake through surgery, that sort of thing. But over the years, as the sensation grew familiar, his dreams about it became less urgent, their anxieties more mundane. He’d shout for help from passing cars, then feel like he’d lied to the stranger who opened their door to him when it turned out running to get in the car hurt no more than standing still.

Even before the change, it’d been ages since he’d had to worry about that. Since the coma, Beholding had fixed all these accidents, the way it’d fixed the finger he tried to chop off. They wouldn’t reset with a clunk, the way they had when he used to fix them by hand. It was more like his body reverted to a version the Eye had saved before the moment of injury. When he tried to pull open a Push door he’d hear the first clunk, followed by about half a second of pain, then after a gentle burst of static—nothing. Just a door handle between his fingers that needed pushing. If he tripped on uneven pavement he might still go down, but his ankle wouldn’t hurt when he stood back up, and the scrapes on his hands would heal before he could inspect them. Here, though, in this place the Eye couldn’t see, Jon lacked such protections. He didn’t have the dreams either? And that was more than worth it as a tradeoff, he was sure. But it still smarted to remember that pain had been his first sensation waking up in an oasis. Not birdsong, not sunshine striped across linen, not the warm weight of another person next to him. He knew he’d come back to a place ruled by physics rather than fear because he’d woken up with gaps between his bones.

“Jon? Are you awake?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

“Cool.” Martin sat down on what felt like the corner of bed nearest the door. “I think I know how to do this now.”

“How to put the doorknob back on?”

“Yeah. God, I still can’t believe it twisted clean off in my hand like that. With no warning—like, zero to sixty in less than a second. I mean, can you believe our luck? The thing’s perfectly functional, and then suddenly it just—comes off!”

“Er…”

“Oh, god, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“What? Oh—hrkgh”—Jon rolled around to face Martin, hoping the little yelp he let out when his leg slopped back into joint would sound like a noise of exasperation rather than pain. He found Martin sat looking down at the severed doorknob which poked up from between his knees. “No, Martin, of course not, I know—”

“Still, I’m sorry about—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine?”

On that first morning, Jon had managed to get his limbs screwed back on properly without making enough noise to wake up Martin. He’d limped out of their room and down the hall, pushing doors open until he’d found a toilet, whereupon he sat to pee and marveled that the flush and sink still worked. It was bright enough inside that he hadn’t thought to try the light switch on his way in—too busy contorting his neck to look for the sun out the window. On his way out, though, he flicked it on, then off. Then on again and off again. How could it work, when there was no power grid the house could connect to? Automatically Jon tried to search his mind’s Eye for a domain based in a power plant or something. Right, no, of course—that power did not work here.

When he got back to their room he found Martin awake. “Oh—morning,” Jon told him with a shy laugh.

“It—it is morning, isn’t it,” Martin marveled. Then he asked if Jon could hand him the map sticking out of his backpack’s side pocket. (What good are maps when the very Earth logic no longer applied here, after all. But Martin was rubbish at geography, so Jon still had to provide the You Are Here sign with his finger for him.) Jon grabbed the map on his way back to bed, and was about to tell him about the miracles of plumbing and electricity he’d just witnessed—not to mention the bathtub he’d admired on the long trek from toilet to sink—when Martin frowned and asked, “Why are you limping?”

“Am I?” Jon had shrugged, then cleared his throat when the motion made his shoulder audibly click. “Daisy, must be.”

“No, Jon. That’s the wrong leg.”

He slid both legs out of sight under the blankets and handed Martin the map. “It’s nothing. It just… came off a bit. Last night."

Before Jon could add It’s fixed now though, Martin said, “I’m sorry, what?”

Jon had assumed Martin understood the kind of thing he meant, but that he’d misled him as to its degree—i.e., that Martin objected to his talking about a full hip dislocation like it mattered less than what happened with Daisy. So he’d said,

“No, sorry, not all the way off—”

And Martin just laughed. “What, and you taped it back up like—like an old computer cable?”

“Sort of, yeah? It—it does still work, more or less.”

“Right, of course. No need to get a new one, yet; you can just limp along with this one. No big deal! Just make sure you don’t pull too hard on it.”

“I mean.” By now he could sense Martin’s sarcasm, his bitterness; that didn’t mean he knew what to do with them. So he'd said with a huff of laughter, “I can’t just send for a new one. That’s—that’s not how bodies work. You have to….” Wait for it to sort itself out was the natural end to that sentence. But he hadn’t been sure he could say that without opening a can of worms.

“Wait so… what actually happened? Are you okay?”

Only at this point had Jon recognized Martin’s response as one of incomprehension. What happened exactly? he had asked, too, when Jon told him the ice-cream anecdote. Did no one ever listen when you told them about these things?

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s. Fine! It’s not important.”

And then for days Martin kept alluding to it. Like some kind of reminder to Jon that he hadn’t opened up, disguised as a joke. Every time something came out or fell down he’d mutter, “So it came off, you might say.” Eventually they’d fallen out over it, and now neither one could come near the phrase without this song and dance.

“Don’t worry about it, Martin,” Jon assured him now; “I’m over it.”

“…Uh huh. Well, putting that to one side for the moment—I think I can fix this?”

“Oh? Great!—”

“—Yeah! It should be simple, actually. I think I just need to replace the screw that fell out? I mean, there doesn’t seem to be anything actually broken, just, you know,” with an awkward laugh, “the screw lives on the wrong side of the door now. But if we can just put a new one in the door should be fine.” He looked to Jon as if for help plotting their next steps.

“I—I don’t, um. Think we have one.”

Martin’s shoulders dropped; the corners of his mouth tightened. “Yeah, I know we don’t have one, Jon. I just mean, we need to find out where Salesa keeps them.”

“Oh!” Jon replied, in a brighter tone. Then he registered what this meant. “Oh. Right.”

“Y…eah.”

“Any idea where to look?”

They checked what seemed to Martin the most obvious place first. Salesa used one of the ground-floor drawing rooms as a sort of repository for everything he’d left as yet unpacked—all the practical items he hadn’t been able to repurpose as toys, plus some antiques he’d been too fond of or too nervous to part with. Two nights ago, Salesa had noticed the state of Jon’s and Martin’s shoelaces, and insisted they let him replace them with some from this little warehouse. “Please, come with me; I’ve nothing to hide. You can have a look around, see if I have anything that might help you on your journey….” As he said this he’d counted to two on his fingers, as though listing off attractions they should be sure not to miss.

Jon watched Martin perk right up at this. All week Salesa had kept pleading with them to tell him about any luxuries they had wanted while touring the apocalypse, so he could try to find something to fulfill those wants. “Well, I—I don’t know about luxuries,” Martin had ventured the third time this came up. “But I do think we might run out of bandages soon, so. If you’ve any extra?”

“Of course, of course, yes, how prudent of you, always with one eye on the future. Must be the Beholding in you.” (Neither Jon nor Martin knew what to say to that.) “But there will be plenty of time for that. I meant something for now, while you are here, while you don’t need to think of things like that.” And sure enough, each time Salesa had come to them with presents from his little warehouse (booze, butterfly nets, more booze, antique bathing suits, &c.), he’d forgot about Martin’s homely request for gauze and tape. Martin insisted they change the dressing on Jon’s leg every day; by now they’d run through the bandages he brought from Daisy’s safehouse. So when Salesa suggested they accompany him to his repository, Martin said,

“Sure, yeah! That sounds really helpful.” (Salesa clutched his heart as though he’d waited all his life to hear such praise.) “Er. The things in your warehouse, though. They’re not L—um.” Leitners, Martin had almost called them. “You don’t think they’ll develop any… strange properties, when we leave here, do you?”

“Of course not,” Salesa had answered, stopping and turning all the way around in the corridor to face Martin with a frown. “Martin, I promise, only my antiques are cursed—and even then, not all of them.” He’d resumed the walk toward his little warehouse, but turned around again and held up a hand, as if to preempt a question. “There are, indeed, yes, some items out there, touched by the Corruption, which can pass their infection on to other things they come in contact with. But, no,” he went on, his voice fighting off a joyous laugh, “no, the only item I have like that does almost the opposite.”

“Oh.”

Salesa nodded, but did not turn around this time. “Strange little thing. It’s an antique syringe that, so long as you keep it near you, repels the Crawling Rot. I like to think it helped dispatch that insect thing Annabelle chased away. But if you try to get rid of it,” he added in a darker tone, “all the sickness, the bugs, the smells, even stains on your clothes—everything disgusting that it’s kept away—they remember who you are, and they hunger for you more than anyone else. The man who sold it to me….” He shook his head ruefully, hand now resting on the door.

“Was eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Jon muttered.

“Something like that, yes,” said Salesa, as he jerked open the door.

Jon hated the way his and Martin’s shoes looked now. He hadn’t had to put new laces on a pair of old, dirty shoes since he was a kid, and the contrast looked wrong—the same way starched collars and slicked-back hair on kids look wrong. Jon’s trainers were gray, their laces a slightly darker gray, so these white ones wouldn’t have looked quite right even without the dirt. Martin’s had once been white, but their original laces were broad and flat, while these were narrow and more rounded. The replacements’ thin, clinical white lines looked something between depressing and menacing. Too much like spider web; too much like the stitching on Nikola’s minions. When they came undone on this morning’s walk, Jon had made sure to tread on them in the mud a few times before tying them back up. Poor Dr. Thompson’s syringe must have retained some of its power here, though, because they still looked pristine. Jon wondered if it had no effect on spiders, or if without it this whole place would have been draped in cobwebs.

Martin seemed pleased with their haul, though. Despite Salesa’s amnesia on the subject, his little warehouse held more plasters, gauze, medical tape, antibacterial ointment, alcohol wipes—the list went on—than one man could ever use. In a strange, raw moment Jon liked to pretend he hadn’t seen, Salesa had wrung his hands as his eyes passed over this hoard. His lip had quivered. He’d practically begged Martin to take the whole lot away with them. “What harm will come to me here? And if it does come, what good will it do, protecting one lonely old man from skinned knees and paper cuts? The two of you—where you are going—the gravity of your mission!” At this point he’d seized one of each their hands. “Everything I have that even might help, you must take it. Please.”

“I—yeah,” Martin stuttered. “This is—really helpful, yeah. We’ll take as much as we can fit in our bags.”

Salesa had let go their hands by this point, and crossed his arms. “Right, yes, bags, of course, the bags. Are you sure you don’t want my truck?”

“Oh, well, thanks, but I don’t think either of us knows how to—”

“To drive a truck?” Salesa uncrossed his arms and began to reach for Martin’s shoulder. “I could teach you—”

“It won’t work without the camera anyway,” pointed out Jon. “We have to walk.”

Martin sighed. ”That too. ‘The journey will be the journey,’ as Jon keeps saying.”

“I said that once,” Jon protested.

No such success on this return visit. They found a small pile of miscellaneous screws, one of which Martin said would work (though it was the wrong color, he alleged, and had clearly been meant for some other purpose), but the screwdriver they needed remained elusive. “I mean, I can’t be sure they’re not in here—the place is as bad as Gertrude’s storage unit. We could spend all day here and still not be sure—”

“Let’s not do that,” said Jon, pushing an always-warm candlestick with a pool of always-melted wax out of Martin’s way with his sleeve for what felt like the hundredth time.

“No arguments here.”

“Where to next?”

“I guess it makes sense that they’re not here. This room’s all stuff Salesa brought, and why would he bring home-repair stuff when he didn’t even know where he’d wind up.”

“Except for the screws.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like he keeps screws here, remember? There’s just a couple random ones lying around, like he forgot to put them away or something.”

Jon peered between the clouds in his mind, trying to catch sight of Martin’s thought train. “So you’re saying the screwdriver should be…?”

“Somewhere less… frequented, I guess? They’ll probably still be wherever they were when Salesa found the place.”

“Not somewhere that was open to the public, then.”

Martin sighed. ”I mean yeah, probably. Not that that narrows it down much.”

“Somewhere… banal, less posh.”

“Not sure how much less posh you can get than this place. But yeah, I guess. Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. Odd that his eyes weren’t immune to dust, when leaving them open for seventy straight hours hadn’t bothered them. And why didn’t the syringe keep dust away? In Dr. Snow’s day (not far removed from Smirke’s, n.b.), Jon seemed to recall that dust had been used as a euphemism for all waste, including the human kind Dr. Snow had found in the cholera water. It was like how people today use filth—hence the word dustbin. And hadn’t Elias once called the Corruption Filth? Jon opened his eyes and watched Martin swirl back to full color. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here,” he concluded.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.”

“Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?”

Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice.

“Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him.

“Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.”

“Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.”

Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

“Oh—I know,” Martin said, clicking his fingers and pointing them at Jon like a gun. “We passed a shed this morning, remember?”

Jon squinted. “Not even remotely.”

“No yeah—on our walk with Salesa. I tried to ask him what it was for, but he kept droning on and on. By the time he stopped talking I’d forgot about it.”

“Huh,” said Jon, to show he was listening.

“That seems like a good place to keep screws and all, right? If it’s so nondescript you can’t even remember it.”

“Sure.”

“Great! Are you ready now, or d’you need to sit for a bit longer?”

“I’m ready.” This time he accepted Martin’s hand, not keen to trip on something cursed.

“Anyway, if we don’t find them and Salesa’s still out there, we can ask him on the way back.”

Jon’s heart shrunk before the prospect of inviting Salesa to be the hero of their story. Please, Mr. Salesa, save us from our screwdriver-less hell! They would never hear the end of it. It would inevitably remind the old man of the countless times in his youth when he’d been the only man in the antiques trade who knew where to find some priceless treasure. Let Salesa open their stuck door and they’d find Pandora’s bloody box of stories behind it. He winced and let out a grunt as of pain before he could stop himself. “Let’s not tell him, if we can help it.”

“Of course we should tell him,” Martin protested. “We can’t just leave it broken like this.”

“But if we can fix it without his help—?”

“What? No! Even then, he’s our host. We have to tell him. It’s his door, he deserves to know its—I don’t know, history?” Martin sighed, shoving one hand in his hair and holding out the other. “If he’s got a doorknob whose screw comes loose a lot, he should know that, so he can tighten it next time before it gets out of hand. I mean, we’re lucky it only chipped the paint when it—when it fell off, you know?” (Jon, for his part, hadn’t even noticed this chip of paint Martin referred to.) “And—and suppose he’s only got this one screw left,” tapping the one in his pocket, “and the next time it happens his last screw rolls under the door like this one did.”

“And what is he supposed to do to prevent that scenario? There aren’t exactly any hardware stores in the apocalypse.”

Big sigh. “Yeah, fair enough. I still think we should tell him. It just feels wrong to hide secrets from him about his own house, you know?”

“Fine,” sighed Jon in turn. ”Should we tell him about the scorch marks on the window sill as well?”

“No?” Martin turned to him with an incredulous look. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I mean—I was, but—”

“Please tell me you get how that’s different.”

“Enlighten me,” Jon said wearily.

“Seriously? Of course you don’t tell him about the?—those were already there! If we’d put them there, then yeah, of course we’d need to tell him.”

“So it’s about confessing your guilt, then. Not about what Salesa makes of the information.”

“I mean, I guess?” Martin looked perplexed, lips drawn into his mouth. “Actually, no. Because those are just scorch marks, they don’t—you can still get into a room with scorch marks on the windowsill, Jon.”

“And yet if you’d left them you’d tell him about it?”

“Well yeah but if I told him about it now it’d just be like I was—leaving him a bad review, or something. It’d just be rude. ‘Lovely place you have, Salesa. So kind of you to share your limited provisions with us refugees from the apocalypse. Too bad you gave us a room whose windowsill could use repainting!’”

Jon laughed. “Yes, alright, I get it.”

Martin’s sigh of relief seemed only a little exaggerated. If he hadn’t wiped pretend sweat from his brow Jon might have bought it. “Okay, that’s good, ‘cause”—when Jon kept laughing, Martin cut himself off. “Hang on, were you joking this whole time?”

“Sort of?”

“Were you just playing devil’s advocate or something?”

“I mean—not exactly? For the first seventy or eighty percent of it I was completely serious.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. It was just—fun. It felt nice to take a definite sta—aaaa-a-aa.” Something in Jon’s lower back went wrong somehow. An SI joint, probably? The pain caught him so much by surprise that when he stepped with that side’s leg he stumbled forward.

“Whoa!” Martin’s hand closed around his upper arm. Jon yelped again, from panic more than hurt this time, as his shoulder thunked in its socket. “Jon! Are you okay?”

“Don’t do that,” Jon hissed, trying lamely to shake his arm out of Martin’s grip. It didn’t work. The attempt just made his own arm ache, and produce more ominous clunking sounds.

“I—what?”

“It was fine. I don’t need you to catch me.”

Martin let his arm go. “You were about to fall on your face, Jon.”

“I’d already caught myself—just fine—with this.” He gestured to his cane, stirring its handle like a joystick.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, look?”

“It’s not—?” Martin scoffed. “Look when? It’s not like a rational calculation. I can’t just go ‘Beep. Beep. See human trip. Will human fall on face? If yes, press A to catch! If not, press B to’— what, stand there and do nothing? It’s just human nature; when you see someone falling that’s just what you do. I’m not going to apologize for not calculating the risk properly.”

“Fine! Yes, okay, you’re right. Forget I said anything.” Throwing up his free hand in defeat, Jon set off again—tried to stride, but it was hard to do that with a limp. Even with his cane, he couldn’t step evenly enough to achieve a decisive gait.

It was fine, Jon reminded himself. He’d had this injury (if you could call it that) a thousand times before. When it came on suddenly like this it never stuck around long. Sure, yeah, for now every step hurt like an urgent crisis. But any second it would right itself as quickly as it had come undone.

“No, no, I understand! Point taken! Note to future Martin,” the latter shouted from behind Jon, voice troubled by hurried steps; “next time let him fall and break his bloody nose.”

Trusting Martin to shout directions if he went the wrong way, Jon pressed on, rehearsing comebacks in his mind. Is this not a boundary I’m allowed to set? You don’t let me read statements in front of you. Isn’t that part of human—isn’t that my nature, too?

Oh, yes, human nature, that must be it. You didn’t lunge after Salesa at ping-pong the other day, did you? I saw you opening doors for Melanie when she got back from India. You stopped for a while, did you know that? You all did, everyone in the Archives. And then—it’s the strangest thing!—you all started up again after Delano. Maybe you lot don’t see the common factor here; people always do seem to think it’s more polite not to notice.

So what if I had broken my nose? You nearly broke my shoulder, catching me like that. Does that not matter because you can’t see it? Because it wouldn’t scar?

They were all too petty to say aloud. Too incongruous with the quiet. He could hear his own footsteps, and Martin’s, and the clank of his cane’s metal segments each time it hit the ground, and a few crows exclaiming about something exciting they’d found on his right. Nothing else.

“Looks like Salesa went inside,” Martin shouted from behind him.

Jon stopped walking and turned around. “What?”

“Left a couple things out here, but yeah.” Martin jogged to catch up with him, from a greater distance than Jon would have expected given how much limping slowed him down. He must have veered off course to inspect the clearing Salesa had vacated. In one hand he carried an empty wine glass by its stem, which he lifted to show Jon.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” When he caught up with Jon, Martin stood still and panted. “Guess it won’t be as easy to ask him about it as we thought. If we don’t find what we need in there,” he added, glancing demonstratively to something behind Jon.

Following Martin’s eyes, Jon finally saw the shed. Nondescript boards, worn black and white by the elements. Surrounded by hedges three months overgrown.

Turned out it wasn’t a shed anymore, though—Salesa had converted it to a chicken coop. “Explains the boiled eggs,” shrugged Jon.

“God, they��re adorable. Do you think it’s okay to pet one?” Martin crouched in front of a black hen with a puffball of feathers on top of her head. (Martin called her a hen, anyway, and Jon trusted his authority on animals other than cats). “I don’t really know, er, ch—hicken etiquette,” he mused, voice shot through with nervous laughter.

The black hen sat alone in a little box, and didn't seem to want attention. A little red one they’d found strutting around the coop, however, ventured right up to Martin and cocked her head, like she expected him to give her a present. While Martin cooed over her and the other chickens, Jon went outside and laid flat on his back in the grass under a tree. “Take your time,” he shouted. “I’m happy here.”

Sure enough, when Martin emerged from the coop and helped him stand back up, whatever cog in Jon’s pelvis or spine he had jammed earlier was turning again. And by the time they got back to the house, Martin had talked himself into the idea that maybe all the house’s doorknobs that looked like theirs came loose a lot, and Salesa had taken to keeping the screwdriver to fix them in, say, the hall closet, or in their toilet’s under-sink cabinet.

“I think we’re gonna have to find Salesa and ask him about it,” concluded Martin, when these locations turned up nothing they wanted either.

“If you’re sure.”

Jon sat down on the closed toilet seat. Hadn’t that been what he said just before the last time he sat down on the lid of a toilet before Martin? He’d dutifully turned away, that time, as Martin undressed, wanting to make sure he knew he’d still let him have some privacy. But then, of course: “Where should I put these, do you think? —Er, my clothes I mean.”

“Oh. Um.” Jon had turned his head to look at the stain on Daisy’s ceiling, for what must have been the tenth time already. “I can hold onto them if you like.” Which then meant Martin had to get them back on before Jon could undress for his own shower and hand him his clothes. As he’d piled his trousers into Martin’s hands a tape recorder fell out of one pocket and crashed to the floor, ejecting the tape with Peter’s statement on it. “Shit,” Jon had hissed and ducked to the floor to pick it up, trusting the slit in his towel to reveal nothing worse than thigh.

“Shit,” Martin echoed. “I hope that wasn’t your phone.”

“No—just the recorder.” Still on the floor, Jon clicked its little door shut and pressed play. Sound of waves, static, footsteps. He switched it off. “Seems alright.” Thank god, he stopped himself from adding. Jon didn’t want to lose this one, this record of how he’d found Martin, in case he lost him again. But he didn’t want Martin to hear the sounds of the Lonely again so soon, either. That was why he’d stayed with Martin while he showered, rather than waiting in the safehouse living room. He wouldn’t have insisted on it, of course. He didn’t exactly believe Martin would disappear again? But long showers were such a cliché of lonely people, and steam looked so much like the mist on Peter’s beach, and when Jon asked how he felt about it, Martin said that thought hadn’t occurred to him,

“But as soon as you started to say that, I.” He’d stood with his teeth bared, half smiling half grimacing, and bringing the tips of his fingers together and apart over and over. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Heh—it scares me too now, if I’m honest. That’s… a good sign, I guess, right?”

They had come a long way since then, Jon told himself. They were more comfortable with each other now. On their first morning here, they’d showered separately, but after (Martin’s) breakfast Jon’s irritation had faded and he had resolved to pretend along with Martin that this was a holiday. So they’d got to use the enormous bathtub after all— the one at whose soap dish Jon now found himself staring as he sat on the lid of the toilet. When the heat made him dizzier, as he’d known it would, he had relished getting to rest his cheek on Martin’s arm along the rim of the tub, where it had grown cool and soft in the few minutes he’d kept it above the water.

“Let’s have lunch first,” Martin said now; “you’re getting all….” While he looked for the right word he dropped his shoulders and jaw, and mimicked a thousand-yard stare. “Abstract, again. Distant. People food should help a little, yeah? Tie you back down to this plane a bit?”

“Probably,” Jon agreed, smiling at Martin’s tact.

But to get to the kitchen they had to pass through the dining room—where they found Salesa snoring in a chair at the head of the table. “Let’s just ask him now before he gets up and moves again,” maintained Martin. Jon shrugged his acquiescence and leant in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Why hadn’t he used the toilet before letting Martin lead him here?

”Um, Mikaele?” Martin inched a few steps toward him, but a distance of several feet still gaped between them. “We have something to ask you, if that’s—hello? Mikaele?”

A likely-sounding gap between snores—but nope. Still sound asleep. Salesa sighed, licked his lips, then began to snore again.

“Mikaele Salesa,” called out Jon from his post at the door, rather less gently. “Mikaele Salesa!” He turned to Martin, meaning to suggest that they eat now and trust the smell of food to wake Salesa, but stopped himself when he saw Martin creeping timidly toward Salesa with his hand outstretched.

“Sorry to disturbyouMikaele,” Martin squeaked out, so quickly that the words blended together. He gave Salesa’s shoulder the lightest possible tap with one fingertip, then snatched his hand back with a grimace of regret as Salesa’s own hand reached up, belatedly, as if to swat Martin’s away. “Oh, good, you’re—”

Salesa interrupted with a snore. Martin sighed and turned to Jon. “What d’you think? Should I shake him?”

Jon pulled out a neighboring chair and sat on it. “No need for anything so drastic. Try poking him a few more times first.”

“Right.”

Once he’d tired of rolling his cane between his palms Jon bent down to set it on the floor. He’d learnt his lesson about trying to hang it on the back of these chairs, though in this fog it had taken several incidents to stick. Every time it ended up crashing to the floor, when he scooched his chair back or when Martin tried to reach an arm around him. Then again—he conjectured, bent halfway to the floor with the cane still in his hand—if he did drop it, that might wake Salesa.

Two nights ago Jon had got up to use the toilet, and knocked his cane down from the wall on his way back to bed in the dark. It crashed to the floor; Jon swore and hopped on one foot back from it, imagining the other foot’s poor toenail smashed to jagged pieces as it thumped to life with pain. Meanwhile he heard rustling from the bed, and Martin’s voice, querulous with sleep. “Jon? Jon, what’s—happened, what—are you.”

“Nothing it’s fine go back to”—he’d hissed as his knee decided it had enough of hopping—“don’t get up, just. I’m gonna turn on the light, if that’s alright.”

“What fell? Are you okay?”

“The cane. I knocked it over in the dark.”

“Oh.”

He got no verbal response about the light, but guessed Martin had nodded.

From a distance his toe looked alright—no blood, anyway, so he could walk on it without risking the carpet. Jon picked his cane up from the floor and steered himself to the foot of the bed, where he sat down. His toenail had chipped, it looked like—only a little, but in that way that leaves a long crack. If he tried to pick it straight he’d tear out a big chunk and it would bleed. But if he left it like this it would snag on the sheets, on his socks, until some loose thread tore the chunk of nail off for him. What could he do for this kind of thing here? At home he’d file the nail down around the chip, then cover it in clear nail polish, and just hope that’d hold out until the crack grew out and he could clip it without bleeding. But here? A plaster would have to do, he guessed. They had plenty of those now.

Jon hated bandaging, ever since Prentiss—in much the same way that Martin hated sleeping in his pants. He’d had time to learn all its discomforts. How sweaty they got, the way they stuck to your hairs, the way lint collected in the adhesive residue they left. Didn’t help he associated them with that time of paranoia. They didn’t make him act paranoid, understand; he just habitually thought of bandage-wearing as what paranoid people do. It made an echo of his contempt for that time’s Jon cling to his perceptions of current Jon. On his first morning here, when the ones on his shin where Daisy’d bit him peeled off in the shower, he hadn’t bothered to replace them. After all, the bite only hurt when something pulled on it or poked or scraped against it, so he figured his trousers would provide enough protective barrier.

“That healed fast,” Martin had remarked, when he noticed the undressed wound in the bath—and then, when he looked again, “Yyyyeah I dunno, I think you might still want to bandage that. We don’t want dirt getting in there.”

“Do I have to?”

“Humor me.”

When they got back to their room he’d let Martin dress it himself. Martin had sucked air through his teeth. “This is days old—it shouldn’t be all hot and red like this.” According to him these were early signs of infection, which would get worse if they didn’t take better care of it—i.e., keep the wound freshly bandaged and ointmented. Jon refrained from pointing out that when the cut on his throat had got like that he’d left it uncovered and been fine. But he did ask what worse meant. “Really bad,” testified Martin. “I had a cut on my finger get infected once. Really disgusting. You don’t want to know.”

Jon smiled at him, raised his eyebrows. “After Jared’s mortal garden I think I can handle it.”

Martin smiled too, but wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “There was pus involved.”

“Oh, god! How could you tell me that!” gasped Jon, hand to his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it also hurt? A lot? And it can make you ill. So we should try to avoid it, yeah?”

He’d tried to disavow the disappointment in his sigh by exaggerating it. “Yes, alright.”

“Don’t know why you’d want to leave it exposed anyway. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well, sure, when you do that,” Jon had muttered, flinching away. As he asked the question Martin had lightly tapped the skin around the gash through its new bandage. A second or two later Jon added, “Less than when I got it? It’s hard to tell; it’s… different here.”

With a sigh that caught on phlegm and irritation, Martin asked, “Different how?”

He hadn’t been able to answer then, but he knew now, of course. It hurt the way things do when you’re awake. Not with the constant smart and throb it had when he’d first got it, but, it snagged on things now. Had opinions on how he moved. When he bent his knee more than ninety degrees, that stretched the skin around it painfully. Also if he knelt, since then the floor would press against it through his trousers. And stepping with that foot felt odd. Didn’t hurt, exactly, but sort of… rattled? Like a bad bruise would. This all seemed so small, compared to the moment of terror for his life that he’d felt when Daisy bit into him—that gaping wound in his new self-conception, which his healing powers had sewn up so quickly. The ritual of bandaging it every evening seemed so otiose, so laughably superstitious. He despised the thought of adding another step to it.

While Jon went on examining his toe, Martin asked, “What was the... thumping. It sounded like.”

“Oh—no—I didn’t fall; it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No—yes—stop, it’s nothing, don’t get up. I just forgot I left it on the—leaning against the doorwall” (he hadn’t decided in time whether to say doorway or wall and ended up with half of each) “so I walked into it, er, toe first.”

“Oh,” Martin said again. Jon could hear him subsiding against the pillows behind him. “It came down?”

Big sigh. Jon’s fingernails met his palms. He set his foot back on the floor, and when his hip whined in its socket he clenched his teeth and kept them that way. In his mind he heard days’ worth of similar jokes. When he couldn’t get a jammed jar open: So you’re saying it wouldn’t… come off? When they got back their clean laundry: Can you believe all those grass stains came out?—oh, sorry: that they came off, I meant. Always with an innocent laugh, like Jon’s original phrasing had been just, what, like a Freudian slip, rather than something perfectly comprehensible that Martin had refused to engage with, taken from him, and rendered meaningless on purpose. “No it did not,” he snapped, “and I would appreciate it if you’d quit throwing that back in my face.”

“Whoa, uh. O…kay. What’s… going on here exactly?”

“You—?”

His heart plummeted; his face stung with embarrassment. Came down, Martin had said—not came off. He’d just been confirming that Jon’s cane had fallen down.

“Oh, god—nothing, never mind. You did nothing.”

“Well that’s obviously not true.”

“I just—I thought you’d said ‘came off.’ I thought you meant, had my toe ‘come off.’”

“Oh,” said Martin, yet again. When Jon turned to look he found him still blinking and squinting against the light. “Do you… need me to not say that anymore?”

“Not when I—?” Not when I’ve hurt myself, Jon meant. But Martin hadn’t done that, so this grievance didn’t actually mean anything. He’d been seeing patterns where there were none, and now that he’d seen through the illusion Jon knew again that Martin never would say it like that. “No, it’s fine. Do whatever you want.”

Martin turned the tail end of his yawn into a huff of false laughter. “Nope. Still don’t believe you.”

“Everything you’ve said makes perfect sense with the information you have. It’s all just—me. Being cryptic again.”

“Okay, uh. Are you waiting for me to disagree? ‘Cause, uh. Yup—you’re still being cryptic. No arguments there.”

Jon just sighed, really scraping the back of his throat with it. Almost a scoff.

“Sooo do you wanna fill me in, or.”

“No?” With an incredulous laugh. “Well, yes, just.”

He hadn’t known how to start from there, while so tightly wound and defensive. It seemed cruel to raise such a sensitive subject when Martin sounded so eager to go back to sleep. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear Martin whimper apologies. Didn’t want to deal with how fake they would sound. They wouldn’t be fake; he knew that. But they would sound fake, which meant it would take an effort of will, a deliberate exercise of empathy, to accept them as real. He wasn’t in the mood to hear yet another person say I’m sorry, I didn’t know; much less to respond with the requisite It’s okay; you didn’t know. It would take a strength of conviction he didn’t have right now.

“Y—you don’t have to explain it tonight? I’ll just, I’ll just not use that phrase anymore, and maybe in the morning you’ll be less in the mood to lash out at me for things that don’t make sense.”

And what was there to say to that? It had taken Jon three tries to force out, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Good night, Jon.”

“Good night. I still need the light, for.”

“That’s fine. Just turn it off when you come back to bed.”

“You won’t wake him up,” a new voice interjected.

Annabelle. Jon couldn’t see her, but he had learnt by now to recognize that voice, with its insufferable upbeat teasing inflection like every sentence she said was a riddle. He caught a glimpse of movement, then heard the click of her shoes on the floor. She must have poked her head round the doorway at the far end of the table while she spoke, then scuttled off again. At last he got a good look at her, as she put her blonde-and-gray head through the closer door.

“He’s a very heavy sleeper,” she informed them, with a smile and a shrug. “You can shake him all you want; it’s not going to work.”

Martin cleared his throat—trying to catch Jon’s attention, presumably. But Jon feared Annabelle would vanish again if he took his eyes off her. Not that he wanted her here, either, but?—he at least wanted to know which direction she went when she disappeared.

“What are you doing here, Annabelle.”

She shrugged two of her shoulders. “Just offering you some advice.” Then she used the momentum from the shrug to push herself backward, out of the doorway back into the corridor. Before the last of her hands disappeared off to the right, she waved to both of them.

“Well, how about some ‘advice’ about this, then—”

“She’s already gone, Martin.”

“Seriously? God—which way did she go?” Jon pointed; Martin bolted down the hallway after her. “Oi! Annabelle!”

“Shhh!”

“Annabelle! Do you know where Salesa keeps the—”

Jon did his best to follow him, praying all his limbs would go on straight this time. “Don’t!”

“What? Why not?” he heard, from the other side of the wall. Thankfully he could no longer hear Martin’s pounding footsteps. He overtook him in the hallway, just about able to make out his face around the dark swirls in his vision. “She’s as likely to know as Salesa, right?” Martin continued. “And it’s not like she’d lie about it. I mean, what would be the point?”

“I just don’t think we should give her any kind of advantage over us,” Jon snarled. The attempt to keep his voice down made the words come out sounding nastier than he intended.

Martin scoffed. “You don’t think maybe this is a bit more important than your stupid principle about not accepting help from her?”

“Is it?” Jon took hold of Martin’s sleeve, having just now caught up to him. “The new room’s fine. It’s even nicer than the old one, right? We could just stay there.”

“I already told you, Jon. I’m not just gonna leave it like this.”

“’Til Salesa sobers up, I meant.”

“If we have to, yeah, but—? All our stuff’s in that room. The statements’re in there.”

“I just don’t think we should show her that kind of vulnerability,” Jon hissed, shifting from foot to foot in his eagerness either to sit down or go somewhere else. “I don’t want to give Annabelle something she can use over us.”

“How does this make us more vulnerable than we are eating her food?”

“It doesn’t, alright? That doesn’t mean we should add more to the pile!” He watched Martin shrug and open his mouth, but cut him off in advance: “Last time we had this argument you were the one maintaining she was dangerous.”

It was on their first night here—their first awake here, anyway. They’d been heading back to their room, Martin lamenting that he’d not packed anything to sleep in when they left Daisy’s safehouse. “Won’t make much difference to me,” Jon had shrugged at first.

Martin had shaken his head, grimaced at something in his imagination. “I hate sleeping in my pants. It’s just gross. Dunno why anyone would choose to do it.”

“How is it gross?” Jon had laughed. He’d expected to hear some weird thing about its being unsanitary for that much leg to touch sheets that only got washed every two weeks, and to argue back that in that case shouldn’t he sleep in his socks. Disdain for the body seemed damn near universal, and yet manifested so differently in each person whose habits Jon had got to know up close. Georgie had heard that underarm hair helped wick away the smell of sweat—so she let that hair grow out, but shaved the ones on her stomach for fear they’d smell like navel lint. And Daisy, a woman who used to sniff her used-up plasters before throwing them in the bin, would spray cologne in the toilet every time she left it. Jon had enjoyed getting to know which of bodily self-contempt’s myriad forms Martin subscribed to.

But this turned out not to be one of them. Instead Martin explained, “It’s so sweaty. Like sitting on a leather couch in shorts, except the leather’s your other leg? Ugh. I hate waking up slippery.”

“That’s why I put a pillow between mine,” laughed Jon. “Suppose I will miss Trevor’s t-shirt, though. Now that I don’t have to worry about showing up in people’s dreams like that.”

“Oh, god, right—what is it? ‘You don’t have to be faster than the bear’—?”

“‘You just have to be faster than your friends,'” Jon completed, in the most sinister Ceaseless-Watcher voice he could muster. Martin snorted with laughter.

And then they’d opened the door to discover Annabelle had done them a fucking turndown service. Quilt folded back, mints on the pillows, and a pile of old-timey striped pajamas at the foot of the bed. “Huh. Cree…py, but convenient, I guess. Least they’re not black and white, right?” Martin unfolded the green-striped shirt on top, then handed it with its matching trousers to Jon. “These ones must be yours.”

“Mm.” Jon let Martin hand him the pajamas, then tossed them onto the chair in the opposite corner of the room (from which chair they promptly fell to the floor). The mint from his side of the bed he deposited in the bin under the bedside table.

“So who’s our good fairy, d’you think? Salesa, or.”

“Annabelle,” Jon hissed. “Salesa was with us all through dinner.”

Martin nodded and sighed. “Yeah.” He sat down on the bed, still regarding the other set of garments—these ones striped yellow and blue—with a puzzled frown. “God, I’ll look like a clown in these. You sure I won’t give you nightmares about the Unknowing?”

But Jon said nothing, still hoping he could avoid weighing in on Martin’s choice whether or not to accept Annabelle’s… gifts.

“It’s probably Salesa’s stuff, at least. Not Annabelle’s. I mean,” Martin mused with a brave laugh, “he’s got a lot of weird outfits on hand apparently.”

“Unless she wove them out of cobwebs.”

“That’s not a thing,” Martin groaned, making himself laugh too. “Spider webs aren’t strong enough to use as thread.”

“Not natural ones, maybe,” Jon said with a shrug and a careful half smile. With no less care, he turned the sheets and counterpane back up on his side of the bed, restoring the way it’d looked when he and Martin made up the bed that morning. Stacked the frontmost pillow back upright against the one behind it. Punched it a little, more as a way to break the silence than because it looked too fluffy. Then sat down in front of them and put his shoe up on the bedside table so he could untie it—glancing first at Martin to make sure he didn’t disapprove.

“I mean, I guess,” Martin mused meanwhile. “Not sure why she’d bother, though. Maybe it’s”—with a gasp and a smile Jon could hear in his voice—“maybe she’s put poison in the threads, and that’s why yours and mine are different. Mine’s got—I dunno, some kind of self-esteem poison, like, a reverse SSRI, to make me feel like you don’t need me, so when she kidnaps you I won’t try to save you. And yours….”

As Jon pulled off his now-untied shoe one of the bones in his hip jabbed against some bit of soft tissue it wasn’t supposed to touch. He gasped and dropped his shoe. It thudded on the floor.

“You alright?”

“Fine. Some kind of dex drain, probably.”

“Ha.”

After a silence, Martin spoke again: “Are you sure you’re okay staying here for a bit? Sorry—I kinda bulldozed over your objections earlier.”

Jon finished untying his other shoe, then paused to think while he shook the cramp out of his hand. “No,” he decided. “You didn’t bulldoze, you just…questioned. And you were right to.”

“Still, I mean. It might not be a great idea to stick around here with the spider lady who’s had it in for us since day one. Have you re-listened to the tapes from the day Prentiss attacked, by the way, since you got them back from the Not-Sasha thing?”

“Right—the spider, yes.”

“Yeah, exactly! You wouldn’t even have broke through that wall if it hadn’t been for the spider there!”

Jon nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to muster the energy to match Martin’s tone. This was an important conversation to have, he knew. And a part of him shuddered with recognition to hear Martin talk about those tapes. He had re-listened to them—first at Georgie’s, one night in the small hours as he cleaned her kitchen, thinking clearly for the first time in months and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his thoughts had been clouded with paranoia, so that he might know what signs to look for if something else tried to infect his mind like that. And then again after Basira found the jar of ashes. That time he’d just wanted to suck all the marrow he could from the memory of Martin with his sensible corkscrew and his first answer to Why are you here, even if it did mean having to hear himself ask if Martin was a ghost. A few weeks later, however, after Hilltop Road, he’d done a fair bit of obsessing over the spider thing with Prentiss, yeah. He just wished he could remember what conclusion he’d come to.

All he could remember was going for those tapes yet again only to find them missing from his drawer. But he’d been chasing phantoms all day; it was late at night by then, and when he’d dashed out to tell Basira his fear Annabelle had stolen them, stolen his memories from him just like the Not-Them had, he’d stood there over her and Daisy’s frankenbag for what felt like an hour, mouth open, unable to utter a sound. It felt too much like going to wake up his grandmother after a dream. So he’d told himself to sleep on it—that he’d probably left the tapes in some other obvious place, and would find them in the morning. And when he remembered his panic, the next day at lunch, and checked his drawer again, the tapes were back, right where he expected them. He’d dismissed it as a dream after all. But no—Martin must have borrowed them. He must’ve been worried about the Web, too.

“It’s… it should be okay. I don’t think it’ll be like that here.”

Martin sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing where you just—decide how something is without even telling me why you think so. I mean it’s one thing out there, when you ‘know everything’” (this in a false deep voice) “and can’t possibly share it all, but here? When you’re just guessing, like everyone else? Why don’t you think it’ll be like that here? And what does ‘like that’ even mean?”

“I'm sorry—you’re right—I just mean, I don’t think she has her powers here. Based on what Salesa said about the camera, and on what happens when I try to use my powers….”

“Salesa just said the Eye can’t see this place, though. What about that insect thing he said found its way in?”

“I mean.” Jon shrugged. “We managed to find our way here without the Eye’s help.”

“Yeah, but if the Web has no power here then how could she have called me on a payphone? She had to have known where I was to do that, yeah? And she couldn’t know that from here unless the Web told her to do it, right?”

“Maybe? We don’t even know if the Web works like that.”

“Told her to do it, made her want to do it, gave her the tools to do it, whatever. You know what I mean. Look—we know the Eye’s not totally blind here, since it can still feed on statements. Right?”

Jon wondered now how either one of them could have been so sure of that. “Apparently,” he liked to think he had said—but more likely he’d replied simply, “Right.”

“So then by that logic the Web still probably likes it when she—I don’t know, when she manipulates people here. It probably still gets, like, live tweets from her about it. How do we know it can’t use that information to weave more plots around us?”

“If that’s even how it works,” Jon had replied again. “The other fears don’t work like that—they don’t plan, they just.” He tried to sort his intuition into Martin’s live tweet metaphor. “The fears just like their agents’ tweets, they don’t… comment on them, o-or build new opinions on what they’ve read. It boosts the avatar's… popularity, I guess? Their influence?” Jon hadn’t even logged into Twitter since before the Archives. “But unless the Web is different from all the other fears, it doesn’t—it’s not her boss. It doesn’t come up with the schemes, it just.”

“Isn’t it literally called the ‘Spinner of Schemes’, though? The ‘Mother of Puppets’?”

And Jon couldn’t remember what he’d said to brush off that one.

“Of course she’s dangerous,” Martin said now. “I just don’t see what sinister plot of hers we could possibly be enabling by asking her where to find screwdrivers.”

Jon scoffed. “She’s with the Web, Martin! The ‘Mother of Puppets,’ the ‘Spinner of Schemes’? You’re not supposed to be able to see how the threads connect. Anything we ask her gives her another opening to sink her hooks into.”

“So what, you just don’t want to owe her a favor?”

“Yes?” Jon blinked—on purpose, needless to say. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I mean—why do you think she’s here, Martin, ingratiating herself with us?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s the one place on Earth that hasn’t been turned into a hell dimension?”

Jon snarled and set his head in his free hand. The dizziness was coming back. “In her statement Annabelle said the trick to manipulating people was to make sure they always either over or underestimate you.”

“Okay,” granted Martin, as though prompting Jon to explain how this was relevant.

“She’s trying to humanize herself,” he maintained, scratching an imaginary itch behind his glasses. “We shouldn’t let her.”

“I mean, she is physically more human here.”

“Is she? She doesn’t seem to be withdrawing from the Web; she’s not—like this.” Jon turned his wrist in a circle next to his head.

“Yeah but she’s been here for months, right? Maybe she’s passed through that stage.”

A bitter huff of laughter. “So you’re saying she’s reformed.”

“No. I’m saying the fact she’s not all—loopy here doesn’t necessarily mean she still has any power.”

“She’s got four arms and six eyes, Martin!”

“And you sleep with your eyes open and summon tape recorders, Jon!”

“Well,” mused Jon with a wry smile, “not on purpose.”

“That’s my point! You’ve only got—vestiges here, yeah? I’m not saying we should trust her; I don’t wanna be friends or anything. I’m just saying I don’t think the actual concrete danger she poses here is what’s making you hate the idea of asking her for directions.”

“What about that insect thing Salesa said she chased off. Does that not sound spidery to you?”

“We don’t know that! Maybe she waved his syringe at it.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath through his nose. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to bring up this next part; he feared it might make Martin too afraid to stay here any longer. “I think she’s plotting against us.”

Blink. “Well, yeah. Of course she is. She’s been plotting against us for—”

“Here, I mean. I mean, I think that’s why she’s here. She’s been hiding from the Eye on purpose so she could lure us into her trap with her spindly little”—Jon thought of the earrings that dangled from Annabelle’s ears like flies, swinging with her every sudden movement. Unconsciously he struck out with his hand as if to catch one, closing his fist around empty air. “Without my being able to see either her or the trap. At best, she’s here gathering information about us so she can report it back to her master.” He pictured the thousand spiders he’d seen birthed during Francis’s nightmare crawling back and forth with messages between here and the nearest Web domain—

“I thought you said the fears didn’t work that way,” pursued Martin—

“And every little thing we tell her is one more thread she can use to pull on us.”

“Okay, but, even if you’re right, ‘Hey Annabelle, our doorknob’s busted, can you help us find the tools to fix it’ isn’t actually a fact about us.”

“But that’s just the best-case scenario, Martin! The worst-case scenario is that she predicted we’d get locked out of our room, or even loosened the screw herself—”

“Not this again—”

“—because she knew we’d have to ask her for help, and wherever she tells us to look for the screwdriver is where she’s laid her trap! Think about it—this couldn’t happen outside the range of the camera, right? It would only work in a place where I can’t just know where to find something. That’s the only scenario where we’d ever ask her for directions.” Martin sighed, crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. Jon looked right at him, hoping to catch them on their way back down. “What if her plan is to trap us here forever so we can’t go stop Elias? What if by trusting her with this, we give her the tools to keep the world like this forever?”

Again Martin sighed. He bit his lip, at last seeming not to have an argument lined up already.

“I can’t actually stop you from going after her”—Jon heard Martin scoff, but pressed on—“but I can’t take part in this.”

“You sort of already did stop me, Jon.” He lifted his arm, pointing vaguely in the direction she’d gone. “We can’t catch up with her now.”

That wasn’t quite true, Jon knew; Martin had chosen to stop and listen to him. Instead of pointing this out in words Jon smiled, meekly, and reached for Martin’s hand. “Guess that’s true. Are you, er, ready for lunch now?”

His answering scoff sounded fond, indulgent, rather than incredulous. “Yeah, alright.”

With Martin’s hand still in his, Jon turned around—an awkward business, while holding hands in such a narrow passage—and began to walk back towards the dining room. At the end of the corridor stood a tall, thin, many-limbed figure, holding a water carafe, a stack of glasses, and four steaming plates of food.

“You boys getting hungry?” As she stepped toward them her shoes clacked against the floor. How had they not heard her approach? And what was she doing back at that end of the corridor?

“How did you—?”

“I have my ways. I’ve brought lunch for you both, if you’re amenable.”

“Oh—well, thanks, you’re, you’re just in time, actually.” Jon didn’t dare look away from Annabelle Cane long enough to confirm this, but suspected Martin had directed that last bit at him as much as her. “Can I help you with those?”

Annabelle managed to shrug without dislodging anything from the four plates in her hands. “You can take the napkins if you want,” she said, extending toward Martin the forearm from which they hung.

Jon sat back down in the chair he’d left at a haphazard angle—though it felt weird, since he usually sat on the table’s other side. He thanked Martin when he handed him a napkin, and allowed Annabelle to set an empty glass and a plate of food in front of him. It was a pasta dish, with clams—from a can, he reminded himself. A can and a jar of pasta sauce. Couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to put together.

“Salesa’s still out of it,” observed Martin. “Don’t think he’ll make too much of his.”

“A shame,” Annabelle agreed. She set a plate down in front of the sleeping Salesa anyway. “Maybe the smell of food’ll wake him up.”

“Are you going to eat with us?” Martin asked, as he and Jon both watched her deposit a fourth plate across the table from them.

“I may as well. We do still have to eat to live here, don’t we?” Jon could tell she meant this comment as an invitation for him to join their conversation, but he didn’t intend to take her bait. “Besides,” Annabelle went on, “this way you’ll know I’ve not saved the best for myself.” With one hand she picked up her own plate again; another of her long, thin arms reached out to take Jon’s plate.

He dragged it to the side, out of her reach. “No, thank you.”

“Alright. Martin,” she said, looking over at him with a patient, patronizing smile. “Will you switch plates with me?”

“Oh, my god,” Martin groaned into his hand. “Sure, why not.”

Something small and gray skittered across the table toward her. For half a second Annabelle took her eyes from Martin. Her nostrils flared; one of her eyes twitched; Jon heard a stifled squawk from behind her closed lips as she swept the skittery thing over her edge of the table. He made no such effort to hide his scoff. Did she think she could play nice, by declining to hold little spider conversations in front of them? That they’d think she was on their side as long as they couldn’t see her chatting to her little spies?

“Thank you,” Annabelle sing-songed meanwhile, returning her gaze to Martin. “You’re sweet.”

On their first morning here, after showering and then shuddering back into their filthy clothes, Jon and Martin had barely left their room before Annabelle dangled herself in their path, with cups of tea (Jon refused his) and an offer to show them to the pantry. From this tour Jon had concluded that all food in this place was tainted by her influence. And he didn’t actually feel hungry at that point? He remembered Martin remarking on his hunger before they’d both fallen asleep, but Jon had felt only tired. Surely that meant he still didn’t need food here, right? It’d been like that before the change, after the coma—he’d needed sleep and statements to keep up his strength, but could function just fine without… people food. So he’d resolved to accept nothing offered him here—or at least, nothing Salesa and Annabelle hadn’t already given him and Martin without their consent. No tea, none of Salesa’s booze, no use of the huge industrial washing machines, no food.

That resolution lasted about nine hours. He knew because on that first day time still felt like such a novelty he and Martin had counted every one. Once he’d tried and failed to compel Salesa—once he’d heard him give a statement and managed to space out for half of it, rather than transcending himself in the ecstasy of vicarious fear—Jon started to grow conscious of his hunger. After two hours he felt shaky; after four he started picking quarrels, first just with Annabelle when she showed up with snacks, then with Salesa, and then even with Martin; after six he felt first hot, then cold. Finally around the eight-hour mark he was hiding tears over an untied shoelace, and figured it was worth finding out how much of this torment people food could solve. He sat through dinner, flaunting his empty plate—then stole to the pantry for something he could make himself. Settled for dry toast and raisins. “Couldn’t you find the jam?” Martin had asked him.

“Didn’t think of it,” Jon lied, once he’d got his throat round a lump of under-chewed toast.

“You want me to get some for you? That looks pretty depressing without it,” Martin said, with his eyebrows and the line of his mouth both raised in a pitying smile.

“Better make it one of the sealed jars.”

“What, so Annabelle can’t have got to it?” Jon nodded, chewing so as to have neither to smile back nor decide not to. “You know she made the bread, right.”

Of course she had. Jon dropped his head onto his fists. “Fuck.”

“What did you think?” mused Martin with a laugh. “That Salesa just popped down to the supermarket?”

“I don’t know—that they’d taken it from the freezer, maybe?”

“I mean, that’s possible,” Martin granted with a shrug. “Should I get you that jam?”

Big sigh. “Fine.”

In reality he’d stared up at the row of jam jars in Salesa’s pantry for a full ten seconds before deciding not to have any. He feared spiders would spill out of the jar onto his hand as soon as he got it open. But he also feared he might not be able to open it at all—only hurt himself trying. Way back in their first year in the Archives together, Martin had once seen him struggling to get open the jar where he kept paperclips. Jon hadn’t realized he was being watched—or, that is, that Martin was watching him. In the Archives the sense of someone watching was so omnipresent one soon lost the ability to distinguish Elias’s evil Eye from other, more mundane eyes. Anyway, after three minutes’ effort and nothing to show for it but a misplaced MCP joint in his thumb, Jon had given up on paper-clipping the photos Tim had pilfered for him to their relevant statement and begun hunting through his desk drawers for a stapler instead. And then a high-pitched pop above his head made him startle so badly he gasped, choked on his own spit, and flung the picture in his hand across the room like a paper airplane.

Around the sound of his own cough he could hear Martin shouting Sorry, and Tim and Sasha laughing on the other side of the wall. Martin’s laugh soon joined theirs, though it sounded desperate, sheepish. He dove after the photo Jon had dropped, and then, when he came back with it, explained, “Got the paperclips for you.”

Jon frowned. “This is a photograph, Martin.”

“No, I mean—?” His laugh came out like a whimper; he picked the unlidded jar up an inch off the table, then set it back down. “Here.”

Okay, so, not exactly an auspicious start, but, it still became a thing? Martin opening his paperclip jar. At first he’d wished he could just remember not to seal it so tightly; he could get it just fine when he stopped turning it earlier. At least when the weather hadn’t changed since the last time he opened it. But then when they all started leaving the Archives less often, and the break-room fridge filled up with condiments that all seemed to have twist-off lids… he’d kind of liked that? Martin would hand him the peanut-butter jar, with its lid off and pinned to its side with one finger, before Jon had even finished asking for it. This seemed to be the pattern behind all his early positive impressions of Martin: the jar lids, the corkscrew, the way he managed to make mealtimes at the Institute feel like proper breaks. Martin had seemed like such an oaf to him at first—clumsy, absent-minded, always seeming to think that if he professed enough good will with his smiles and cups of tea and I know you won’t like this, but, then no one would notice his impertinent comments and all the doors he left wide open. All the dogs and worms and spiders he let in. He’d seemed to Jon the human embodiment of a fly left undone—more so than ever after the morning he’d walked in on him wearing naught but frog-print boxer shorts. But he had this easy grace with things that needed twisting off. Banana peels, bottle caps, wine corks, worms.

And then when he came back after the Unknowing Martin was never around. Jon and Basira and Melanie all lived in the Archives, like Martin had two years before, but by that point he wasn’t on Could you open this for me? terms with any of them. But he hadn’t needed people food anymore, and if he subluxed a joint it would heal instantly anyway. So he’d just struggled and sworn, feeling stupid for shrinking from the pain even after having chopped off his own finger. And it got easier with practice. By the time he and Martin reunited, he’d got so used to it that sometimes he’d hand jars to Martin already unlidded. Martin hadn’t seemed to notice. Finally, one evening a day or two after that row they had over the ice-cream thing, Jon had opened a jar of pasta sauce (he’d taken up people food again at Daisy’s safehouse, if only to make their time there feel more like a regular holiday), and reached out to hand it to Martin—then paused and retracted the hand that gripped the jar, remembering his promise to be more open about.

“This is, um.” He’d glanced up at Martin, then back to the floor as the latter said,

“Huh?”

“This is one of those things that’s got better since the coma. Since I became an avatar. I can, um. I can open jars now? Without.” He’d almost said Without hurting myself, then remembered that wasn’t technically true. Deep breath. “Without lasting harm. It—it hurts for a second? But the Eye heals it instantly. That's why I’ve been.”

“Oh,” Martin said, seeming to stall for time as he absorbed this information. He accepted the jar which Jon again held out to him, and turned it around in his hands, eyes on its label. “Yeah, I—I noticed, you’re really good at opening jars now,” he went on with a laugh. Again he paused, and blew a sigh out of his mouth. “Right. Okay. Thank you for telling me?”

“I’ll try and be better about….”

Martin nodded, turning back to the stove and beginning to stir sauce into the pasta. “Yeah. I, uh—I didn’t know that was why you used to need me to open them for you?” Since the other night’s argument, Jon had gathered as much. He nodded too. “I thought you were just, heh, you know. Weaker than me.”

“I mean, I am—”

“Well yeah but you know what I mean.”

“I do. I should’ve told you.”

“No, I—actually I think you’re in the clear on that one, if I’m honest. I just—it’s just weird? I thought I was done having to” (another blown-out sigh punctuated his speech) “having to reframe stuff I thought was normal around some unseen horror. Sorry,” he added when he’d finished beating sauce off Daisy’s wooden spoon; “that’s probably not a great way to.”

“No—it’s fine?”

“Suppose it sounds like an exaggeration, now, after all we’ve.”

Mechanically, Jon nodded, without deciding whether he agreed or not. Around an awkward laugh, he confessed, “‘Unseen horror’ might be the nicest way I’ve ever heard anyone describe it.”

“Er. Yikes? That sounds like you might need some better friends, Jon.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, laughing again. “I—I just mean, it’s nice to hear something other than?” Jon paused and pushed his little fingers back the hundred or so degrees they each would go. First the left, then the right. Other than what? Well, doubt, for a start. Though most of the doubt he heard from outside himself was implicit. Careful silence from people he told about it; requests people made of him seemingly just so he’d have to tell them he couldn’t do that; impatience, bafflement, suspicion from strangers. Why are you out of breath, the woman behind the Immigration desk had asked him at O’Hare, as if breathlessness incriminated him somehow. But that wasn’t the response he’d subconsciously measured Martin’s phrase against. What he had in mind now was more like… bland support. Hurried support. Assurances quick and dutiful, yet so vague he could tell the people who gave them were thinking only of the mistakes they might make, if they dared to acknowledge what he’d said with any more than half a sentence. The I’m sorry you’re in pain equivalents of Right away, Mr. Sims.

That was it—unseen horror was an original thought. Martin had put it in his own words, rather than either borrowing Jon’s or using none at all. “Other than a platitude.”

So at Salesa’s when Martin came back with the jam jar he handed it to Jon. Jon made a show of trying to open it, but could feel his middle finger threatening to leave its top half behind. It frightened him, in a way he’d forgot was even possible. For such a long time now, pain had just been pain? He’d grown so unused to the threat it held for normal people. The threat of actual danger, of injury. He’d set down the jar on the table in front of him, and crossed his arms in front of it.

“Can’t get it, huh?” Martin asked; Jon shook his head.

How much danger, though, he wondered. Earlier that day, after he and Martin got out of the bath, his left index finger had popped out while he was buttoning his shirt. It still ached when he used the finger, or thought about the cracking sound it had made—but didn’t throb anymore without provocation. Not much danger there; not even much inconvenience. He supposed if he hurt his middle finger too then he might have some trouble with his trouser button the next time he had to pee? Right, yes, what a cross to bear. I hurt myself doing x; now it hurts to do x. But it already hurt to do x, didn’t it? Didn’t x always hurt, before the change? Why did he so fear to face an hour or a day where it hurt more than usual, but not so much I can’t do it?

“So you’re saying it won’t… come off?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“What if I open it and it’s full of spiders?”

Martin had smiled, rolled his eyes, pulled the jar toward him, and twisted its lid off with a pop. “See? No spiders in this one.

“While you’re here, Annabelle,” Jon heard Martin say, “I don’t suppose you know anything about where Salesa keeps his screwdrivers?”

Annabelle tapped her chin and said, very pleasantly, “Hmmm. Perhaps they’re where he left them after the last time something broke.”

Martin’s lips drew closer together. “Yeah,” he nodded, “probably. Any idea where that might be?”

“Perhaps he keeps them next to whatever screw comes loose most often.”

“And do you know which screw that is?”

She shook her head, though who knew whether that meant she didn’t know or merely that she didn’t mean to tell him. “Perhaps he only uses the item when he’s alone,” she said, with a shrug and a sly smile.

“…Ew.” Annabelle cackled like a school kid pulling a prank. “Right, great,” sighed Martin. “Thanks a lot. Forget it. You done, Jon?”

Jon glanced sleepily down at his plate. Only half empty, but cold by now. “Yes.”

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,” Martin said, sliding his and Jon’s plates toward her side of the table.

Instead of energy, lunch gave Jon only a slight queasy feeling—like one gets from eating sweets on an empty stomach.

“God”—hissed Martin, with clenched fists, as they ambled back to their room—“‘Perhaps he keeps them next to the screw that gets loose most often.’ Yeah, figured that out already, thanks! Can you even believe her? Sitting down to eat with us, as if she’s all ready to help, and then the best she can do is,” he paused and straightened, then said with a finger to his chin in imitation of Annabelle, “‘Oh, hm, guess he only uses it alone. Oh well!’”

“Don’t know what else you expected.”

Martin sighed, his arms crossed now. “Guess I should’ve done what you asked after all, since that accomplished nothing.” After a moment he went on, “Least it wasn’t a trap, right? I tried not to give her anything she could use against us.” With a smile Jon could hear without looking at him, “You notice how I pointedly didn’t offer to help clean up?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jon confessed, laughing a little.

“No?!” Again Martin paused on his feet, frowning, incredulous. Jon wished he wouldn’t; standing still made him dizzier, took more effort than walking, like that poor woman in Oliver’s domain. Daniela? Martin shook his head at himself. “Ugh—then who knows if she noticed, either. I thought I was being so obvious!”

“I mean—”

“Wait, hold up, let’s double back.”

“Are you going to go back and tell her it was on purpose?”

“No, just”—he echoed Jon’s laugh—“no, of course not. I just wanted to try that wing’s toilets next. Didn’t want her to see which way we were going.”

“Oh.” By this time Martin had turned around and started to walk the other way; Jon hung back. “Er. I thought—I thought we were going to our room first.”

“What, the new one you mean?” asked Martin, turning his head around to look back at him.

“…Yes,” Jon decided. Until this moment he’d forgot about that, and been daydreaming of their original bed.

“Sure, if you want. Do you need a break?”

“I… I think so, yes.”

Martin turned the rest of the way around, shuffled toward Jon and looked him over, with a concerned frown. He took his free hand between his fingers and thumb, brushing the latter over Jon’s knuckles. “Yeah, okay. You still seem pretty out of it. How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” answered Jon, though he smiled in relief at Martin’s willingness to change the plan for him.

“Food didn’t help?”

His stomach seemed hung with cobwebs; his mind, like a large room with half its lights burnt out. His light head seemed attached to his heavy, aching body only by a string, like a balloon tied to an Open-House sign. He still needed the toilet. “Not really?”

“Yeah, thought not. You need a statement, huh.”

Jon shrugged, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “Probably.”

In the interim bedroom Jon sat down at the edge of the bed, bent down over his legs, and untied his shoes, wondering why his life always came back around to this. His hip got stuck like a drawer that’s been pulled out crooked, so he had to lever himself back up with his arms, trapping fistfuls of counterpane between thumbs and the meat of his palms. It made his hands cramp, but that helped—the way it would have helped to bite his finger. When he’d got himself upright again he sat and blinked for a few seconds, hoping each time he opened his eyes that his vision would’ve cleared.

Martin sat down next to him and put his hand on Jon’s arm. “You’re blinking again. You okay?”

“Just… kind of dizzy? It’s an Eye thing.”

He let Martin pull him towards him until their shoulders touched. “Yeah. Makes sense. Nap should help. Statement’ll definitely help.”

“Right.”

They agreed to lie on the bed rather than properly in it, not wanting to have to put the covers back together afterward. Jon set his head on that squishy part of Martin’s chest where it started to give way to armpit, knowing to angle himself so the scar tissue pressed the hollow part of his cheek rather than anywhere bonier. It was normally dangerous to lie half on his back, half on his side like this, but he’d lately discovered he could use Martin’s leg to keep his hip from falling off. He could feel the muscles in his shoulder twitching and cramping, whether to pull the joint out or keep it in who could tell. But it’d be fine as long as he shrugged the arm every few minutes.

All the ways they knew to spend time in each other’s company had come together in Scotland, where he’d had none of these worries. Even after the change, on their journey, with nothing but sleeping bags between them and desecrated earth, he’d borne only the same aches he’d been ignoring since he read the statement that ended the world. Jon imagined lying next to Martin like this on the cold stone of a tomb in the Necropolis, surrounded by guardian angels’ malicious laughter. Not feeling the cold, or the grain of the stone against his ankles and the bandage on his shin—just knowing it was there, like when you watch someone suffer those things in a movie. Less vivid even than a statement about lying on a tomb; in Naomi Herne’s nightmare he’d felt the stone in her hands.

“Hfff, okay—ready to get back to it?”

“Mrrr.”

“…Jon, are you asleep?”

He shrugged his hanging shoulder. “No.”

Nose laugh. “Come on, wake up.”

“Mmrrrrrrr.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It won’t wake up ‘till you get up off of it, Jon,” said Martin, gently, between huffs of laughter.

“Hmr.” Jon rolled away to face the wall with the window, freeing Martin’s arm.

“Do you want me to go look without you?”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

Cold air washed over his newly-exposed arm, ribcage, side of face, the outside of his sore hip. It was cold on this Martinless side of the bed, too. He rolled back over into the shadow of his warmth, but that still wasn’t as good as the real thing. Maybe he could pull the covers halfway out and roll himself up in them.

“Aaagh, no—Jon”—Martin’s cool hand on top of his as he tried to hook his fingers round the counterpane— “we’re trying to leave the room the way we found it, remember?”

“Hmmmrrgh.” He consented to leave his hand still when Martin’s departed from it. A few seconds later, a rustle against his ear, the smell of smoke and old clothes.

“Here.”

Jon crunched the jacket down so it wouldn’t itch his ear. “You won’t need it?”

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll be back for it if I have to go outside again, yeah?”

“Okay.”

In his mind’s eye they trudged into the wind, hand in hand. It blew Martin’s hood off his head, and inverted Jon’s cane like an umbrella. He shrunk himself further under Martin’s jacket, relishing the new pockets of warmth he created as his calves met his thighs and his hands gripped his shoulders.

“Ooookay…! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” managed Jon around a yawn.

Martin had been right about the wallpaper. Not only was the red too bright to look at comfortably; it also had the kind of flowered pattern just complex enough that every time you look back at it you’re compelled to double-check where it repeats. Every fourth stripe was the same as the first, right? Not every second? And that weird little scroll-shaped petal—he’d seen that one too recently. Was it the same as?—No, that one was a bud. He pulled Martin’s jacket up so it covered his eyes.

They’d put their jackets through the laundry with everything else, their first day here, but that hadn’t got the smell out. Enough time had passed between the burning building and their arrival here for the smoke to embed itself permanently into their jackets and shoes, like how duffel bags once taken camping always smell like barbecue. And everything they’d ever shoved in those backpacks still had some of that odd, sour, Ritz-cracker smell of clothes left unwashed too long.

Daisy used to smell like smoke and laundry, too, once she quit smelling like dirt. It was the smell of the old green sleeping bag she’d zipped up to Basira’s. She said she’d have showered it off if she could; she didn’t like it. To her it was a Hunt smell—it reminded her of her clearing in the woods. But there weren’t any showers in the Archives. She’d point this out every time, in the same wry voice, so Jon was sure she’d intended the metaphor. No showers in the Archives: you couldn’t hide your sins in a temple of the Eye. This had comforted Jon—or maybe flattered was the word, though he knew her better than to think she’d have done so on purpose. He just wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d hid his sins pretty well from himself, after the coma. It was easy; you just had to lose track of scale. No one could remember all of them at once, after all. Others had had to point the important ones out to him.

Were those footsteps he could hear out there? Not Annabelle’s—? No; her clicky shoes. These were blunter. Could be Salesa, awake at last, come to invite them to play a game with him. “How do you two feel about… foosball?” he would say, drawing out the last word in a husky whisper. Only then would he swing the door wide open to reveal himself in a shiny jersey, shorts, and studded shoes. He set his fists out before him and turned them in semicircles, pretending to manipulate the plastic rods of a foosball table. Jon curled still more tightly into himself at the thought of Salesa’s face, how his showman’s grin would crumple like a hole in a cellophane wrapper when he realized the fun one had gone and that he faced only the Archivist. “Oh—hello. Jon, is it? Where has your lovely Martin gone?”

“Oh, uh. Martin needs a screwdriver to fix our door, so I.”

He watched Martin march his silent way slowly, solemnly down a corridor that grew darker, grayer, vaguer with every step until the webs that lined its every side and hung in laces from the ceiling began to catch on his shoes, his belt, his glasses.

“I let him go off alone.”

Jon’s whole body flinched. He gasped awake—oh shit. How had he just let Martin go? He had to—couldn’t stay here—find Martin—keep him out of Annabelle’s clutches—

Stick-thin bristling spider legs tapped the floor of his mind like fingers on a table. Find Martin. Jon instructed himself to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed and reach down to grab his shoes. He twitched one finger. See? You can do this. In a minute he’d try again and be able to move his whole arm, push himself up onto one hand. Find Martin.

Also probably go to the toilet. With an empty bladder his head would be clearer, he could figure out which direction to look first.

After Hopworth, while he laid on the couch in his office waiting for the strength to throw himself into the Buried, Jon had imagined Martin and Georgie and Basira and Melanie all stood around that coffin, wearing black and holding flowers. Denise? No, it definitely had three syllables. A scattered applause began as Jonah Magnus emerged from his office, closed behind him the door printed with poor dead Bouchard’s name, and stepped up to the podium. Georgie, not knowing his face, began to clap; Melanie stayed her hands. Elagnus’s shirt, hidden behind suit except for the collar, was striped in black and white. A ball and chain hung from his sleeve like an enormous cufflink. He opened his mouth to speak, and a tape recorder began to hiss.

“What are you doing here?” asked Basira.

“Never underestimate how much I care for the tools I use, Detective. I wouldn’t miss my Archivist’s big day.”

“So they just let you out for this.”

Elias shrugged with false modesty. His chain jingled. “When I asked them nicely.”

“How did you even know he was dead?” interposed Melanie. “Basira, did you tell him about the—”

“She didn’t have to,” said Elias, raising his voice to cut Melanie’s off. “Nothing escapes my notice, and I like to keep an eye out for this sort of thing.”

“Well—it’s—good to see you.” Tim’s voice. Unconvincing, even then.

Jon steeled himself to hear his own voice stammer out, “Yes—y-yes!” but heard nothing except the hissing of the… tape. Yes, that was the wrong tape—the one from his birthday.

“Anyway. Somebody mentioned cake.” Elias jingled as he arranged his hands under his chin.

Tim scoffed. “They didn’t serve cake at my funeral.”

“I preferred going out for ice cream anyway,” pronounced Martin, his arms crossed and his nose in the air. Jon pushed himself up on shaking hands. Find Martin.

They had gone for ice cream at John O’Groats before the change, while living at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin had apologized on behalf of the kiosk for its measly selection—no rum and raisin. Jon pronounced a playful “Urgh,” assuming Martin had cited this flavor as a joke. “I think I’ll manage without that particular abomination.”

“Wait, what? Why did you order it at my birthday party then?”

Jon stood still with his ice cream cone, squinted into space, and blinked. “I did?”

“My first birthday in the Archives, yeah!”

“Huh. That’s… odd.” Martin placed a gentle hand on Jon’s back to remind him to resume walking. “I suppose I must have been—huh. Yes,” he mused, nodding slowly as his hypothesis came into focus between his eyes and the ground. “I must still have thought I was tired of all the good flavors at that point.”

He heard Martin scoff a few steps ahead of him. “What, and now you’re happy with plain old vanilla?” Then he heard arrhythmic footsteps thumping toward him from Martin’s direction; he looked up to find Martin reaching his napkin-draped free hand out toward Jon’s ice cream cone. “You’re dripping again,” he explained.

Jon mumbled thanks and shrugged a laugh. “I-I’ve, uh. Come back around on most of them.”

“Except rum and raisin?”

“No—I’ve come around on it, too, just, uh.” He tried to make the shape of a wheel with his ice-cream-cone-laden hand. It flicked drips of vanilla across his shirt. Martin came at him with the napkin again. “Thank you. I just disliked that one to start with.”

“…Right. Okay, so what revolution occurred in your life before the Archives that overturned all your opinions on ice cream flavors?”

So Jon had told Martin about that summer when his jaw kept subluxing. He’d used that word, assuming Martin was familiar with it already—incorrect, as he knew now. Presumably Martin had gathered from context that Jon meant he’d hurt his jaw, in some small-scale, no-big-deal way whose specifics he’d let slide as an unimportant detail. But then as the anecdote wore on he must have begun to feel the hole in his knowledge. And lo, at last Martin had invoked that dread specter the clarifying question.

“Okay but so your grandmother had no problem with you basically living off ice cream all summer?”

“Well, she did when I could chew. But not when it was that or tinned soup.”

“Ah—right. ‘Cause you hurt your… jaw, you said?” Jon nodded. “What happened exactly?”

“Oh. Uh. Happened? Nothing, just my—I was born, I guess. Just part of my genetic condition; I happened to get it especially bad in the jaw that year. I-it’s much better now, though,” he hastened to add when he noticed Martin’s frown.

“What genetic condition? You never told me you had one.”

“Didn’t I?”

At the time, the anger in Martin’s answering scoff had surprised him. “No, Jon, you never said.”

“Oh. Sorry? I—I mean, you’ve seen me with this for years—I just?—thought you knew.”

“Seen you with—what, the cane, you mean? I thought that was Prentiss!”

Jon glanced to the doorway to double-check that was where he’d left his cane.

“What? No,” he had mused. “Of course not. I’ve had this since….”

“But you never used it.”

“No—surely, I—”

“Not once before Prentiss.”

Even as he’d said the words, Jon’s memory of that time had returned to him and he’d known Martin was right. Before Prentiss attacked the Institute he’d brought his cane with him to work in the Archives every day, and every day left it folded up in his bag. All out of an obscure notion that if he’d used it before Elias and before his coworkers, they’d take it as a plea for mercy, an admission of weakness or incompetence. God, he was naïve back then. He’d used the cane often enough back in Research; why hadn’t he worried Tim and Sasha would find its new absence conspicuous? That they’d worry just as much about his refusal to use it? The whole thing seemed even more stupid, too, now that he knew Elias must have noticed the change. How it must have pleased him, to see his shiny new Archivist so obsessed with proving he was fit for the job.

“Yeah but,” Jon pursued, instead of voicing any of this, “Tim never—?”

Martin nodded and shrugged. “I don’t know; I figured Tim didn’t get them in the legs as much as you did. I didn’t see you guys after the attack, remember? Not ‘til you got out of quarantine.”

“Right, no, of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,” said Jon mechanically, already consumed with the question he asked next. “Martin—did you think it was the corkscrew?”

From Martin’s sigh Jon figured he’d been expecting this question. “Kinda? At first, yeah. Half for real, half just—you know, as a habit? Like, ‘Look, a way to blame yourself!’” He splayed out his hands, rolled his eyes.

“Yes—I do that too.” Jon barely got the words out above a whisper; he couldn’t not smile, but fought to keep it from showing teeth. A muscle under his chin spasmed with the effort.

“But then I noticed you switching sides with it a lot, so, yeah. I knew it couldn’t be just that.”

“Really?” He waited for Martin’s answering shrug. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that. Or at least commented on it.”

“Sorry?”

“No—it’s.”

This attempt to communicate a similar sentiment, Jon recalled as he reached for his shoes, hadn’t gone as well as the one a few days later (over unseen horror &c.). Beholding had at that moment presented him with the image of a fat, hunched woman in shorts. She shuffled forward a few steps in a queue at Boots, next to him, and shifted her weight so the cane in her right hand supported her nearer leg. He felt a strong impulse he knew wasn’t his own—one born partly of resentment, part exasperation, part concern—to tell the woman that was bad for her shoulder, that she should switch hands too. But knew if he tried she’d either pretend she hadn’t heard it, or tell him off for criticizing her. Jon didn’t know what she would say more specifically; the Eye didn’t do hypotheticals. It had given him no more than this single moment of preverbal intuition. After the change he could have sought out other conversations Martin had had with his mother, and they might have given him a pretty good idea. But he’d promised Martin not to look at things like that.

He managed to dislodge a finger while tying his shoe. The other shoe he’d pulled off without untying; in a fit of impatience he tried now to shove his foot into it as it was. No good—he got the shoe on, but it just made the other index finger, the one he’d hooked into the back of the shoe behind his heel for leverage, pop off to the side too. Jon was afraid to find out what shape it would end up in if he pulled his finger back out of the shoe like that, so he had to untie it after all, one-handed. Then carefully extract his finger. It sprung back into place as soon as he removed the offending pressure (namely, his heel), but he still whimpered and swore. The corners of his eyes pricked with indignation when he remembered he still had to pee.

In this case, for once, Beholding had told him the important part: that that was why Martin had noticed. Had he noticed Melanie, too, Jon wondered, when she got back from India? She would switch hands sometimes, too—but, of course, without switching legs. He wondered if that had picked at the same unacknowledged nerve of Martin’s that his mother’s habit had. It had bothered Jon, too, but in a different way. He’d resented it a little, but also felt humbled by it, the way he always did by others’ discomfort. Getting shot in the leg seemed so big? Like such an aberration. So uncontroversially important—probably because it was simple, legible. Georgie could convey its hugeness to him in three words. She got shot. Obviously there was more to the story than that; there were parts he could never…

Well, no. There was a part of it he felt he should say he could never understand: that she’d kept the cursed bullet because she wanted it. In fact he was pretty sure he did understand that. But he didn’t have the right to admit it, he didn’t think. And no reason to hope she would believe him if he did. The second he’d learnt the bullet was still in there, after all, he and Basira had rushed to dig it out. Surely, from her perspective that could only mean he didn’t and could never understand. Or maybe he just wanted her to see it that way—wanted her to get to keep that uncomplicated resentment of his ignorance. It made his perspective look stupid and ugly, sure. But the truth made it look self-absorbed and pitiful. The truth was that until Daisy insisted otherwise, he’d assumed only he could see his own corruption and assent to it: that the others must not have known what they were doing.

Then again, maybe even if Melanie knew that, she would see only that he had underestimated her. Maybe it didn’t matter how much she knew.

Melanie switched off which hand she held her white cane with now, too. But that was probably healthy? Jon knew no more than the average person about white-cane hygiene. He just remembered feeling the floor drop out of his stomach when they’d got coffee together during his time in hiding and he had seen her switch her original, silver cane from hand to hand. Part of him had wanted to scoff or rationalize it away. How much could the shot leg hurt, really, if she still noticed when her arms got tired? But another part of him shuddered at the thought one arm alone couldn’t compensate for the weight her leg refused to take—that she had to keep switching off when one arm got weak and shaky from supporting more weight than it should have to. It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced pain or impairment on that scale. He had, though the thought of a single injury sufficing to cause it still made him feel cold inside. It was that he kept seeing proofs, all over, everywhere, that the parts of his life he’d only learnt to accept by assuming they were rare weren’t rare.

Leitner hadn’t made the evil books; he’d just noticed they were there. And then had his life ruined by their influence, like everyone who came across them. Jon had had no time and no right to deplore the holes Prentiss had left in him and Tim, because on the same damn day he learnt someone had shot the previous Archivist to death. Alright, so it was him, then, right? Him and Tim—just doomed, just preternaturally unlucky. Tim, handsome face half-eaten by worms, estranged (as Jon then assumed) from a brother who seemed so warm and accepting in that picture on his lock screen; Jon, saved from Mr. Spider only by his childhood bully, now fated to take the place of another murder victim—and also half-eaten by worms. But no; he and Tim had got off lightly. Look what had happened to Sasha the same fucking night. The very thing whose influence convinced him the world had it out for him? Had killed Sasha. Literally stolen her life. How many lives around him got stolen while he mourned his own?

“I want you to comment on it,” Jon had managed to clarify. But Martin had scoffed as he stood in the foyer of Daisy’s safehouse, hopping on one foot to pull off the other shoe:

“Yeah, well. You haven’t exactly led by example on that one.”

“How could I?”

He accepted Jon’s scarf and long-discarded jacket, hanging them up beside his own. “Gee, I don’t know—commenting on it yourself?”

“On… switching which side I used the cane on.”

“Don’t play dumb, Jon. On this ‘genetic condition’” (in a deep, posh voice, with a stodgy frown and fluttering eyelashes) “you’ve apparently had this entire time. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought you knew, Martin! Why would I mention it in a childhood anecdote if I didn’t think...?”

“Well I didn’t know, okay? You never told me. You never tell anyone anything about what’s going on with you, you just—you just make everything into another heroic cross to bear.”

“That’s not—?” He wanted to tell Martin just how little that made him want to say about it. But he guessed Martin was really talking less about the EDS thing, more about how he’d spent their whole first year in the Archives pretending to dismiss the statements that scared him. How he’d sent Tim and Martin home when he’d found out about Sasha. How he’d stayed away from the Institute even after his name got cleared for Leitner’s murder. “What do you want to know.”

“Why you never—?” In a similar way, Martin seemed to reconsider his initial response. “Yeah, okay, right. Object-level stuff, yeah?” Jon nodded and wanly smiled. “Okay, so. What’s it called?”

After taking a minute to ditch his shoes, wash the sticky ice-cream residue off his hands, and drink some water, he’d sat down on the couch with Martin and told him its name, what it was, what it did. What does that mean, though, Martin kept asking, so he’d explained how it applied to the anecdote about his jaw. Martin asked why it meant he needed a cane.

“Be…cause all my joints are like that.”

“Yeah, but why does it help with that? What is the cane actually for, is what I’m asking.”

Jon hated being asked that question. “It—it means I don’t fall over when one of my joints stops working? A-and… also makes walking hurt less. I suppose.”

“So, when they’re working right, that’s when you don’t need it?”

“No—yes?—sort of. Now sometimes I just need it when it’s been too long since I had a statement. I get sort of. Weak.” Quickly Jon added, “But I don’t need it for stability so much since the coma.” He’d shown Martin how now, when he pulled out his finger, the Eye would just sort of erase that version of reality—how the dislocation wouldn’t snap back, but simply cease to exist. As if his body were a drawing on which the Beholding had corrected a mistake. He put his palms together behind his back, in the way he’d been told one couldn’t without subluxing both shoulders, and told Martin to watch how the hollows between his shoulder bones vanished. He opened his jaw ‘til it jarred to the side, and told Martin to listen for the static.

But Jon had never shown Martin how these things worked before the coma. Martin had no reference for this kind of thing; he understood only enough to find the sights unsettling. “That’s—no, that’s okay, I’ll”—he stuttered as Jon fumbled with his kneecap in search of a fourth example—“I-I get it. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I just thought.”

“No, I—? I don’t need you to prove it to me, Jon.” (The latter nodded, blushing, trying to smile.) “I get… I’m sorry. I guess I get why it’d feel easier not to say anything if? If you think it’s either that or have to convince people it’s a thing.”

Again Jon nodded. He suspected Martin wasn’t through talking yet. But Martin still wasn’t looking at him, eyes squeezed tight against Jon’s party tricks. So, to show he was listening, Jon said, “Yes. Er—thank you, Martin.”

“I just don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You could at least ask if I want to know about them, yeah?”

Even at the time, Jon had doubted this. If they’d had this conversation after the change, he might have pointed out to Martin that when you mention something the other person has no inkling of, you make them too curious to decline your offer of more information, even if afterward they’ll admit they wish you’d never told them.

“Or ask me if I even recognize what you’re talking about, the next time you start going on about some childhood anecdote where you incidentally had a dislocated jaw. Honestly, would it kill you to start with, ‘Hey, did I ever tell you about x’?”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’re right. I’ll try. What… kinds of things did you—? For the future, I mean. What kinds of things did you want to make sure I tell you about.”

Martin sighed, in that way he did when he thought Jon was going about something all wrong. But after a pause to think, he did ask, “About this, or in general?”

“Either—both—first one, then the other.”

“Okay. I guess… I want to know when you’re hurt, mostly. Like—I can’t believe I even have to say this—that’s kind of important, actually? How am I supposed to know how to behave around you if I never know whether you're secretly in pain or not?”

This seemed weird—both now and at the time. Jon figured he must be missing something. If Martin thought he only needed the cane because of Prentiss then, sure, that might have affected how he imagined Jon’s discomfort to himself, but? Wasn’t the cane itself an admission of pain? Why did Martin think he owed him more than that—that he had owed him more than that at the time, no less? Did he not realize how fucking private that was? What a surrender of privacy the cane represented?

But, no, he reminded himself now; nondisabled people don’t realize that, unless you tell them about it. Repeatedly. Over and over. It only seems obvious to you because you lived it already.

“Er.” At the time he’d just shown Martin his teeth, with the points of his left-side canines joined. Nominally a smile, but more like a show of hiding the grimace beneath than an actual attempt to hide it. “That’s harder than you might think? Technically I’m always….”

“Oh.”

“Sorr—”

“—What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

“I’m—not always aware of it?” He disliked that phrase, in pain—how it implied a discrete and exclusive state. One could not be in Paris and at the same time in London; similarly, most people seemed to assume one could not be in pain and also in a good mood. In raptures. In a transport of laughter. That when one admits to being in pain, one implies that’s the most important thing they’re conscious of.

“Well that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, I know—‘if a tree falls down in a forest’—blah blah blah.” With a gentle smile to acknowledge he’d picked up this mode of speech from Martin. He turned his wrist in circles so it clicked like an old film reel. “Philosophically speaking, if you’re not aware of pain, you can’t be in it. Maybe ‘technically’ isn’t the right word.”

“Oh yeah ‘cause that’s the angle I want to know about this from.”

Jon sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just mean, it doesn’t always matter to me.”

“Well it matters to me,” Martin scoffed.

“Yeah—I’m getting that. Is there any way I can explain this that you won’t jump down my throat for?”

Martin sighed, groaned, pulled at his hair a little but made himself stop. (He doesn’t pull it out, Jon knows—he just likes having something to grab onto during awkward conversations. Usually emerges from them looking like a cartoon scientist.) “Okay, yeah,” said Martin. “I get it. I’m sorry too.”

“I mean—when you get a paper cut, that hurts, technically, right?”

“Well yeah, a little, but that’s not the kind of—”

“But just because you notice that hurt doesn’t mean?” He paused to rearrange his words. “You’re not going to remember it later unless someone asks why you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Y—eah. Sure.”

“Is that…?”

“When you’re suffering, then. I want you to tell me that. And—whenever something weird happens? Like, before it stops being weird and you talk to me like I’m stupid for not already knowing about it.”

“What if”—this far into his question, Jon worried it might come off as a smart-alecky, devil’s-advocate thing. So he paused, pretending he needed time to formulate its words. “What if I haven’t decided yet whether it’s weird or not.”

“That in itself is pretty weird, Jon.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to be part of that conversation. I want you to trust me enough to bounce ideas off me! It’s not like—? I mean why wouldn’t you do that?”

Jon had shrugged and grimaced, hands in his trouser pockets. “Not to worry you?” he’d suggested. But as he bit his lip and shimmied down from the bed Jon knew now that that was the sanitized version—and probably, if you’d asked him a day before or afterward, his past self would have known that too. Most things you told Martin, he’d either ignore them completely or latch onto them, refuse to let them go, and interpret everything else you said in the light they cast. Jon had learnt not to raise any given topic with him until he was sure he wanted to risk its becoming a long, painful discussion. This was part of why he hadn’t kept his promise, he told himself as he turned their interim bedroom’s doorknob. Why he’d said so little about anything weird that had happened to him at Upton House.

“Martin?”

“Oh hey, Jon—you’re awake.” Martin glanced in his vague direction but stayed bent over his work, so Jon could not meet his eyes.

“You found the screwdriver.”

“Yeah! And a screw that matches better, see?” He fished the first one they'd found out of his pocket and held it up next to the door for comparison. Jon supposed they looked a little different—bright yellowy gold vs. a darker gold. “They were in the library, of all places. There’s a little box full of ‘em that he keeps right next to his reading glasses, apparently. Guess he must break them a lot. How are yours, by the way? Any bits feel loose?”

Dutifully, trying to keep his dazed smile to himself, Jon pulled off his glasses. Folded and unfolded each arm, jiggled the little nose pieces. He shook his head. “Don’t think so. You can have a look yourself though, if you like.”

“Remind me later. Should’ve brought the whole box, probably,” Martin said, voice strained as he twisted the screw that last little bit. “There!” His open mouth broadened into a smile. “Time to see if it worked. You wanna do the honors?”

Jon shook his head, breathed a laugh through his nose. “You should do it. You’re the reason it’s fixed.”

“I mean, yeah,” shrugged Martin as his hand closed round the doorknob, “but I’m also the reason it broke.” It opened with a click. “Ha-ha! Success! Statements—our own clothes—our own bed! Er. Ish.”

Something tugged in Jon’s chest; he’d forgot the statements were why Martin thought this quest so urgent. He lingered at the side of the bed while Martin rummaged in his backpack, remembering for once to toe his first shoe off while standing.

“Man. Looks sorta underwhelming now, after the other room, huh?”

“Least our wallpaper’s better.”

“Tsshhyeah, and our view.”

Jon didn’t turn around, but surmised Martin must be looking out at that tree he liked. “Is it four already?”

“Uhh—nearly, yeah. You were out for a while; took me ages to find that damn thing. Here you go,” announced Martin as he slapped a zip-loc bag full of statement down on the bed.

(“So they won’t get water damage,” he had answered a few days ago, when Jon asked him why he’d individually wrapped each statement like snacks in a bagged lunch. “What? It’s not like we have to worry about landfills anymore. If I put them all in the same bag, you’d take one out and not be able to get it back in.”)

“What happened to my jacket, by the way? And yours?”

“Uhhh.”

“Right, okay,” Martin laughed; “I’ll go get them before I forget. I’ll put this away too, I guess” (meaning the screwdriver still in his hand). “Don’t wait for me, yeah? I don’t mind missing the trailers.”

Jon smiled. “Sure.”

As Martin hurried off, Jon sat down to untie and pull off his other shoe, threaded the lace back through the final eyelet from which it’d come loose, picked up the first shoe and untied that one, then stood up and set them by the door next to his cane. Both hips and all ten fingers behaved themselves throughout. As he walked by the vanity he grabbed the coins he’d removed to do laundry the other day and stuck them back in his trouser pocket. Useless, of course, but he’d missed having something to fidget with. He squatted down and peered under the vanity for the hair tie he’d dropped, for the fifth or sixth time since he’d misplaced it. Didn’t find it. That was fine; he had another one around his wrist. His knees felt weak, so instead of standing back up he crab-walked to the foot of the bed and sat down with his back against it. Straightened his legs out before him on the floor. Then he dug the coins from his pocket and counted them. Yup—still 74p.

Danika! Not Daniela—Danika Gelsthorpe. God, he would never forget one of their names out there. Never underestimate how much I care for the

“I'm back. What’s down there? Did you find the screw?” asked Martin as he hung their jackets up behind the door.

Jon shook his head. “Forgot about it. I was looking for that hair tie.”

“Well you’re on your own there; I’m done finding things today. The screw can wait,” Martin laughed—“he’s got a whole bag inside that box in the library. Do you need a hand getting up?”

He let Martin help him. Both knees cracked; the world’s edges went dark for a second. “Thank you,” he said, and it came out more peremptory than he’d meant it.

“Statement time?”

“Right. You don’t mind? I can wait ’til we’ve both had a rest, if you don’t want to be in the room while I.”

“No, I’m alright; I’ll stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated statements.”

Martin shrugged. “Not these ones so much, now that. Heh—they’re almost nostalgic, if I’m honest. ‘Can it be real? I think I’ve seen a monster!’”

“They are a bit,” agreed Jon, looking down at the plastic-sleeved statement and making himself smile.

“Go on. Seeing you feel better will make me feel better too.”

That made it a bit easier to motivate himself, Jon supposed. From the moment he’d lain down on the bed he’d felt like he was floating on gentle waves—like if he let himself listen to them he could fall asleep in seconds. But that wouldn’t make Martin feel better. And no guarantee it would him, either, once he woke up again. He rearranged the pillows behind himself so he’d have to sit up a little; this might help keep him awake, and it meant he could rest his elbows on the bed while he held up the statement, rather than having to lift them up before his eyes. It made his neck sore, a bit, this angle, but that was fine. That might help keep him awake, too.

He sighed, readying himself for speech. Then heard a click, and felt a familiar buzz and weight against his stomach. The tape recorder had manifested inside his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket.

“Statement of Miranda Lautz, regarding, er… a botched home-repair job. Heh. Seems appropriate. Original statement given March twenty-sixth, 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

[Image ID: A digital painting of Jon and Martin on an old-fashioned canopy bed with white sheets and orange drapes. Jon sits on the near side of the bed, reading a paper statement. He frowns slightly, looking down at the statement in his hands; he wears round glasses perched low on his nose. He’s a thin man, with medium brown skin dotted by scars left from the worms, and another scar on his neck from Daisy's knife. His hair is long and curly, gray and white hairs among the black. Jon sits supported by pillows—several big, white, lace-trimmed ones behind his back, and one under his knees. His right leg is slightly crossed over his left ankle, on which a clean white bandage peeks out beneath his cuffed, dark green trousers. He wears an oversized red hoodie and red-toed brown socks. Sat on the far side of the bed, next to Jon but facing away from both him and the viewer, is Martin—a tall and fat white man with short, curly, reddish brown hair and a short beard. He has glasses and is wearing a dark blue jumper and gray-brown trousers. Past the bed on Martin’s side, the bedroom door hangs ajar; in this light, it and the wall glow bluish green. On the near side, though, the light grows warmer, the orange canopy behind Jon casting pink and brown tints onto the white pillows and sheets. End ID.]

It seemed to be a Corruption statement, or maybe the Spiral. Possibly the Buried? A leak in Ms. Lautz’s roof caused a pill-shaped bulge to appear in her kitchen ceiling, about the size of a bread loaf. Water burst from it like pus from an abscess (as she described it. Nothing else Fleshy though, so far). Ms. Lautz repaired the hole in her ceiling, but every morning a new one reappeared somewhere else. Sometimes they appeared bulging and pill-shaped like the first one; other times she found them already burst, covering the room in water shot through with dark specks like coffee grounds.

Jon wished he’d refilled his empty water glass before starting to record. His mouth was so dry that every time he pronounced an L his tongue stuck to its roof. At this point he’d welcome a hole to burst in it and flood his mouth with water. Then again, he did still have to pee.

Eventually she and her spouse hired someone to find out what was wrong with the roof. She described hearing boots tramping around up there for half a day while they checked out all the spots where she and Alex had reported leaks. The inside of Jon’s trouser leg pulled at the bandage on his shin, making it itch. The repair men told Ms. Lautz it’d be safer and barely any more expensive to replace the whole thing. The ring and little fingers of Jon’s left hand were starting to go numb from having that elbow too long pressed against the bed. Miranda and Alex thanked the roof people and sent them off, saying they’d think it over.

He began to regret crossing his legs this way. He’d balanced his right heel in the hollow between his left foot’s ankle and instep, and in the time since he’d arranged them that way gravity had slowly pushed his foot more and more to the side, widening that gap. By this time he was sure it was hyperextended—possibly subluxed? It hurt already, and, he knew, would hurt more when he tried to move it. This rather ruined his fantasy of heading straight for the toilet when he finished reading.

Martin was right; these old statements seemed positively tame, now. He knew he owed it to Ms. Lautz to engage with her fate, but?

No. No buts. Whatever hell she lived in now, it looked just like the one she was about to describe for him, only worse. You can’t even pretend you’re sorry she’s living out her worst fear if you stop in the middle of reading that fear’s origin story. Never underestimate how much I

Once the repair men had left, Miranda Lautz wandered into her kitchen for lunch. She found her ceiling bulging halfway to the floor, with the impression of a face and two twisted arms at its center. Like someone had fallen through her roof, head first. Jon’s stiff neck twinged in sympathy. Miranda screamed and strode to the other side of the house in search of beer, figuring she'd find better answers at the bottom of a bottle than in her own head. When she got back to the kitchen with them, the beer bottles didn’t know what to do either, but said—

“God damn it. Not ‘ales’—‘Alex’. Obviously.”

He let the statement’s pages flop over the back of his hand, let his head tip backward until the top of it bumped against headboard and his eyes faced the ceiling. That settled it, then, didn’t it. If he had the Ceaseless Watcher looking through his eyes, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that—and he certainly couldn’t change position while recording. On top of his more substantial regrets, Jon had spent their whole odyssey before they came to Upton House ruing that he’d sat at the dining-room table to read Magnus’s statement, rather than on the couch or the bed. The chairs at that table had plain, flat wood seats—no cushion, no contouring for the shape of an arse. When he opened the door to the changed world, the cataclysm had preserved his bodily sensations at that moment like a mosquito in amber. He’d had a sore tailbone and pins and needles down his legs for untold eons. Right up until he and Martin crossed from the Necropolis onto the grounds protected by Salesa’s camera, where his tailbone faded out of awareness and his head filled up with cotton.

“Ohhh. ‘Alex’. Okay, that makes a lot more sense,” laughed Martin meanwhile. Jon could feel Martin’s shoulder bouncing against his. “She must’ve written it in cursive, huh.”

“I can’t do this right now, Martin.”

“Oh—okay, yeah. You rest; I’ll finish it for you.”

Jon closed his eyes and let air gush out from his nostrils. But you hate the statements, he knew he should say. Wouldn’t this make it easier, though? To let Martin have out this last bit of denial first?

The tape recorder in his pocket still hissed, still warmed and weighted down his stomach like a meal.

“Thank you,” he said.

The operator on the phone said she and Alex should wait for the ambulance to arrive, rather than try to free the man in the ceiling by themselves. Jon turned his neck back and forth, hoping Martin couldn’t hear its joints’ snap/crackle/pop. He picked his elbow up off the bed and shook out his hand. But when the paramedics cut the ceiling open, only a torrent of water gushed into their kitchen—water flecked with a great deal of what looked like coffee grounds. A day or two later the roof people called, to ask if they’d decided whether to have the roof repaired or replaced. They assured her none of their employees had gone missing. At the time of writing, Miranda and Alex still hadn’t decided what to do about the roof. A week ago, they’d found a squirrel-shaped bulge in their bedroom ceiling; they’d packed their bags and come to stay with Alex’s sister in London.

“Right! That wasn’t so bad.” Martin set the statement down and stretched his arms over his head. “Huh.”

“Hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just—it’s been a while. Thought it might feel, I don’t know, worse than that? Or better, I guess, since the Eye’s so ‘fond’ of me now.”

“I don’t think they work here.”

“What?”

“The statements. The Eye can’t see their fear.”

“Oh.” Jon could feel Martin deflating. He let himself avalanche over to fill the space. “You don’t feel better, do you.”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s just—slower here, like it’s taking a while to load or something. Remember how long the tape recorder took to come on last time? It was like—you were like— ‘“Statement of Blankety Blank, regarding an encounter with”—Oh, right,’ click.”

That was true. The tapes had known Salesa would give a statement before it happened, but with these paper ones they’d seemed slow on the uptake. Martin had also sworn the recorder that manifested to tape Mr. Andrade’s statement was a different machine than the one Salesa’d spotted that first morning. Jon wondered which machine the one in his pocket was.

Not relevant, he decided. He shook his head in his palm, stroking the lids of his closed eyes. “No—if they worked here I wouldn’t be able to stop in the middle of one.” As soon as he said it he winced, bracing himself for argument.

After the change he remembered wailing to Martin about how he couldn’t stop reading Magnus’s statement—how its words had possessed his whole body, forced him to do the worst thing any person ever had, and forced him to like it, to feel Magnus’s triumph as they both opened the door. Martin had pressed Jon’s face into his clavicle, rubbed his nose in the scent of Daisy’s laundry soap, covered the back of Jon’s head with his hands. Tried to interpose what he must then have still called the real world between Jon and what he could see outside. He’d said over and over, I know, and We‘ll be okay. Jon had known that meant he wasn’t listening, and yet still hadn’t been prepared for the argument they had later, when he mentioned in sobriety the same things he’d wailed back then.

“Hang on”—Martin had pleaded—“no, that can’t be true. I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a statement loads of times—and I know you have too.”

“By outside forces, yes, but you can’t decide to stop reading one. Believe me, Martin, I wouldn’t have—”

“Tim did.”

“No, he didn’t—”

“Yes he did! He was gonna do one and then Melanie—”

“No, Martin, I’ve heard the tape you’re talking about. Tim introduced the statement but didn’t actually start—”

“He did so! He read the first bit, and then stopped. ‘My parents never let me have a night light. I was—’”

“‘Always afraid, but they were just’....” Behind his own eyes he’d felt the Eye shudder and throb with gratitude. Just that sort of stubborn, it had seemed to sing, in a bizarre combination of his own voice with Jonah’s with Melanie’s, which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening.

“Yeah,” said Martin, forehead wrinkling. “And then he said, ‘This is stupid,’ and stopped.”

“You’re right.”

Jon still had no satisfying answer to that one, and cursed himself for having opened that can of worms back up again. It had been Tim’s first-ever statement, he reminded himself, and maybe Tim had never intended to get even that far. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to interrupt him, as Melanie eventually did. Even out there, the Eye couldn’t really show him things like that. He could find out what Tim had said—could look it up, as it were—and what he’d thought, but motivation was a bit too murky, multilayered, complicated. It wasn’t real telepathy? The vicarious emotions the Eye gave him access to worked in broad strokes, generalities—just like common or garden empathy. Sure, he could imagine other people’s points of view more vividly, now that he could see through their eyes. But he still had to imagine them to life, based on the clues around him and what emotions those clues stirred in him. It didn’t work well for situations like this; he could hear Melanie’s footsteps and feel Tim’s reluctance to read a statement, but that was it. Enough to concoct plausible explanations; not enough to pick out the truth from a list of them. Plausibilities were too much like hypotheticals.

In the timelessness since that argument with Martin, though, Jon had also wondered whether it mattered if Tim had read the statement before recording it. He didn’t have footage, as it were, of Tim doing so; either the Eye had more copies of the statement’s events than it needed already and so had deleted that one from storage, or, conversely, perhaps it could no longer see versions of it that relied too heavily on the pages Mr. Hatendi had written it on, since Martin had burned those. But Tim’s summary, before he started reading. Blanket, monster, dead friend. It was bad, sure (like the assistants’ summaries always were, a ghost of past Jon interposed). But it sounded like the summary of a man who’d read it with his mind on other things. Inevitable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide; he couldn’t. Not at all like that of someone skimming it for the first time as he spoke. He did rifle through the papers though? So Jon couldn’t be sure. The suspicion ate at his mind, especially here. Could he have kept the world from ending just by—reading Magnus’s statement, before he went to record it? The way he used to way back at the start, before he trusted himself to speak the words perfectly on the first try? You didn’t mean to record it, did you? No, I’m sure you told Melanie and Basira you were just going to

“Guess that makes sense,” Martin said now. “So, you’re still feeling…?”

“Not great?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human, here.”

“Oh wow. That’s—”

Jon told himself to put the hope in Martin’s voice to bed as soon as possible. “I know I’m not—not fully.” He allowed a smile to twitch the corners of his lips, flared his nostrils around an exhale that almost passed as a laugh. “Most humans don’t spontaneously summon tape recorders. Or sleep with their eyes open.”

“Yeah, but still, you don’t think maybe—?”

Again Jon hastened to cut Martin off. “A-and even if I was, it’s. I know that should be a good thing? But—”

At this point Martin interposed, “Should be, yeah! You don’t think it might mean you could—I don’t know, go back to normal? If we stayed here for a while?”

“Maybe? I-I might stop craving the Eye so much, but we’d still have to go back out there eventually, to face Elias, and. To be honest with you, Martin?” He huffed a laugh out, bitterly. “My ‘normal’ wasn’t exactly...”

“Right.” Martin sighed. “So you mean you feel like you used to, as a human. Which was…”

“Not great.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t been very well, here.” Jon shrugged for the excuse to duck his head. He could feel himself blushing, the heat spilling from his face all down both arms. Good thing the tape recorder in his pocket had gone cold.

Next to him, Martin puffed air out of his cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m dizzy and confused without the Eye, and it—it can’t fix me here? When I.” He drew in breath, lifted his heel off his ankle and set that leg to the side, letting its foot roll into Martin’s shin. Bit his lip and scrunched his nose in preparation. Flexed the other foot’s toes, trying to isolate the lever in his ankle that would—there. Clunk. Then a noisy exhale: “Jyyrrggh. When that happens,” he choked out, voice strained by both pain and nerves. “It’s like before I became an avatar. I have to fix it myself, and it doesn’t just.” Magically stop hurting, he hoped went without saying; already he could hear Martin sucking air through his teeth. It made Jon’s cheeks itch. “Shouldn’t have let myself get used to a higher standard, I suppose.”

“What? No—of course you should have. Did you think I was gonna say that?”

“No, of course not; I just meant—”

“You deserve to feel healthy, Jon.”

“Do I? Health is clumsy, it’s callous, it, it lets terrible things happen because they don’t feel real—it can’t imagine them properly, can’t understand what they mean….”

“Okay, first of all, ouch.” Jon snarled a laugh at that, without knowing whether Martin meant it as a joke. “Second of all, that is not why you—why the world ended, okay? Especially, ‘cause, you weren’t ‘healthy’ then. You read Elias’s bloody statement because you were starving, remember?”

“Hmrph,” pronounced Jon, to concede he was listening without either confirming or denying the point.

“And thirdly, you’re not ‘callous’ out there? You don’t”—a scoff interrupted his words. “You don’t ‘let things happen because they don’t feel real’—that’s sure not how I remember it. Okay? I remember you crying for—god, I don’t know, days, maybe? Weeks?—about how you could feel everything, and couldn’t stop any of it. That’s the thing we’re hiding from here, Jon, so if you don’t actually feel any healthier here then what even is the point?”

In a voice embarrassment made small Jon managed, “I mean? I’m still kind of having fun.”

“Really? You don’t seem like it—”

“Not today, maybe—”

“Right, yeah, no; spending all day trying to fix a doorknob isn’t exactly—”

“But I don’t want to leave yet. I should still have a few good days left before the distance from the Eye gets too….”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” For a few seconds he tried to think of something better to say, then gave up and told the truth, though in a jocular voice to hide his self-consciousness. “Always was the person who got ill on holiday.”

“Oh, god, of course you were—”

Voice growing higher in pitch, Jon pleaded, “It didn’t usually stop me from enjoying it?”

“What about America?” laughed Martin. “Did you still enjoy that one?”

“Of course not—I got kidnapped.”

“I mean, yeah, but you were pretty used to that too by then, right?”

“God.” Jon sniffed, crunchily, reeling back in the snot he’d laughed out. “Besides. That was a business engagement.”

Martin acknowledged this comment with a quick Psh, as he turned himself around on the bed to face Jon a little more. “Can I trust you to”—he stopped.

“Yes.”

“No, let me—that wasn’t fair; I can’t ask you that yet.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Martin; I didn’t—”

“Of me, I meant, it wasn’t fair.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ve been ignoring your distress all week because I wanted it not to matter.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘distress,’” pointed out Jon. “Plus, I have been sort of, er. Secretive, about it.”

The exasperation in Martin’s sigh was probably meant for him, not for Jon, the latter reminded himself. “Yeah, but you’re not subtle. I can tell when you’re hiding something. It wasn’t exactly a big leap to figure out what. But I told myself it was temporary, and that you were acting like.”

Jon laughed preemptively. “Yes?”

“Like a little kid in line for a theme-park ride.” Again Jon laughed—less at the comparison itself than at how much Martin winced to hear himself say it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken you more seriously.”

“And I should have told you what was going on with me.”

“Yup,” concurred Martin at once.

“I know you hate it when I keep things from you.”

“I do—I hate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry too.” Martin waved this away like a fly. “I just—you said you think we’ve got a few more days, before it gets too much or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“Can I trust you to tell me when we need to leave?”

Jon tried not to answer too quickly, knowing vaguely that that might sound insincere. “Yes,” he said again, after pausing for a second. “You can trust me.”

“Okay? Don’t try to spare my feelings, or anything like that. Like—don’t just go, ‘Oh, well, he’s having a good time. That’s fine; I don’t have to.’ Yeah? ‘Cause I won’t have a good time if I’m worried you’re secretly suffering.”

This Jon did know; it sent a thrill of recognition down his spine, as he remembered their first day’s ping-pong adventure. “Right. I’ll do my suffering as publicly as possible.”

“Uh huh.” Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulder. “Just don’t worry about disappointing me? I mean, sure, I like it here, with the whole ‘not being an evil wasteland’ thing, but I’d much rather be out there with you happy than with you than spend one more minute in paradise with her.”

With a smile, Jon replied, “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I suppose we do.”

As they walked on out of the range of Salesa’s camera, Jon glanced backward one more time and thought, Yes, that makes sense—but couldn’t quite recall what he had expected to see. It was like when you look at a clock, and tick Check the time off your mental to-do list, then realize you never internalized what time it was. “Pity,” he mused.

“What?”

“It’s, er, going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance.”

“That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?”

“Some, I think. It’s, uh… do you mind filling me in?”

“Wait, you need me to tell you something for once?”

“I guess so. It’s, er… it’s gone. Like a dream. What was it like?”

After a pause Martin said, “Nice. It was… it was really nice.”

“Even though Annabelle was there?”

“I mean, yeah, but she didn’t do anything,” shrugged Martin. “Except cook for us. That was weird.”

“She cooked?” Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. “And we let her do that? I let her do that?”

With a scoff Martin answered, “Under duress, yeah.”

“Huh.” Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why he’d thought he would need it. “Well, she didn’t poison us, apparently.”

“Nope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Er—maybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebody’s eye out, yeah?”

Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. “Was I… a bit neurotic about it.”

“About Annabelle?” Again Jon nodded. “Oh, we both were. We kept switching sides—one day I’d be like, ‘But she’s got four arms, Jon!’ and the next you’d be like—”

“She had four arms?”

“Yup. And six eyes. But your powers didn’t work there, so we thought maybe hers didn’t either? Never did find out for sure. God—you remember the day we got locked out of our room?”

“Er….”

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Sorry.”

Martin’s lips billowed in a sigh. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“So… what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?”

“No, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uh—I sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, like” (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) “krrruk-krr.” Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martin’s horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. “It was just one screw that came loose, though, so you’d think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.”

“S-sorry—what does this have to do with Annabelle?”

“Oh—nothing ultimately, just.” Martin grimaced at his own recollection. “God, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?”

“What?” managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.

Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. “‘Perhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,’” he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelle’s I’ve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as he’d seen it in pictures before the change.

“O…kay. And was that… true?”

“I mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask her….”

Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Are you sure she didn’t orchestrate the whole thing?”

“Ugh—no, it wasn’t her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.”

“And you… didn’t find any?”

“Of course not, Jon; it was a doorway.”

“Right. Doorway, yes.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling better? You still seem a bit….”

“No, I’m—I feel fine, I just can’t seem to. Retain anything concrete about… where did you say it was? Upton House? God that’s strange, that it would just be….”

Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypse’s part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldn’t they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?

“I mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?”

“Right, yes,” Jon agreed.

“Well, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.”

“Yes, that sounds—all of it?”

“Well not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.”

“So not the part about the doorway.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

[skarsgard-daydreams]

Rules of Engagement

Description: In the adult section of a video store in Shreveport, Louisiana, Eric and Pam are baffled by the merchandise.

Note: Mild spoilers for Eric and Pam’s backstory. HUGE thanks to @stevesharrlngtons for helping me brainstorm. And to @grandpa-sweaters. Also, if you want to be tagged in my historical Eric and Pam stories and drabbles, do let me know. I am compiling a list.

Warnings: 18+, lots of sexual implications

Shreveport, 1986

The fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead as Eric and Pam paused at the bottom of the stairs to survey their new business. Rows of VHS tapes lined the walls just as they did in the room upstairs, except these ones seemed... off-brand. Pam's eyes, rimmed with thick black liner, landed on a case depicting a topless redhead who seemed to gasp as Freddy Krueger's bladed hand reached for her tits.

"Wet Dream on Elm Street," she read aloud.

Eric's footfalls echoed on the concrete floor while he circled the room. The pink light from the neon sign reading CLASSY CO-EDS threw strange shadows on his face.

"This is..." he began, but he couldn't find a word in any language glum enough to finish the sentence.

"Depressing?" Pam offered.

"Mm."

Sandwiched in the gap between Ghost Thrusters and The Sperminator was a display of cheap plastic sex toys of all shapes and sizes. Each one seemed stranger than the next.

Eric arched a skeptical brow. "What is all of this?" he asked. Whenever the vagaries of the modern world eluded him, he relied on his younger companion to explain.

She pressed her frosted lips together into an expression of disgust. “Cheap sex toys for lonely housewives and men who have never seen a real pair of tits,” she said, flicking a pair of rubber breasts that were attached to a dismembered torso with a hole in the bottom of it where a man could pleasure himself.

It was Eric’s turn to look repulsed. What kind of a man needed a contraption like that? He was pondering the question when Pam switched on a vibrator and glanced at him over her padded shoulders. “We had these in my time,” she said in a dry voice. “Doctors used them to cure women of hysteria.” A small smile played at her lips. “I had hysteria a lot.”

Eric tsked in mock disapproval, but he grinned a little as though secretly proud of his progeny’s deviousness. He picked up a red riding crop with a little silicone heart at the end of it and furrowed his brows. “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked, slapping the tip of it against his open palm. “A fly swatter?”

Pam took the crop from his hand and examined it herself. It made a satisfying whoosh as she swung it experimentally, smacking Eric’s arm just below where his black sleeve cut off to reveal his bicep. He didn’t even blink.

“That feels like nothing,” he said. “Hit me as hard as you can.”

The cold smile on Pam’s lips turned deadly. She drew her hand back and whipped him with the riding crop with all her might. There was a loud cracking sound, and the flimsy handle bent in half upon impact. Eric glanced down at his bicep, which bore no marks. “It’s like getting kissed by a mosquito,” he observed.

“What a shame,” Pam said, her flat tone masking her sincerity. “I liked having it in my hand.”

“I could tell.”

Above a glass case full of plastic dildos hung a movie poster for Little Shop of Whores. Pam was searching for the key to the cabinet on the keyring the Magister had thrown at her yesterday. She heard the ratcheting of handcuffs behind her and glanced back to see Eric tear a fuzzy pink pair in half like tissue paper. “You’re ruining the merchandise,” she remarked. The madam within her was always concerned with profit.

“It’s all so flimsy,” Eric said, tossing the ruined handcuffs aside. He glanced around the room, frowning at the low-quality of the items on display. “I know a blacksmith who can make real shackles.”

“I don’t think our human clientele would be interested in the real thing.” Pam’s heels clicked on the floor as she stooped to pick up after him. “They like the illusion of danger.”

Eric sighed. “How boring.”

Pam found the key to the cabinet and took out one of the plastic dildos, turning it over in her hands. Her maker looked at her as if she was handling dog excrement. “Do you remember that craftsman on Crete who made those exquisite hand-carved phalluses?” she asked wistfully.

“Hmm,” Eric hummed in approval. “We could sell those.”

“Somehow I doubt there’s anyone in Shreveport, Louisiana who would pay the asking price for one of his masterpieces.”

“I would not have expected anyone to pay good money for this—” Eric paused to hold up an inflatable doll with a suspicious looking hole in her mouth. “—yet here we are.”

Pam’s long eyelashes fluttered as she blinked several times in stunned silence. “Well...” she said, gathering herself. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

Eric discarded the doll and ran his fingers through his hair. He was amused, but tension pulled at the corner of his mouth, and Pam was suddenly acutely aware of the events that had brought them to this swampy hellhole. She knew he blamed himself both for their circumstances and the loss of his lover. She needed to keep him distracted.

“Can you guess what this is?” she asked, tossing a strap-on harness at him. He caught it instinctively and furrowed his brows as he studied it.

“I have a theory,” he offered with a chuckle. “I can see you’ve used one before, with your girlfriends.”

Pam’s lips curled into a smirk. “And with men,” she said. She took a step closer to him and raised her chin to look him in the eye. Eric lifted both brows in surprise, but the tension in his face melted away with his astonishment.

“Pamela, you surprise me,” he said. He sounded almost proud of her.

“Maybe we could try it sometime,” she added as calmly as if she were asking him to test out a new restaurant.

Eric scoffed. “What, with you wearing this?”

“You certainly don’t need it,” she said evenly.

Several expressions passed over his face before it settled into a mixture of confusion and arrogance. She folded her arms and considered him, puzzled by his reaction. In all the time they had been together, there had been many nights when he’d gone off with a man rather than a woman. Why did he balk now? A few tense moments passed before the realization hit her.

“You’ve never experienced the wonder of the male prostate, have you?” she asked, her voice devoid of judgement. Eric said nothing in reply, but the expression on his face told her that she was right. “Does it go against your Viking code,” Pam continued, “to be on the receiving end?"

"It was not..." Eric paused, searching for the right word. "...seemly."

"Since when do you care if something is 'seemly' or not?" Pam asked. It was the kind of question that could sound insolent, but her tone was mild and her eyes shined with encouragement, as if to say, come on, live a little.

Eric considered her words silently, his blue eyes calculating. "And this is something you would enjoy?"

"Oh, yes," Pam said with a deadly smile, her fangs suddenly appearing. "I would enjoy it very, very much. Almost as much as you."

A long pause stretched between them. Eric passed the harness back to her and cleared his throat. "Anything to make you happy."

@stevesharrlngtons @scxrsgxrd @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @hausofobsession @dreamtherapy @grandpa-sweaters @castiellawolfkissed

[spidernerdsblog]

I Forgot That You Existed : Epilogue

A/N: . And this is the end of the series really enjoyed writing this. Hope you all enjoyed it too. Feedback and suggestions are always welcome.

Pairing : Tom Holland × Singer reader

Summary : It’s been more than five years since you and Tom have gone their own ways after a heartbreaking breakup which had left both of you shattered. Both of you thought that you were finally over with each other and were happy in your respective lives until you meet again at a reunion trip planned by your best friend and you realize you are still not done with each other.

Warnings : mild swearing.

Mini Playlist : London boy and Lover by Taylor Swift

"The news is just loving you." You chuckled sitting on the kitchen counter scrolling on your phone. Tom grimaced. 

"Just check out the headlines" 

Trouble in paradise 

Wedding a PR stunt? You read out. 

"My PR team is so pissed at me right now they are on the edge to handle this whole mess." 

You were scrolling through your feed as you stumbled upon a photo of yours with Tom posted by a fan account. It was a recent photograph from the carnival where you are seen holding hands walking through the crowd. It was a backshot but it did leave little to anyone's imagination that it was you and Tom. Whoever posted it wrote with the caption. 

Is it?? Are they?? OMG!! 😲😍

"Oh fuck me!!" You cursed. 

"Darling I would love to do that but I'm sort of busy right now with making you breakfast." You gave him a dirty look and shoved your phone to his face. 

"Look at this." Tom was puzzled at first then slowly his eyes widened with shock as he took a look at the photo. 

"What the fuck!!" 

"I'm so dead Alex is gonna eat me alive." You face palmed. 

"How did they even get this?" 

"How can I know?! Someone must have spotted us and clicked it." 

"What do we do now? There is no way people are gonna believe that we aren't in a relationship." 

"I'm in no place to take in the hate so…" you got busy with your phone. 

"Wait what are you doing?" 

"Nothing just desperate times calls for desperate measures." Being in this industry one thing you have realized is that people will believe anything posted online and Alex has taught you a few tricks to handle these kinds of situations. So before people start making a fuss about that photo you decided to share some photos from the vacation on your Instagram. The first photo you posted was of you, Tom and Harrison which you captioned 

Best friends for life!!💕🍻

You posted a few more including one from the carnival too. 

"Well disaster averted temporarily. We can clarify things further in interviews."You winked, showing him your phone. Tom stood in between your legs wrapping his hands around your waist. 

"My girlfriend is a genius." 

"That I am." You smirked. 

"Can't you stay a little longer?" he pouted. 

"Tom are you serious? I already extended my stay by one week for you. If I stay any further Alex will just kill me. And don't you have a press tour coming up?"

"Yeah fine will miss you though."

"Me too" you pecked his lips. 

"By the way I was serious about that before, you know in the kitchen." he drew circles on your skin. 

"I didn't say no either" you bite your lower lip batting your eyelashes innocently. Tom tightened his grip on your waist, peppering you with kisses on your neck you squeaked as he lifted you from the counter. 

Three Years later….. 

"Y/N just relax." Zendaya said. You were pacing in your bridal suite. 

"I can't, this is just too much to handle, do you think I should run away? Tom will understand right?" you blabbered. 

"Y/N it's totally normal to get cold feet for the bride to be before her marriage." Elysia tried to calm you down. 

"And if you faint on the aisle, your maid of honor and the other bridesmaids will be honored to catch you." Zendaya chuckled. 

"Not helping Z." You deadpanned. 

"Umm Elysia you seemed quite calm when you and Sam got married how was that so?" 

"Believe me girl I was nervous as hell. All sorts of doubts started hovering in my head like what if this is a mistake? What if all goes wrong? But once when I was at the aisle and saw his face all my doubts cleared away. This is the man I love and spending my life with him will be the best thing in the world. Whatever may come in our way we will overcome it together." 

"Wow that's a great insight." 

"You got this girl! " Chloe cheered you whilst fixing your dress. 

"How is the bride doing?" El enquired as she entered into your room with a jovial smile. 

"Oh hi El!" you eagerly went and hugged her. 

"Hi darling!" 

"You're late by the way." You quipped. 

"I'm sorry dear the flight got delayed." 

"Girl you seem to be doing much better than your groom. I just happened to pass by your husband and by his looks he seemed like he would shit in his pants any moment." You all burst out laughing. 

When the news of your wedding broke out it became the talk of the town. 

You wanted it to be a private affair away from the prying eyes of the media. So what's better than getting married in the peace and serenity of the countryside in the presence of your close friends and family. 

The aisle was beautifully decorated with white lilies and roses. 

Tom was shuffling on his feet at the aisle. 

"Dude everything is fine, stop worrying. She will be here in a few minutes." Harry tried to boost his confidence. 

"You know Y/N is a sort of fickle minded what if she had a change of mind?" Harrison chuckled. 

"You know what Harrison? You are the worst man." Tom grumbled. Harrison laughed. 

Finally, the priest came out and asked everyone to stand. It was your turn! All eyes would soon be on you.  Chloe and Ed's three year old daughter Belle was your flower girl for the wedding. She looked cute in a pink gown as she walked on her little feet lining the path with white rose petals as the music started. 

You only took two steps out before you were greeted by your father. He escorted you down the aisle. He became your strength; without him you would have fainted you thought. The guests looked at you, taking pictures of your dress, waving at you, smiling- one thing was for sure, though… no one made a sound. 

Up ahead you saw him, Tom. Your future husband, the love of your life, your everything. He stood taller, his shoulders back and his eyes on you. If you weren’t mistaken you could have sworn tears filled his eyes.

Tom stood there hypnotized seeing you in that pristine white wedding dress you looked like a dream he thought as you walked towards him. 

At the end of the aisle your father hugged you 

“I'm proud of you jellybean” it was a kind of emotional moment for you as a few tears slipped down your eyes so as your father's and then he presented you to your groom. He placed your hand in Tom’s and smiled. As a couple, Tom and you stood in front of the priest.

Before your father walked away, he patted Tom on the shoulder. That was his way of welcoming him into the family. 

Standing next to your love felt overwhelming. You glanced at each other for a moment. 

"You look beautiful." Tom mouthed to you. 

"You too." You mouthed him back with a wink. 

Elysia was right you thought, an unknown excitement surging inside you. 

Was this really happening? Will I soon be Mrs. Holland? You thought. 

The minister said to guests, “You can now be seated”. Everyone followed his request.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered here to witness this man and woman join together in holy matrimony.”

He said the speech and afterward you exchanged vows, tears filling both your eyes.

Paddy walked in with Tessa who had your rings in a basket she was holding in her mouth. Everyone went 'aww!' as she looked adorable in a wedding tutu walking over to the aisle. You placed Tom's ring on first, then he placed on yours.

“With the power invested in me I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Tom leaned in and kissed you,softly like he’s never done it before. Everyone cheered for you, however you barely noticed; your full attention rested on Tom. 

And you left the stage with Tom hand in hand. Though you were against doing any kind of wedding tradition but your bridesmaids were adamant for the bouquet ceremony so you had to give in to that. They lined behind you. 

"Okay girls you ready?!" You tossed the bouquet. You turned to see Zendaya had caught it. 

"I knew it was your turn next." You cackled.

"This is not done. We could have done the garter ceremony too; it would have been so much fun." Harrison complained. 

"I think you guys had your fair share of fun on the Bachelorette with all the booze and that stripper that by the way our parents aren't aware of" you muttered with a stern look in your eyes. Harrison gulped because he was behind the whole Bachelorette fiasco. 

"Yeah we are fine." he said timidly. 

You went to change to something more comfortable for the reception. 

The lawn buzzed with excited chatter and children ran between the tables in a good natured game of tag. There was the scraping of chairs as folks got up for a standing ovation as you and Tom made your way to the head table, smiling and holding hands. There were cheers and someone whooped.

 As the evening progressed everybody had loosened up a bit. People were chatting, eating and enjoying the reception. 

"Finally the number of women are increasing in the Holland family." Elysia announced. Everyone laughed.

"Ah! seeing you two together really makes us happy" Nikki said. 

"Yeah now it's time you give us our grandchildren too." Your mother joked. You and Tom flustered at that. 

"Moomm!! we just got married. We are too young for that, let us enjoy this time." You whined. 

"Honey I had you when I was 25. No pressure though take your time." 

It was the time for your first dance with Tom,your friends pulled you both to the stage, a soft music was playing. You held his hand, his other hand resting on your waist as you swayed to the music. 

"So how are you feeling wifey or may I say Mrs Holland?" 

"Umm the weather is a little warm, feeling a little bloated other than that I'm doing fine hubby." You chuckled. 

"You know I was so nervous I actually thought what if you changed your mind about the wedding?" 

"Not gonna lie I was actually thinking of running away." You smirked. You exhaled resting your head on his chest swaying to the music. 

"Hey you okay?" 

"Yeah why?" 

"Nothing, just all that baby talk." 

"Hey it's totally fine I'm way over that. And I would love to be a mom again but not now." 

"Just imagine you me and our four little halflings. We could have two girls and two boys or three girls,one boy or a pack of four boys like us or.." You cut him off. 

"Whoa whoa whoa slow down mister. First of all we are not having more than two.'' 

"But why? I'm totally gonna be a hands-on dad I promise."

"Easy for you to say because I will be the one going through the whole birthing process. So no uterus no opinion. And isn't that why Thanos snapped in the first place overpopulation, limited resources." You chuckled, snapping your fingers. Tom shook his head laughing.

"I would be so glad if I have twins all the hassle in one time." 

"Whatever you want darling. You know how much I love you." 

"I know and I love you too." 

"Okay how about three if not four?" He suggested. 

"If we are to count you, I'll have three kids to look after so your wish is fulfilled already." You laughed. 

As the reception was drawing close you went up the stage tapping on the microphone to seek everybody's attention. 

"Good evening everyone. First of all, I really wanna thank each and everyone for blessing us with your presence at our wedding and making it memorable." 

"Tom and I have known each other since we were kids. Our mother's were convinced that we would end up together and so we did though we had to go through our own rough patch. But I'm glad that eventually everything got sorted out and the credit goes to our families and friends." 

"It's no secret I write songs taking inspiration from my life and Tom has been a major part of my life. So this is for you hubby."

The band played the notes as you started singing. 

"I love my hometown as much as Motown, I love SoCal

And you know I love Springsteen, faded blue jeans, Tennessee whiskey

But something happened, I heard him laughing

I saw the dimples first and then I heard the accent

They say home is where the heart is

But that's not where mine lives"

Everyone clapped and cheered. Tom's whole face lit up as he looked at you. 

"You know I love a London boy

I enjoy walking Camden Market in the afternoon

He likes my American smile

Like a child when our eyes meet, darling, I fancy you

Took me back to Highgate, met all of his best mates

So I guess all the rumors are true

You know I love a London boy

Boy, I fancy you (ooh)"

Tom was blushing at his seat as Harrison elbowed him in a teasing manner. You had a wide smile as you looked at him. 

"And now I love high tea, stories from uni, and the West End

You can find me in the pub, we are watching rugby with his school friends

Show me a gray sky, a rainy cab ride

Babe, don't threaten me with a good time

They say home is where the heart is

But God, I love the English"

You took the microphone in your hand singing and walked over to Tom extending your hand to him. He took it and got up from his seat as you walked him over to the middle of the stage. 

"You know I love a London boy

I enjoy nights in Brixton, Shoreditch in the afternoon

He likes my American smile

Like a child when our eyes meet, darling, I fancy you

Took me back to Highgate, met all of his best mates

So I guess all the rumors are true

You know I love a London boy

Boy, I fancy you"

You stood there glancing at his eyes. 

"So please show me Hackney

Doesn't have to be Louis V up on Bond Street

Just wanna be with you

Wanna be with you

Stick with me, I'm your queen

Like a Tennessee Stella McCartney on the Heath

Just wanna be with you (wanna be with you)

Wanna be with you (oh)

You know I love a London boy

I enjoy walking SoHo, drinking in the afternoon (yeah)

He likes my American smile

Like a child when our eyes meet, darling, I fancy you (you)

Took me back to Highgate, met all of his best mates

So I guess all the rumors are true (yeah)

You know I love a London boy (oh)

Boy (oh), I fancy you (I fancy you, ooh)"

Present day…. 

"And that is how your mum and dad got married kids." Harrison finished his story letting out a deep breath. 

"Wow uncle Haz that was epic!" Your seven year old daughter chirped in awe. 

"Yup everything was epic with those divs."  

"We are back!" Tom announced as you both entered your house. 

"Peter! Vienna! Where are my pumpkins?" you called out as you heard shuffling of feets and giggles. 

"Mommy!! Daddy!!" your little munchkins came running to you. 

"There they are."  You cooed. Your five year old son launched himself into your arms as you picked him up. 

"Did you have fun with your uncles?" 

"Yess!!" Peter said beaming with joy. 

"Uncle Haz and uncle Harry were telling us a story." Vienna informed you. 

"What story bubs?" 

"Your and daddy's love story." You and Tom looked at each other smiling. 

"Oh really? I hope they didn't go much into the details keeping it kids friendly." 

"Of course Y/N you really don't trust us do you?" Harry said feeling offended.

"To be honest, No" you replied bluntly. 

"Where's Ava and Jordan?" you asked whilst putting Peter down. 

"They are with their moms at mum and dad's house helping with dinner." Harry said. 

"Okay then let's get you guys ready and then we will go to grandma's for the Christmas Dinner eh?" Tom said to your kids. 

"Yayy!!" Vienna and Peter rushed back to their room.

You were at the doorstep as you rang the bell as you were greeted by Nikki. 

"You guys are late." 

"Sorry, someone was way too confident about his navigation skills so had to take a detour." You eyed Tom. 

"That wasn't completely my fault. How would I know that the road would be closed?" Tom retorted. 

"It's Christmas time Tom! Everyone knows." You both started arguing at the doorstep. 

"Then why didn't you tell me?" 

"Okay that's enough for now, God you two  have been married for almost 10 years and still your non stop bickering continues." Nikki scolded you both. 

''You got all the things I told you to bring?'' 

"Yes mum." Tom said sheepishly. 

"Merry Christmas grandma!!'' Vienna and Peter came rushing in clinging on to her. 

"Aww Merry Christmas my loves. C'mon get inside all your cousins are waiting for you." 

After the dinner all you ladies gathered in the living room and gossiped among yourselves and your husbands were chugging on to their beers and having their share of laughs in the dining room. 

The kids were busy playing amongst themselves.

Vienna came up to you and tugged on to the sleeve of your sweater. You turned to look at her brown doe eyes which she totally inherited from Tom along with her luscious curls. She was a stark image of him. 

"Do you need something peanut?" 

"Mom, will you sing for us? Pleaasse." she innocently asked, making a puppy face the trick she had picked up from her dad in the meantime. And how could you say no to that. 

"Anything for you honey. Can you bring me my guitar love?" 

"Sure mom." Vienna beamed with joy as she ran to bring your guitar. You slipped down the couch to sit on the carpeted floor stretching your legs as you strummed on to the chords. 

"We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January

This is our place, we make the rules

And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear

Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home

You're my, my, my, my lover"

Vienna sat beside you. You swayed sideways while singing to her. Vienna tried to sing along with you clapping her hands to the rhythm. Peter came running and settled down on the other side of you resting his head on your lap. You stroked his hair with your hand gently. 

"We could let our friends crash in the living room

This is our place, we make the call

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

You're my, my, my, my lover"

The boys heard you singing as they got up and flocked in the living room. You glanced at Tom standing at the doorway smiling and gave him a subtle wink. He can never get enough of you, every time he looks at you he falls in love again and again. Sometimes he wonders how did he get so lucky? You were perfect, who gave him the two most precious gifts of his life. His heart swells when he looks at his little family. You make him whole. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

With every guitar string scar on my hand

I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

All's well that ends well to end up with you

Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover

And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me

And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover"

Tom walked towards you and picked up Peter making him sit on his lap as he sat beside you. His one hand went to wrap around your shoulder as he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, you looked at him smiling. You were so proud of this man, the perfect husband, the doting father to your children you didn't have words to express. Tom rested his head on your shoulder, Vienna and Peter clinged on to you as you sang. You felt full from the inside out. 

'' Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

You're my, my, my, my

Oh, you're my, my, my, my

Darling, you're my, my, my, my lover"

.................................................................

Taglist is open.

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[misswaffleswrtingcorner]

Please Don't Leave Me for Riddlebat maybe??

Absolutely! This was originally supposed to end more ambiguously but I made myself sad so I shoved that fluffy ending on dgjjzgj.

General tags: Batfam, hurt Bruce Wayne, Oracle!Barbara, reformed! Riddler

Warnings: Paaaaaaaain, mild panic attack

Edward watched the screen, standing next to Barbara, and bit the inside of his cheek in poorly concealed worry. The Bat's vitals were concerning. By the looks of things he was bleeding out, and here he was, unable to do anything about it. Babs was talking to Nightwing over her comm link, though he wasn't paying attention to what she was saying.

Bruce was dying and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Barbara had sent help, but the chances of them getting there in time were slim. "Don't…" Edward grit out before hitting the button for the comms. "Bruce! You are going to hang on, do you hear me?!" He roared. He was angry at him for getting hurt, he was terrified he was going to die alone, but most prominently, he was angry at himself for being so useless. He heard a wet cough on the other end of the line.

"Eddie?" came the Bat's reply. Edward felt his chest tighten. He sounded so tired and weak.

"The one and only. Now you listen to me right now," he began, trying to keep his voice from shaking too much. "You're not dying today. You're not going anywhere. I'll never forgive you if you try."

There was a small laugh. "You won't?"

"No, I won't. I mean it." He didn't. There was silence over the line and for a moment, Edward feared the worst.

"I'm sorry," the vigilante finally said.

"Sorry? For what, being stupid?"

Another pause. "I think… I'm going to rest… for a little while."

Edward's heart practically snapped in half. "You can't, not yet!" His mind raced, trying to think of something to do to keep the other awake. “ I come from and mine and am surrounded by wood. I help others express themselves. What am I?” The words came out before he could really register them. He wanted to kick himself for falling back into old habits so easily.

“A… pencil,” Bruce replied.

“Correct. Now stay awake, because I have more where that came from,” He said. If it worked, it worked.

“Ed, they’re almost there,” Barbara announced. Edward jumped, almost forgetting she was even there. His world had narrowed down to the screen displaying Bruce’s vitals and the other man’s voice.

“Good,” he replied. He turned his attention back to the screen. "Here's another one. Riddle me this: What word starts with "e" and ends in "e", but only has one letter in it?"

There was another wet cough from the caped crusader's end of the line. "Envelope."

"You didn't even have to think that hard for that one," he said with a ghost of a laugh. Edward could feel himself shaking with anxiety. "The more there is, the less you see. What is it?"

There was silence.

"Bruce?" He waited, but there was no response. He watched the screen. The other was still alive, but for how much longer? "Do you need a hint?" Still, there was nothing over the line. "Bruce, wake up." He hoped that somehow that would have worked, but he really couldn't be that lucky. He could see his vitals getting worse, alerts flashing and the like. "Don't--" Edward's voice shook. He gripped the edge of the console to keep himself upright. "Please don't leave me…!"

A hand rested on his back and he nearly crumpled right then and there. He took in a shaky breath. Barbara gave him a sad, sympathetic look, her hand still resting on his back. "Ed, sit," she said, pulling away to let him do so. He obeyed and took a seat just before his legs could give out on him. He watched the screen as he started to pick at his hands starting at the skin around his nails. Barbara gingerly rested her hand on his as she spoke to Nightwing over her own comm. "Scoop and run, we don't have a lot of time," she said quickly before turning her attention to Edward. "Breathe, Ed. Follow my lead, ok?" She slowly took in a deep breath, held for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled.

There was an attempt and following her advice. She kept breathing and Edward tried to copy her. It was slowly getting easier and he could feel the static of anxiety fading. It wouldn't leave, of course, but now he could actually think. "Better?" Barbara asked. He nodded. She lifted her hand away from his. "Go help Alfred and Leslie. I'll keep an eye on things here." Another nod. Alright, it was something to focus on at least. He wasn’t sure how much he could help.

It was better than nothing, he supposed.

--

Bruce let out a low groan as everything started to come back to him. There was a faint beeping and… was that a snore? It certainly sounded like it. He slowly opened his eyes and immediately realized he was back in the batcave. He turned his head to the right. In the bed next to his was Dick, still in his Nightwing outfit, out cold on the cot with an arm draped over his eyes. Barbara was sitting by his side, sleeping soundly. And on the floor, sitting up with his back against the bed and the source of the snoring was Jason. The snoring halting with a snerk as Dick swung a leg down and lightly bapped the younger man's head, waking him up enough to readjust and to go right back to sleep. Bruce felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the sight. It must have been late.

He then turned to the left and was met by the sight of Damian curled up in a chair by his side, wrapped up in his cape almost like a cocoon. And by him, directly next to the bed, was Edward. He was leaned forward, arms folded and acting as a makeshift pillow as he rested partially on the mattress. His brow was furrowed and tense. Bruce gingerly touched the top of the other man's head and watched him relax a bit at the touch, though it didn't wake him.

He was fully prepared to get the scolding of a life time in the morning.

[fanfictionfaberrycentral]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Glee Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray Characters: Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry, Finn Hudson, Noah Puckerman, Kurt Hummel, Will Schuester, Emma Pillsbury, Mike Chang, Mercedes Jones, Santana Lopez, Brittany S. Pierce Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, small use of homophobic language, quinn struggles to come to terms with her feelings, typical problems that comes with the Fabrays and religion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, One Shot Summary:

Quinn Fabray has kissed Rachel Berry exactly four times in her life.

AKA

the three times Quinn ran and the one time she stayed.

(slight tw warning for hinting at/referencing EDs and abuse (very mild, not at all explicit), homophobia/internalized homophobia, and a few uses of homophobic slurs)

[littlespaceporgs]

The Clone Wars Reacts - Part 3

Alternatively, Leah misses daddy Plo, gets annoyed by droids and is thoroughly entertained by Jar Jar Binks while simultaneously simping for Padme.

TA~DA! Welcome to part 3 of the reacts series, where we cover episodes 6, 7 and 8! I won’t lie to you, I actually found episode 6 really boring, 7 was less boring and 8 was maybe a little bit funny and I lowkey enjoyed it so much. So yeah, the first two reacts are kinda boring because I was super bored, but 8 is kinda funny. As usual, major spoilers for season 1 of the clone wars.

Part 1 - Episodes 1 and 2 Part 2 - Episodes 3, 4 and 5

So, lets do thissssss!

Tags (as always, let me know if you want a tag!): @acciokenobi​ @roseofalderaan​ @catsnkooks​ @peacelandbread​ @littlevodika​ @icedcoffeeandgays​ @captainrexstan​ @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky​ @mcu-padawan​ @onabouteverything​ @fractiouskat​

Episode 6: Downfall of a Droid

Notes: since writing these, I’ve discovered that I am 100% without a doubt very much a simp for Plo Koon and it shows.

> Pre-warning, I’m writing this on paper and on the train, so there may be slightly less thots thoughts in this one

> “Suffering serious defeats by Grievous”??????? All we’ve seen for 5 episodes now is Grievous lose????????

> Yeah Anakin! You should listen to Ahsoka!

>> (you need to trust my babey)

> Where the fuck is Plo when you need him? I WANNA SEE HIM

> Maybe that image will tide me over? (we all know it wont but that’s off topic)

> Oh for fucks sake I’ve had enough of Grievous

> YEAH R2, WE ALL KNOW YOURE THE ONLY REASON ANAKIN IS ALIVE!

> “this is too easy” oooohhhhh boy, you say that now......

*Grievous ditches his ship*

> ✨ disappointed, but not surprised ✨

> THERE IT IS!!!!! “I got a bad feeling about this” - bringing the total count so far to 2

> W H A T

>> R2D2?????????????????????????

>>> EXCUSE ME WTF?!?!?!?! DID THEY JUST - R2D2 NO!

> OBI WAN HOW DARE YOU R2D2 IS NOT REPLACEABLE

>> This is one of the few times I am more annoyed with Obi-wan than I am horny for him

>>> Wait no scratch that - i just looked at his face again 💖💖💖💖

> I miss Plo already, can he come back now?

> Oh Ahsoka, you’re so cute 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

> omg Goldie???? I LOVE IT he’s kinda adorable

> ooooohhh boy R2 is going to be on that dodgy ass ship isnt he?

> hahahahahahhahahahahhahahahahahahah

>> fart humour, i love it!

> Unique items, huh

> OH SHIT THATS THE TYPE OF DROID FROM THE MANDALORIAN

>> just thinking about the mandalorian reminds me of the new armour/helmet kink i discovered I had and how much i love pedro pascal

> Goddammit R3. oh shit oh shit bad droids BAD DROIDS

> is R2 just a really good droid? or do all of them make this many mistakes???

> hahahaha ‘gramps’, Ahsoka he’s literally only 5/6 years older than you

> *GASP* Anakin, he’s not a lightswitch!

> Oh shit, R2 was on the ship!

>> HA HA I WAS RIGHT

> fuck fuck Grievous no dont take R2 bad droid

> okay, I love obi-wan but he’s being a little harsh

>> mild turn-on but ok 👀👀

> aaaawwww the little stomping when he’s excited

> Do we get to see R2 do a mad escape?

>> WE DO!

> oh no, R2 you were so close

> tracking beacon?! R3, what’re you doing?!

> sorry anakin, they definitely saw it

> R3 WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THE HYPERDRIVE TOO?

> YEAH AHSOKA, YOU SAVE ANAKIN’S BUTT

> You, know, I’m starting to wonder if R3 is doing all this deliberately??

> lowkey, I want to tally the amount of droids grievous hurts/destroys

> well, i want R2 back in the next episode, please and thank you.

Episode 7: Duel of the Droids

> Okay, all I want is for Anakin to hurry up and find R2, because I want this arc to be over

> I’m going to keep this reacts fairly short because I’m a little bit bored

> All I want is more Plo content, is that too much to ask???????

>> If you can’t tell I have a thing for Plo Koon and I officially joined the simp club for him.

> This trandoshan guy is just.... bleh 🤢

* insert gross shiver* 

> YEAH R2 YOURE DOING SO WELL! HOLY SHIT GO R2D2!!!!

> I said it in part 1, and I’ll say it again, R2′s whirring is a mood

> Okay so fucking R3 just turned R2 down, so I am definitely starting to think this is deliberate?

>> HOLY FUCK I JUST REALISED A THING! DUEL OF THE DROIDS???????? R3 VS R2??????????????????

> ANAKIN IGNORE OBI-WAN LIKE USUAL, YOU GO AND SAVE R2 OK?!

> Rex’s expression when he’s told to carry R3 is comedy gold by the way

> Oh please Captain, kindly fuck me

> FUCK YEAH AHSOKA!

> *sighs* Oh the droid humour

> I mean, it is a type of head adjustment I guess 🤷‍♀️

> ...

>> Did you seriously think grievous, being the slimy bastard he is, wasn’t going to kill you?????

> OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT I WAS RIGHT FUCK R3 MAN

> AHSOKA KICK GRIEVOUS’ BIN CHICKEN LOOKI- oh no she was thrown into a wall, never-mind.

> R2 YES ZAP THAT GODDAMN DROID AND SAVE ANAKIN

> oh this is awkward, I love how R2 is insulted that he got R3 hahahahahahahha

> YES AHSOKA YOURE RIGHT, HE IS A STUBBY LITTLE BACKSTABER

> okay the most interesting point of this episode is ahsoka is escaping grievous

> OH MY GOD I WAS RIGHT AGAIN?! R2 AND R3 ARE DUELLING!!!! I CAN SEE THE FUTURE OR SOME SHIT LIKE A JEDI

> THATS RIGHT BITCH R2D2 IS BETTER

> anakin looking out for R2 is the cutest shit I’ve ever seen

> ngl, i had a small degree of satisfaction when I saw R3 get smashed to bits

> “oh anakin... one day” obi-wan is a mood

> oh thank god its over, alright what’s up next?

Episode 8: Bombad Jedi

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH DOES THIS ONE HAVE JAR JAR IN IT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

> please tell me it has jar jar in it, then it will surely be funnier than the last 2 eps

> OH SHIT THIS EPISODE HAS PADME TOO IM SO HAPPY YAY

> oh in the white outfit too, i love this woman so much

> I’m going to put a photo hear so you can appreciate it too

> My horny bisexual senses are tingling

> HAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHA IM ALREADY LAUGHING AT THE STUPID FROG

>> *for context he already fucked up once and we are 1 minute and 15 seconds into the episode

> she has a point though, C3PO does usually get into trouble

> oh boy, he sounds mad.... I’m getting a sinking feeling about this

> oh no

>> ah shit he’s gone and joined the separatists

> YOU DONT GET THE RIGHT TO CALL HER SWEET YOU TRAITOR

> I am much more entertained nonetheless by this episode

> wait so they fart insults???? it sounds like a fart and i giggled a little

> Oh and now jar jar’s trying to talk to them

> HAHAHAHAH C3 always gets shit thrown at him or shot at, whenever he’s in an episode I get a little bit happy 

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH ITS A FUCKING MAGNET OH C3 YOU POOR DROID

> why does he automatically jump to jar jar’s been killed oh my god so little faith like its a swamp planet???? and jar jar comes from a swamp planet????? of course he gone survive falling into water????

> buta mesa sav-ed you? i love this stupid creature oh my god hahahahaha

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA THE JEDI CLOAK OMG

>> definitely 100% anakins, and I love the Padme has the equivalent of one of his hoodies

>>> I want one too

> ooooohhhh this is not going to go well

> oh boy

> I’m guessing this is where the bombad jedi comes from?

> DARTH JAR JAR

>> I am so sorry no its not mine, but I have no idea who’s it is

> wheresa jedi? OH MESA JEDI?

> have you guys seen zootopia? specifically where they trigger a ‘howl’ with the wolves??? Thats what I headcanon the droids are like with ‘roger roger’

> DAMN PADME THATS SOME MADASS CORE STRENGTH

>> crush me with those muscles please

> “There’s no jedi in here, wait there’s no prisoner in here!” hahahahahahahahah

> One day I’m going to have to do a little audio recording so you all know what sound I make whenever I’ve written hahahahahaha

> FUCK YEAH PADME SLAY THOSE DROIDS

> “I’m afraid the ship has been destroyed.” 

>> “Battle droids?” *shakes head*

>>> “... Jar Jar?”

>>>> “Jar Jar.”

> obviously Padme was right, she usually is

> oh boy Jar Jar is your only hope? you’re in for a shock buddy

> Padme is an excellent shot by the way

> OH MY GOD IT ATE HIM TO PROTECT HIM THATS SO SWEET

> “I think Jar Jar’s dead.” “Oh again?” goddamn it C3PO

> YEAH SLUG CREATURE THING GOOD JOB!

> ...

> excuse me????

> WHAT A FUCKING LEGEND HERE I WAS HATING ON UNCLE ANO WHEN HE IS STILL IN THE REPUBLIC

> okay he has my forgiveness now :))))))

alright, I enjoyed episode 8, 6 and 7 were a little lackluster, but I did like 8 a lot actually, more than I thought I would 

anyways, see you next time for 9, 10 and 11!! (I’m pretty sure I saw ventress and kit fisto in the title image, so be prepared for major ass thots because i am very heavily attracted to one (1) assassin and one (1) fish man)

[thestorytellersapprentice]

Pulled out of Orbit

Pairing: Jo Yeong/Myeong Seung-ah

Fandom: The King: Eternal Monarch

Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff

Summary: Being in a possible courtship with Jo Yeong sucked. One minute, he could be so sweet (albeit also such a grandma), but next he could act like such a prick, she wanted to throw something at his head.

Notes: Unbeta-ed. Post drama. A direct continuation to "Over Booze and Buzz", and references "Duality of a Man", but the two fics are not absolutely required to read and enjoy this. This can also work as a stand-alone, though their relationship in this fic will feel more natural if you’ve read the mentioned fics as companions :)

Link: ArchiveofOurOwn / Fic Master list on Tumblr

~ How would you feel, if you had this crush on someone who you thought was really, really cool, the best on his field, the shield of the nation, the personification of an action hero, just, like, insanely cool and all, okay, and said crush had just swooped in and whisked you away from - well, at the expense of sounding a little bit dramatic - death? Would you even have any brain capacity to put together even a coherent thought?

No?

Yeah, same here, Myeong Seung-ah concluded.

“It's just a graze,” the doctor, a kind-looking man in his early seventies who had tended to her, had said after inspecting her wound.

Seung-ah blinked several times, trying to scare the blurriness away. 

She was vaguely aware that she was still vertical, sitting somewhere inside the medical van. Her entire body was still kind of sore from the impact, and some part of the back of her head still throbbed, ever slightly. She tried to hold up the ice pack against her head properly, but her arm felt like jelly, nearly with no energy left.

“You might have a mild concussion," the doctor continued as he finished up bandaging her upper arm. "Make sure you have someone staying with you tonight."

Seung-ah nodded at that, but her mind was not really there. Instead, she flashed back to the series of events which just happened.

One minute she was standing to the side, busy composing and drafting posts of the King’s opening speech for the official Royal SNS account, and the next thing she knew, gunshots rang out loud inside the stadium and chaos ensued. She barely had time to register what the hell had just happened when she caught him on her line of sight: the shooter, a masked man with the black baseball cap. He was emptying his gun blindly among the fleeing crowds before turning his aim at her general direction.

If someone had asked her what thought crossed her mind at that fateful time, then Myeong Seung-ah could only answer with: nothing.

It all happened too fast.

She just knew that she was completely frozen, rooted on her spot, and then another gunshot rang out - too loud, why is it so loud - and then she just remembered the blur of a shadow came in between the bullet and her, tackling her to the ground, hard.

It took Seung-ah a while - felt too much like a lifetime - to realize that it was Jo Yeong.

The Captain had her pinned down, his body covering her view completely from the madman as he wasted no time barking orders to secure His Majesty away and take the assailant down. She remembered taking a peek over his shoulders in muted awareness, seeing his fellow royal guards swarming in on the shooter. A couple of guys from the special forces, identifiable from their all-black uniform, also joined in, all of their weapons drawn up.

So, yeah, basically, she was almost shot.

If the Captain hadn't tackled her to the ground, then she was sure that her body would be decorated by bullet holes by now. She knew how extremely lucky she was that the bullet just grazed her. If it was a couple of centimeters more to the side, then-

Seung-ah stopped that trail of thought.

Her head spun.

She could not stop herself to recall that it was not her first time being rescued by the Captain. Curiously, it just happened that both times involved a madman with a gun.

If she was a believer that there was no such thing as mere coincidences, only fate, then Seung-ah would definitely interpret it as a clear warning sign from the Universe: stay very far away from this man, he’s dangerous.

She turned in her seat, seeking him out.

Her head throbbed even more from the movement, but she was more overwhelmed by how it felt like her heart just made a weird flip inside her chest as she realized that the man in question, Captain Jo Yeong, was still there, on the exact same spot she last saw him after he had rushed her to the medic.

He was still standing on the edge of the opened van, his gaze directed slightly to the side, sporting a hard expression on his face. He looked like he could and had every intention to murder someone.

Yeah, he definitely is dangerous.

“She’s okay, Jo daejangnim,” the elderly doctor got up to approach the Captain. He ducked his head to avoid the ceiling. “Mild concussion, perhaps, but as long as she’s careful, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you, Doctor Byun,“ Seung-ah heard him say quietly.

The doctor patted the younger man on the shoulder before he exited the vehicle, presumably to talk to his team.

Directly after, the Captain climbed into the van and took the seat beside her. He kept a calculated distance, but it was still close enough for their shoulders and knees to touch.

His gaze first landed on her newly bandaged arm, before moving up to her face and lingered there. Their eyes locked. “You really feel okay?”

“Guess so,” Seung-ah replied, probably a beat too soon, but what else could she respond to that? It was not as if she could tell the man beside her that it took a great deal of her self-restraint not to just lean on his shoulder right there and then.

She wondered briefly if he would let her. He did allow, and even initiate, things to happen between them already, so it was a fair assumption that she had the privilege. But she thought better of it.

She just felt extremely tired and wanted to sleep, so, so bad.

Seung-ah crossed her arms purposefully. Her hands were still shaking, slightly, but she hoped he didn’t notice.

There was no such luck, though, she could see it from the way one his eyebrows twitched slightly upon her lie. But he did not make a comment.

Instead, he just let out a long, low exhale, before continuing on, his voice soft and steady, “Come on, let’s get you home.”

~

In the car, the next thing Seung-ah did after giving him her address was to call Choi Soo-ji, her childhood friend. She did hear and remember the kind doctor's advice not to be alone, and she intended to comply.

If she was being honest with herself, of course she wanted no one but Jo Yeong himself to stay with her that night. But even at her most self-serving state, Seung-ah knew how crazy it sounded and she would not even entertain that idea any further.

She chose to focus her attention to Choi Soo-ji instead. "Soo-ji-ya, can you come over and stay with me tonight?"

"Right now? What's the occasion?" Soo-ji was a cellist and Seung-ah knew that she was currently busy preparing for her solo recital, but she just felt awkward phoning her other friends. She mostly got estranged from most of them except for Soo-ji when she was living in Canada. Choi Soo-ji was kind of her only hope.

"I-"

Seung-ah thought it over quickly, thinking of how much she should tell her. Her friend would find out the truth from the news pretty soon anyway, if she hadn’t already. Seung-ah assumed it was futile to try dodging the question, so she finally settled on the following, "I banged my head at work today. Need you to monitor me, just in case I grow two heads or something."

At the end of the line, her so-called best friend just responded with: "Don't you have those already?"

“Yah, Choi Soo-ji,” Seung-ah chided. But actually, she was glad that her friend chose to joke about it. There was a lifelong understanding between them, and she was really not in the mood to answer any more questions than what was necessary.

The cellist chuckled. “Alright then. Some heads up, though, I’m gonna raid your chocolate and ice cream stash. I’m this close to losing my mind!”

After they both said their goodbyes, Seung-ah stole a glance sideways at the Captain as she ended the call.

For some reason, she found herself at a loss for words, wondering what she should open their conversation with. It was weird, really, because she usually had no problem teasing him or anything. But at that moment, her mind just went blank.

True, they had kissed that night during the King's birthday, not just in the locker room, but also at the secluded halls of the palace. (It was one of the perks of getting it from a Royal Guard who knew precisely where all the CCTV cameras were by heart.) And Seung-ah had to stress that the kissing part was good. More than good, actually.

It was intense, and a little bit rough.

It was everything she imagined it would be and then more-

But they hadn’t even had the chance to have the talk.

Both were practically swept away with their respective responsibilities right after the party ended. Him, with the security debriefing, and her, with the event photos and publication which needed to move on tight deadlines.

After that, the following few days happened to be a busy period for the Captain, something that Seung-ah herself was also privy to as a staff of the PA Office. The King and Royal Court always had several public appearances scheduled right following his birthday, many which she also helped to organize, and she and her coworkers had been working around the clock to accommodate the sudden changes which always seemed to happen around such events.

Between the two of them, phone messages were exchanged and short calls were occasionally made, but they all happened sporadically. Often, he would reply to her messages on all sorts of odds hours. In return, she would feel bad engaging him in extended trivial conversations, so their message thread was a mess of half-baked inquiries and choppy attempts at discourse.

She was even worried that he was not getting enough sleep as he should, so Seung-ah had to practice a whole lot of self-restraints.

Being in a possible courtship with Jo Yeong sucked.

Of course, she would like to know where they stood too. Were they considered dating already? Were they still strictly coworkers, but he's still trying to court her? Was it still the other way around, her chasing him? Or all of it didn't mean anything to him?

Seung-ah was pretty sure it wouldn't come to the last option, though. She was not a genius, but the fact that the Captain of the Royal Guards chose to stay with her and take her home instead of guarding the King in the aftermath of such a huge incident felt like a declaration already, coming from him.

So, why was she being so nervous, all of the sudden?

It should be the uncomfortable silence which fell between them. He didn’t even turn on his radio, no surprise there, but even for his standards, it was a new level of quietness.

It unnerved her.

What really did not help was that his cell phone, which was connected to his car systems, kept ringing and ringing, and he kept declining the calls. He had even taken off his earpiece too, she realized belatedly when she noticed that his right ear was bare, no device in sight.

She really tried to make sense of the mood - his mood, to be more specific, but she was only able to come up with one easy assumption: he must be furious.

"Daejangnim?" she started, testing the water.

He did not even give her any indication that he heard her.

"Are you....angry?" She took a pause, unsure if she should continue. But she did. She wanted to know. "With me?"

Seung-ah watched him carefully as his furrowed brows deepened upon hearing the question.

"No,” he replied. Icy. Curt. Dismissive. What he said totally contradicted how he said it.

At times like these, she just hated his monosyllabic tendencies.

He confused her further though, by finally turning to look at her as they stopped in traffic. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?" He had said, his tone was tender this time around. "I'll wake you when we've arrived."

Seung-ah decided she would just agree to his suggestion. Her head did feel heavy, and his ever changing moods were a bit too much for her to also deal with at the moment.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the window, and soon drifted off.

~

"Be sure to give the hospital a call on the first sign of discomfort, okay?" He reminded her, seemed to revert back to his gentle self when he escorted her to her front door. "Watch out for any ringing in your ears, nausea, or even if you experience any sleep disruption."

"I will. Thank you for taking me home, daejangnim," she said, basking in his attention.

"Has your friend arrived already?”

“Hang on.”

Soo-ji knew her passcode, so Seung-ah just needed to key in her code and check her apartment’s entryway for her friend’s shoes to know the answer. And right on cue, Soo-ji’s bright red pumps greeted her sight. They were already lined up neatly beside her boots and heels, in exchange for one of her room slippers.

“Ah, yes, she’s here already,” Seung-ah informed him, feeling a pang of disappointment. She would not get the chance to invite the Captain inside for a quick tea after all. She was not ready for him to meet any of her friends just yet, even if said friend was Soo-ji. Especially Soo-ji, with her Spanish Inquisition.

“Okay then,” Jo Yeong had said. He nodded his goodbye greeting and then turned on his heels. She caught the sight of him instantly re-attaching his earpiece as he started to go down the stairs.

Seung-ah stayed put, leaving her door open as she watched his receding back for a while. The Captain finally took his phone out and answered his call. “Cut it out, Heok-pil. You don't have to keep calling me. I've told you, I'll deal with it after I got back-"

She could still hear his frustrated sigh from her doorway, before his voice became fainter as he expanded the distance. "Fine, might as well. Just put him on.”

Seung-ah visibly deflated.

Being in a potential courtship with Jo Yeong totally sucks, big time.

~

At first, she thought that it should be a mistake.

But then she reread and reread the latest email that the Captain of the Royal Guards had just sent to the whole PA Office regarding their latest proposal, and then she just went angrier by the minute. No, enraged.

She never thought such a day would come. Not that soon, anyway.

"Where is Jo daejangnim?" demanded Seung-ah to her Royal Guards acquaintance, Park In-young, whom she encountered just outside of the Royal Guards Headquarter which also served as the Palace’s Control Tower.

The Royal Guard in question had just closed the door to said office behind her. “He’s inside,” In-young replied.

She should have noticed the fire in her eyes, because In-young continued a beat later, her tone urgent, “Hey, you don't want to disturb him right now, Miss Myeong Seung-ah."

Why the hell not, was what she’d like to say, but it was not In-young she was furious with. So, Seung-ah settled with, "Why not?"

"He had been pulling all-nighters for several days now. Heok-pil had gotten such an earful about some minor typos in his report, Jo daejangnim looked like he’s this close to explode. He is scariest whenever he’s trying to hold it in instead, you know.”

Ah, so he still retained his murderous mood from the incident, Seung-ah thought.

“We all have been walking in eggshells,” she concluded. "Tread with caution."

“Thank you for the warning,” Seung-ah replied, even though she felt like she did not give a damn.

At that time, she would bet that she was even angrier than him, though strictly only for professional reasons. On the personal front, her relationship with the Captain was having very little progress since he had dropped her off last week, but it was indeed peak season for both and they took their respective jobs very seriously, so she had no complaints on that subject as of yet. What also helped was his last text to her, which was stamped at 5:02 a.m. that morning, consisted of a sincere morning greeting and a gentle reminder to bring her umbrella to work that day because of the weather forecast. She had been woken up to it with a smile on her face.

Jo Yeong could be sweet when he wanted to (albeit also such a grandma).

But he could also turn into such a prick at work.

“Jo daejangnim, I would like some explanation, please," she wasted no time stating her disapproval right after she entered his office. She marched up towards his desk. "You can't just-"

Seung-ah stopped herself when she finally arrived in front of him.

He looked bad. Well, that was such a quick way to describe it, actually, but it did sum up the sight before her at that moment.

When she approached, he was in the middle of pinching his temples with one hand, rubbing them with his thumb and middle finger in circular motion. The Captain stopped what he was doing, though, once he clearly registered her voice. When he lowered his hand, Yeong looked weary, the dark circles under his eyes were unmistakable, and he was slightly paler than usual.

He let out an annoyed exhale as he rose up from his seat to meet her gaze.

His voice came out scarily level then, like it took him a great deal not to chew her up right then and there. "I've sent memos to the Royal Public Affairs Office about our code of conduct, have I not? You cannot just propose a new event, on such an open space, consisting of such outrageous proposals to involve so many civilians on divided fronts, with just a week's notice to the Royal Guards. I have explained it all in the documents, which now I doubt you read."

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the remaining Royal Guards in the room try to shuffle quietly towards the door.

"But you cannot just make the recommendation to dismiss the whole event. We've worked hard for months on it-”

"I can, and I just did," he stood his ground. At that point, he gave her an unflinching glare.

Seung-ah felt like crying in frustrations.

The Royal Public Affairs, especially she, had been working on the event for months. They planned on revamping the Royal Court image to reflect the modern times and promote science and knowledge all at the same time by inviting carefully selected digital influencers from various backgrounds to a single conference: from biotechnology scientists, startup practitioners, financial advisors, to entrepreneurs and digital marketers. There should be a packed schedule of interactive presentations, and each of the influencers would be prompted to stream the conference’s contents to their own platforms. Offline and online spreading of knowledge and networking opportunities, all at once.

The King, being a man of science and knowledge himself, had been reviewing the initiative with enthusiasm right from the start. He had even volunteered his expanded time to collaborate on-site with a few of the influencers.

To say that the event was a big deal for Seung-ah was a bit of an understatement.

"I'm just trying to understand," her voice quivered slightly then.

Yeong closed his eyes at that, his eyebrows knitted even more than usual as he let out a long exhale. "Please, not now, Miss Myeong Seung-ah."

When he reopened his eyes, she was stunned to see the resigned plea in his eyes. "My head hurts," he said, quietly.

She softened in an instant.

"I'm sorry if I make it worse," she said, her anger evaporated. “I just-”

She did not finish her sentence. Everything she had been prepared to counterattack him with felt awfully childish then. She had never seen the Captain like that. He made her both confused and slightly terrified at the same time.

They fell into a pregnant pause.

Yeong threw his gaze away from her after a while. And then, after drawing in a breath, he finally confessed, "I- I did not even think about Pyeha when I dived in to save you."

Seung-ah froze, taking his admission in. The patterns and connections started to form in her head.

He should have felt lost, she realized. Jo Yeong, the best swordsman of the nation, whose single focus for almost the entirety of his life was to protect His Majesty and His Majesty only, suddenly had his life priorities yanked from under him.

How was she supposed to know that her initiative to have both the King and herself circling the conference independently all day long was enough to push the Captain over the edge?

He looked absolutely terrified. "Look what you've done to me, Miss Myeong Seung-ah."

Seung-ah rushed over to him then, hugging him real tight. Her heart ached seeing him that way. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I make it harder for you. I didn't know you feel that way."

He burrowed his head on the crook of her neck, returning her embrace.

They stayed like that for a while.

"I'll follow your stupid rules, then,” Seung-ah relented, her voice half muffled by his shirt.

Yeong let out an incredulous chuckle.

Finally, Seung-ah thought, the tightness in her chest instantly dissipated. She would have to overhaul her proposal, but she supposed it’s worth it. She realized that she was way too lenient with the man.

"Thank you," he replied quietly. He broke their embrace to look at her properly. “Just this once. Next time, give me much more time to prepare, will you? We can go over the best course of action together."

“I need to make sure I can protect both you and the Majesty at all times,” was unsaid, but he didn’t need to spell it out for her. She could see it in his eyes, loud and clear.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” she replied, already pulling him into another hug.

A few minutes passed, and when it should’ve dawned on him that she probably wouldn’t budge anytime soon, Yeong finally voiced his concern, "Uh, Seung-ah?"

"Let me be," she said. "Just for five minutes more. I just had a fight with my captain, I need some time to calm myself down."

Somewhere above her, she heard Yeong made a mortified noise.

She just stood there, comforted by the sound of his beating heart. Strong. Steady. The one who's worried for her. Her protector.

Seung-ah's smiles got wider as Yeong started to caress her hair.

Being in a courtship with Jo Yeong can be so wonderful, her heart is full.

[noonaduck]

SeXd (sex ed) pt.7

Pairing: BTS OT7 x reader genre: Fluff,smut, non idol Au Warnings: cursing, fingering, oral (female receiving), sexsexsex Words: 5518 A/N: Helloo, its finally here. I rewrote the whole 2nd half of the part so it took twice as long as it would without me doing it. I had to change the whole plot points because I felt so unhappy. I hope you enjoy the results. PS. short reminder for new readers that English aint my 1st language and plus to that I have mild dyslexia so errors may and will occur despite my editing. Summaray: Y/N is a woman who is inexperienced in anything when it comes to relationships and sex. Luckily her friend Jimin along with his six other friends decide to show her what she has been missing.

Msg me or send ask if you want to be tagged. I won’t tag you if you ask in comments. 6. < 7. > 8. 2nd Bonus

[gifs belongs to their rightful owners ] You were sure that Jimin was avoiding you. At first you had dismissed your thought as Jimin being busy now when his musical was on full speed.  That being the reason why he was always leaving the room when you entered or how he only replied shortly to your messages. When you saw him to do full 180 degree turn when he saw you on theater hallway you knew that he did it on purpose. You were furious, you haven't give any reason for him to act on that way. You have talked to him like you normally do and greeted him every time you walked past him on the hallways. You decide to follow Jimin despite the fact he was going to whole different direction where you were originally heading.

''Park Jimin stop right there!'' You jell while stomping after him. Jimin's movements halts and he freezes like a little kid who has been caught from a cookie jar. Jimin spins around and smiles awkwardly. ''Oh, hi Y/N, I didn't notice you.'' ''You are such a liar Jimin.'' You huff when you stop in front of him. You have crossed your arms and if look could kill Jimin would be dead by now. ''I don't know what you are imp-'' ''Don't you fucking dare to say that you don't know what I'm talking about.'' You tell angrily. Couple of your co-workers walks past of you and glances you curiously. Jimin glares them and they turn their heads towards the direction where they are headed hurrying their steps. ''Fine, but not here, follow me.'' Jimin begans walking without waiting for you to follow. Even when you are angry you can't deny the fact that seeing Jimin's butt in his tight skinny jeans doesn't affect you. Focus Y/N, you are mad. You shake your thoughts and hurry after him before he completely disappears from your sight. Jimin stops dramatically in front of random door and waves you to step in with mocking bow. You roll your eyes to his gesture and look around in the spacious room. There is racks full of clothes and more clothes. You are in the storage room where costumes that aren't in use are kept. Jimin closes the door after him and you are left alone into the dusty room, you can even see how the dust particles dance on the dim light. ''Now, can you tell me why you have been avoiding me?'' You ask impatiently. Jimin sighs and rubs his temple. ''It's complicated.'' ''Complicated how? Nothing has changed as far I can recall.'' You are confused and Jimin's distressed face doesn't make things easier to understand. Jimin's face falls suddenly blank and he looks to your eyes without blinking. ''I never thought that you would be such a slut Y/N.'' You feel like all the air is left your lungs and you gawk Jimin with wide eyes. ''A sl-slut?'' ''Yes, I never thought that you would willingly have sex with my every fucking friend.'' Jimin's voice gets louder and you feel like you are turning smaller under his heated gaze. ''Bu-but it was your idea that I should take lessons from your friends.'' You say with shaky voice and bite your lip from keeping you from crying. ''I know and I regret it. I never thought that you would actually follow the plan.'' Jimin chuckles darkly and takes one step closer to you. ''I have started to think that you are only my friend so you can hoe around with my friends.'' Hid voice is low again when he lowers himself to your level. ''I m, I was your friend because you were first person to show kindness towards me when I first moved here. Besides I didn't even know your friends before you introduced them for me.'' With that being said you storm out of the room while tears kept falling freely from your eyes.You run out of your workplace leaving all your belongings behind. You don't know how long you have been wandering and crying when you feel wave of exhaustion to hit you with full force. You fall on your knees on sidewalk while small hiccups leaves your lips. People walk past you whispering to each other and giving few stares, but no one stops to help at first. ''Y/N, is that you?'' Familiar voice asks and someone kneels in front of you. ''Mummy, why she is crying? Is she hurt?'' A small voice of child asks beside of the person. You look up and see worried looking Jisoo with a little girl, who you assume to be her daughter. The small girl has dark hair on two piggy tails, her face is chubby and his big brown eyes are widened in worry. ''I don't know sweetie, I'm trying to figure it out. Y/N? Can you stand? Are you okay?''Jisoo asks and smiles gently. Only few sobs leave your lips when you take her offered hand. You get up and try to smile to Jisoo but your smile is quick to turn into frown. ''Jisoo!'' You sob and hang yourself on her neck. ''Shh, it's okay. Can you tell me whats wrong?''Jisoo asks while petting your hair. You shake your head on her embrace. Suddenly you feel other pair of smaller hands tied around you. ''Pretty lady don't cry. Mummy says that big girls are strong and brave.'' Jisoo's daughters childlike wisdom is something that you need at the moment. You finally pull away from them. ''Thank you both.'' You tell whit raspy voice from crying. ''How about we go to cafe and drink something  to calm down.'' Jisoo suggest and you nod. ''I wan't ice cream.'' The little girl cheers. ''Haru, you already ate some yesterday.'' Jisoo tells while you begun walk slowly towards nearest coffee shop. ''That was yesterday, now is now.'' Haru pouts. ''Fine, let me think about it.'' Jisoo sighs given up. ''Yay! Ice cream!'' ~ You sit on booth with Haru while Jisoo orders for you. You feel quite awkward under the four-year-old's stare. You are glad when Jisoo arrives quickly carrying platter full of treats. She has small dose of ice cream on glass cup, two slices of wet chocolate cake, juice box for Haru and coffee for her and soda for you. You smile gratefully when she puts the piece of cake in front of you. Haru cheers and goes straight for her ice cream. You are jealous, children are so easy to please. ''Can you now tell me what is bothering you?'' Jisoo asks and takes careful sip from her hot drink. ''I had big fight with my friend.'' You admit and play with your little spoon. ''Who was the jerk who dared to hurt my Y/N?'' Jin slides dramtically next to you on the booth and takes you on tight embrace. ''I texted Jin.'' Jisoo tells apologetically for your confused face. ''Jin oppa!'' Haru cheers loudly and forgets her ice cream for a second. Jin finally lets you breathe and takes his hands away around you.'' Hi pumpkin, I missed you too.'' Jin smiles for the little girl. Jin is still wearing his work uniform, even his lab coat is on his shoulders. ''Do you want some of my ice cream?'' Haru asks and offers her spoon towards Jin. ''No thanks, I just ate.'' Jin assures and Haru shrugs her shoulders and returns happily to her dessert. ''So who was the bastard who made you cry?'' Jin lowers his voice around the little girl. You take big gulp and put the spoon on the table. ''Jimin.'' You admit bluntly. ''Jimin?'' Jin asks with high note and Haru glances towards your together pushed heads curiously. Jin remembers where he is and lowers his voice again. ''What did he do?'' ''I don't really want to talk about it, at least not here.'' You tell awkwardly. Jin looks you with impatient eyes but finally sighs. ''Fine, when we are alone, we will talk.'' You agree instantly feeling relived that you can avoid telling the truth little while longer. You spent for a while with Jisoo, Haru and Jin at the coffee shop. Finally Jisoo told that she and Haru had to leave. Haru was unhappy about parting with Jin but Jin's promise to visit her soon left smile on the little girl's lips. You are alone at cafe with Jin, who is sipping his second cup of coffee while you drink water. You aren't sure why Jin doesn't want to leave yet but the reason is soon revealed when Jungkook enter the cafe carrying your purse and jacket on his hands. ''Hi Hyung, hi Y/N.'' Jungkook greets you smiling softly and sit opposite of you on the booth. Jungkook is wearing thin grey jacket over his bleached jeans and his earphones are hanging loosely around his neck. ''Hey Jungkook, how did you end up with my belongings?'' You ask surprised but grateful. ''Well Jin texted me and asked if I could pick your stuff from the theater. I also met Jimin briefly but he was on super grumpy mood.'' Jungkook tells and frowns. ''I see.'' You mumble quietly. ''Did Jimin tell you that he made Y/N upset?'' Jin asks impatiently and Jungkook shakes his head surprised. ''Well he did and I was about to ask Y/N here tell us the whole story.'' Jin tells with emotionless tone. ''Is Jimin the reason why I had to made excuse for the elderly woman at the theater reception about Y/N's absence?'' Jungkook asks worry clear in his voice. ''You did? Yes and I'm grateful for that.'' You tell relived. ''No problem, just remember that your aunt fainted and is now at the hospital.'' Jungkook grins. ''I will.'' You smile back at Jungkook. ''Now can we finally go to the topic about what Jimin did?'' Jin asks clearly being in limits of his patience. You take a deep breath and begin to tell about your argument with Jimin, while you keep staring your glass so you aren't able to see the men's faces. ''Son of a bitch!'' Jin fums and hits his fist one the table. Jin's outbreak gains stares of other customers and soon you are asked to leave for causing too much disorder. ''Fine we go, I didn't like the place that much anyway.'' Jin tells the unlucky waitress who had to deliver the message. You exit the cafe with Jin and Jungkook and you follow Jin to his car. You sit on the passenger's seat and Jungkook sits on the back. Jin starts the car still clearly upset. You aren't sure is he upset for you or Jimin. When the silence gets to heave to bare you finally speak. ''Jin?'' You ask carefully holding tightly on your purse to ease your nerves. ''Yes Y/N?'' Jin asks with tense voice while his grip on the steering wheel tightens. Jungkook seems to sense the heavy atmosphere and keeps wisely his mouth shut. ''Are you mad at me?'' Jin chuckles lowly. ''Why would I be? I'm staying silent because I don't have anything nice to say about Jimin right now.'' ''Okay, then where are  we going?'' You had no idea where Jin was driving. ''It's a surprise.'' Jin answers mysteriously and you glance Jungkook trough rear view mirror but he just smiles slyly back at you. ~ ''An amusement park?'' you are exited. Jin and Jungkook has taken you into biggest indoor amusement park in the city called 'Summer fields'. You are waiting on the line to purchase your tickets and Jin is feeling amused because of your excitement. Jin is completely ignoring curious looks caused by his working clothes, but after all it's amusement park and his outfit isn't the most odd one which has been seen here. ''We thought that you could use some cheering up and besides this is great excuse to skip work.'' Jungkook tells excitedly. ''Won't you get in trouble because of skipping?'' You ask feeling guilty. ''Don't worry. My boss is out of town and everyone is taking things more relaxed at work now. Besides I'm at home suffering from food poisoning.'' Jungkook winks and Jin sighs loudly. ''So that's why you were available, no wonder. One day you will get caught with your lies.'' Jin scolds his younger who just smirks wider. ''Maybe, but not today.'' Jungkook has smug smile on his face which leaves quickly when he sees Jin's disappointed face. Now it's your turn to buy your tickets and despite of your protest Jin insist paying yours but refuses to buy Jungkook's and say that he is teaching him a lesson. You wonder if Jin's means are effective after all the boy is still going to have fun with you guys. When you have survived from entrance area you see excited people all around you. Some of them are wearing silly headbands with cat ears or unicorn's horn and some is stuffing their mouth full of cotton candy carrying big stuffed animals. You hear exited screams when people are enjoying the rides and some get scared on the roller coaster. You see the fantasy themed castle sparkling in the distance and you are admiring the small lights which sparkles on the castle walls. ''So, what you wanna do first?'' Jin asks and brings you back to the moment. ''I don't have a preference really. I has been in amusement park last time when I was a teen.'' You tell honestly and Jin loo's you with wide eyes. ''Are you serious? How could you have been so long without joy of eating too much candy and puking after the wildest rides.'' Jin asks with fake scandalous voice. ''I don't know. Sometimes I wonder how I'm alive.'' You answer as dramatic voice as Jin's. ''Guy's stop joking, lets go already. I want to drive the bump cars.''Jungkook says his eyes glistering like little child's. You must admit that your friends excitement is contagious and before you even notice you are having so much fun running from ride to another, playing some arcade games and even buying silly cat ears, which you put on top of Jin's head, and when Jungkook laughs for him and you pull from your bag a pair of another headband with mouse ears. Jungkook tries to run away but after seeing your sulking face he puts the fluffy ears on top of his head which makes you smile widely. Jin glances his watch time to time like he is waiting for something but Jungkook is always fast pulling your attention to somewhere else. Jungkook spend a quite amount of money to win you big fluffy stuffed bunny even when you insisted that he did not have spend his money on games just to win you a prize. Jungkook just waved your complaints away and kept feeding his money to game vendor who accepted them happily. You are walking with the big bunny on your arms when Jin glances his watch again. ''Y/N, what you think about riding a Ferris wheel?'' Jin suddenly asks andyou are quick to agree even tough it feels little lame after the previous ride which you visited. Jungkook is also quick to agree as well and soon you head to the end of the line to wait your turn to ride. ''Hyung I really need to pee.'' Jungkook says suddenly and you look him surprised. ''Aish, Now? Why did you drink so much.'' Jin answers, which is odd because Jungkook had barely drank anything. ''I'm sorry. Will you come with me to the bathroom?'' Jungkook looks guilty. ''Y/N can you manage alone,we will be shortly back. I'm sure that we will be here before our turn.'' Jin pleas. ''Umm, okay.'' You hesitate a little, the line isn't that long... ''Great, we will be back soon.'' Jungkook grins and starts walking towards the bathroom with hurried steps followed by Jin. Maybe he did had to really pee badly after all. When Jin and Jungkook isn't constantly by your side cheering you up, your mind starts to slip easily back to Jimin harsh words. perhaps you shouldn't have spent so much time with so many different men and  should have refused the whole idea of going out with them but on the other than how could you have known that their dates have some ulterior motives even tough they were good ones. You squeeze your bunny tighter in your arms and force smile to your face. You did not want to disappoint the men after all they had done to you. When someone puts their hand on your shoulder you turn around fake smile on your face ready to face your friends. Except it wasn't them. ''Namjoon? What are you doing here?'' You are greatly surprised to see the man in the question. He is wearing a casual red hoodie with plain jeans and white cap on top of his head. You have never seen him wearing anything else but formal clothes so he seems little odd in your eyes, odd in the good way. ''I'm here for our date.'' Namjoon says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. ''Our date?'' You ask surprised. Someone coughs on your back in the line and you realize that it's your turn to get in the ride. You climb in the small cabin with blushing face followed by Namjoon who sits next you on the small space. The ride starts to move slowly and Namjoon returns to the topic. ''Jin and Jungkook kept you company until I was able to leave the work and get home to change.  The told me that you needed cheering up.'' ''Great, does everyone know about my fight with Jimin?'' You whine and bury your face into your stuffed animal. ''Y/N, look at me.'' Namjoon says with gentle voice. You refuse to look at him feeling embarrassed and bury your face deeper into the bunny's fur. Namjoon tugs gently the stuffed animal and you give up and let go of it. You look Namjoon's face scared waiting what he has to say. Namjoon leans closer and puts his hand on your thigh. ''Don't you realize how important you are to us, to me? You are such a great person who always has been kind and polite to us. From the fist moment when Jimin introduced us I knew that you were something special.'' Your face turns into deeper shade of tomato and Namjoon smiles fondly to you. ''Forget Jimin and forget his stupid words. If he doesn't see you like I do he needs to wake up.''Namjoon adds and presses  kiss on your cheek. It's official, you are a tomato or at least relative to them. Suddenly the ride jerks and stops. The Ferris wheel was moving at slow space around so it was notable change. ''What's going on?'' You ask panicked and glance around. You notice that people in the other carts are also looking confused. ''I don't know.'' Namjoon answers and frowns.''Attention, I'm sorry to announce that our Ferris wheel is stuck. Please stay calm and seated, the maintenance team is on it's way.'' The man who controls the ride proclaims from his booth with monotone voice.     ''Well fuck.'' Namjoon sighs but you keep quiet. You are sort of little bit afraid of heights. It's nothing serious and you can enjoy your rides fine, as long as they are moving. When you are stuck in high place you easily feel sick. You remember one time when your class had a field trip at elementary school and you visited high sight seeing tower. At first you were super excited for the trip, after all you didn't leave your small town often at the time. You can vividly remember the long class stairs which you had to take to reach the top. At first everything was going smoothly and you were walking in line with your classmates along the stairs. It started you feeling little bit funny and shaky but you kept going. When you were little above the middle of the stairs you looked down and saw how high up you were. Ii did not help that you were able to see trough the cabs between the stairs the distant ground. You stopped on your heels and a boy who was behind of you complained loudly and tried to push you to keep going but you couldn't. in the end the whole glass had to go back down because the teacher couldn't leave the rest of the class alone.  You had to go the stairs down on your butt slowly dropping one stair at the time while the teacher held your hand. You felt so ashamed of yourself when you were left alone in the lobby with the reception worker so other children could at least enjoy their trip. ''Y/n', are you okay?'' Worried sounding Namjoon pulls you from your memory. ''I'm fine.'' You lie with shaky voice. You feel so stupid the ride wasn't nearly as high as the tower had been. ''You clearly aren't okay, please don't lie to me.'' Namjoon says with stern voice and takes hold of your shoulders. ''Talk to me.'' You gulp and look back to Namjoon's serious eyes. ''I'm scared of heights.'' You admit shyly. Namjoon just stares you without speaking for a second when he suddenly lets big puff of air out of his lungs. ''I can't believe those idiots took you to the amusement park without figuring that out.''  You are surprised from his outburst. ''it's not Jin's and Jugkook's fault. I'm usually fine on the rides. I just get shaken a bit when I can actually feel how high I'm.'' You hurry to defend your friends. Namjoon slides his hands along your shoulders and stops at your hands. Slowly he lifts one of your hands to his lips and kisses each of your finger gently. ''Wha-what are you doing?'' You ask flustered. The return of the tomato is near. ''I'm distracting you.'' He answers casually and repeat his actions with your other hand. Well you can't lie, his actions are working. Instead of fear you are feeling completely different feeling, lust. You keep staring Namjoon's lips when they brush gently tips of your fingers. You have sudden urge to kiss him, so you do it.  At the same second when Namjoon drops your hand and smiles you lean closer and press your lips against his. He freezes from surprise. its unlike to you to be so forward with your actions. Namjoon recovers quickly and his hands finds your neck quickly wrapping around it. Sure you had kissed Namjoon once before during your heated make out session at Jin's car but never like this. This time you were fully able to appreciate his velvet lips. Jolt of the cart pulls you apart and you look each other with widened pupils, the Ferris wheel was moving again. You had forgotten to be afraid of heights when you were next to Namjoon. ~ You are quick to leave the amusement park after you are freed from the Ferris wheel. Your lips are locked when you enter in to Namjoon's house. You don't have time to admire his beautifully decorated home, all you could see was Namjoon. When you part Namjoon takes you to his hands and carries you towards his bedroom on his arms. He doesn't even waver when he climbs up the stairs with you, against your protests.  Namjoon tosses you to his well made bed and follows quickly after pulling his hoodie and shirt away along the way. You admire his body and run your eyes along his chest. Namjoon smirks when he sees your admiration and peeks your lips quickly. ''Can I take this of?'' Namjoon gestures towards your shirt and you are quick to agree. You raise your hands above your head so Namjoon is able to undress your shirt. His eyes finds your lace covered breasts and short low moan leaves his lips. ''You look so good already, I can't wait to see what is under rest of your clothes.'' ''Come on and undress me then.'' You tease and amused smirk covers his face. ''I shall do what the lady demands but don't forget that I'm in control here.'' His low voice and dominant statement gets shivers run to your spine. Namjoon yanks quickly your pants away and tosses the carelessly on the ground. He licks his lips and follow curves of your body with his eyes. ''So fucking good. Do you trust me?'' Namjoon asks suddenly and you get flashbacks from your encounter in Jin's car. ''I think I do.'' You answer like you did back them and knowing look flashes on Namjoon's eyes.   ''Yes or no baby girl?'' Namjoon asks and reaches to swipe few locks of escaping hair away from you face. ''I do.'' You answer and Namjoon seems extremely happy. ''Good.'' Instead of returning to your body he gets up from his bed and heads for drawer close the door. You look curiously how he pulls one of the drawers open and takes out something that looks like a blindfold and pair of handcuffs. Namjoon returns to the bed with the items on his hand. He shows them to you and ask ''Are you still with me?'' You nod. Although you have never thought about being tied up or blindfolded the idea of doing so excites you. ''Good  girl. Can you take your bra of?'' he asks satisfied and brushes your right breast quickly with his knuckles. You nod shyly and reach to your back to open your bra and slide it of your shoulder.  Namjoon's eyes darkens when he sees your bare and those beautiful mounds of flesh with perky nipples. ''Lie down and put your hands up.'' Namjoon tells you and you obey quickly.  Namjoon cuffs your hands to the bed post threading the cuffs on the crossbars of his black iron bedpost.  When he is happy with securing you he takes the blindfold to his hands and slides it gently to cover your eyes. You are left in the darkness completely in his mercy and the idea of it makes the heat pooling in to your belly and small vet spot begins to form into your panties. ''You look so good like this baby girl, all tied up and just waiting that someone taker you. I could just admire you all day.'' You hear Namjoon's voice and soon feel the bed dip next to you for a sign that Namjoon is sitting next to you. Namjoon puts his hand on your right breast and squeezes. ''Dam,  you have good tits.'' You whine softly for his words and hear him chuckle but otherwise keeping quiet. Namjoon rolls your nipple gently between his fingers and his lips finds your other breast. He bits it hard. You yelp in surprise. ''Joon!'' You complain and Namjoon stops for second. ''I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. You just look so divine.'' He admits and you feel yourself getting more heated.  If you were honest his teeth did not hurt that much, you were just surprised from his actions. After all you had no idea what he would do because you ability of seeing has been robbed from you. ''I-it's okay.'' You answers and it's Namjoon's cue to continue. He returns to your breasts and this time he nibbles them more gently. You sigh in pleasure when Namjoon's hand starts to roam lower to you body dipping over your breasts. He stops above your underwear and sighs. ''You are already turning wet for me, you are such a needy thing.'' He hymns and pulls your panties away leaving your body completely bare under his eyes. Even though you feel little shy your hands are tied on the bedpost and you can't do much to cover yourself. Without a warning Namjoon's hand dips between your wet folds and a wanton moan leaves your lips. ''So fucking wet.'' Namjoon pulls his fingers away from your heated core and you hear muted moan. ''Tastes as good as looks.'' Namjoon gets up from his seat just to go between your legs.  He spears your legs open and breath hitches to your throat from anticipation.  When Namjono is happy with his new position he spears your pussy lips open and dips his tongue to your folds. The pure pleasure from his small actions makes you impatient. ''Joon I need more!'' You demand. ''Wait patiently, you will get more. Impatient girls get nothing.'' Namjoon answers huskily and returns to your lower regions despite his accusing tone. His tongue returns to its work and he circles slowly your clit with the wet muscle. You have come to realize with your resent sexual awakening that you were really impatient when you wanted something but you were on Namjoon's mercy and complains wouldn't help you. Instead you bite your lower lip while Namjoon rills you up slowly. After time which felt like a eternity he dips his index finger into mix and begins to pump it slowly into your wet hole. Knot is forming slowly but surely from Namjoon's skilled actions but you are  still missing something. Like sensing this Namjoon finally gives you a mercy and picks up his speed and his plump lips find your needy bud. With his sucking and finger moving inside your walls you feel how the knot is ready to snap when suddenly Namjoon halts his movements and pulls away. Loud frustrated moan leaves from your lips, your orgasm has never been denied before. ''Don't worry you will come but only with me.'' Namjoon tells satisfied seeing you squirming. ''Hurry then.'' You demand, you can't help yourself. ''Usually I would punish you from a such bratty attitude but today I let it slide.'' Namjoon chuckles darkly and you hear how his belt is opened and pants are pulled down. You really want to see him. Soon you hear folio ripping and you assume him rolling condom at it's place. Your whole body stills. You have never actually gone trough with penetration. ''Hey Joon.'' You say with shaky voice and Namjoon stops his actions caused by your shaky tone. ''Is everything okay baby girl?'' he asks and squeezes your side gently. ''I, I haven't actually been fucked before.'' You hurry to force the words out of your mouth so quickly that Namjoon had to think before he realizes what you just said. ''Well fuck, I promise to go slow.'' Namjoon says with gentle voice which is completely opposite of his actions this far in the bedroom. ''Okay. Hey Joon?'' ''Yes baby?'' ''Can I at least see you?'' ''Sure, no problem.'' Namjoon agrees quickly worried for your comfort and pulls the blindfold from your eyes. You blink rapidly when the light hits your eyes.  When you are again used to the light your eyes find Namjoon and again you almost forget how to breathe. He is so fucking beautiful and handsome at the same time. His dick is hard and wrapped in condom, begging for it release.  Namjoon's body is like a eye candy, just created to be admired and worshiped. Did whole group of seven men save the country in their past life or something? It's so utterly unfair how all of them is so gorgeous. ''Can I kiss you?'' You ask and instead of answering Namjoon leans to your lips and bites your lower lip gently. ''Are you sure that you are okay with this?'' Namjoon asks when his lips leaves yours. ''Yes, I want to do it.'' You agree little bit nervous but eager to continue.           So you know how romance books always describes your first time as a fantasy came true? Well it it really was, Namjoon was gentle when he entered you going slowly. Namjoon was far from small and his member invading your insides was painful at first without lying.  You whined when you felt the burn and few tears escaped your eyes which Namjoon kissed away. When you finally gave the signal to move he made sure that your comfort came first and soon the stretch turned from unpleasant into pleasure.  Namjoon's dick brushed one particular spot in your insides and you were seeing stars. You begged for more and Soon Namjoon speed was multiplying and he pumped his hard member in and out to your wet hole.  You hands were still tied on the bedpost so you were unable to touch Namjoon which was in your eyes a minus but the thought slipped quickly from your mind when he pinched your clit and you came hard spamming around his thick member. Your pulsing walls were quick to push Namjoon over the edge and he came in to the condom. Panting and sweaty Namjoon pulled out and tossed the condom into nearby trash bin. You are still fucked out and coming back to earth when Namjoon releases you from the cuffs. After all the lust is literally fucked out of you, you are getting tired. Even the dull pain and soreness you feel won't stop your eyelids wanting to close shut. ''I go get the towel.'' Namjoon says quietly while you are already drifting to sleep in his bed. Last thing you can remember is Namjoon cleaning you up and pulling blanket over your body.  Namjoon turns the lights off in the room and slides next to you in to the bed drifting into dreamland with you.

'Tae I fucked up.'' ''So I have heard.'' ''What I can do to fix this?'' ''What you think you should do?'' ''Fuck, I don't know. All I know is that I can't lose her.'' ''Then Jimin you should tell that to her.'' 

Tags:  @lylanie12 @hopeivx @vannilacake @mina-messed-up  @lonely-hufflepuff @soularbangtan @all289854 @hobitoons @vanessalovesonedirection @bbjel @doki-do-ki @yoongleskitten @chaitaewithkookies @hellosweety94 @exochanyeoltao @brokencrownqueen @hitit-thesecond-audition @kookiemonstersugatea @treetops68 @mylittlestrangeandsweetworld @lanu-la @d-noona @serendipity-secrets @recs-by-raamish @jojolovesbangtan @fanficreblogaaaa @creepysweet  @elpanvibe @kassandravictoria @kpoppower @golddaengguk @barbikatherine 

[sky-writes-daydreams]

Fictober Day Five

@the-flame-and-hawks-eye  hope you like it. 

Prompt number: #5

Fandom (AU if applicable): FMA/ FMA Brotherhood 

Rating: G

Warnings/Tags: Fluff. Alcohol mention, Intense love, Maybe a bit of OOC

Alcohol is a funny thing. It can turn the most mild mannered person into a violent rage machine or the angry person into a sobbing mess. This was not what I was expecting.

It had been a rough week. Paperwork for myself and full metal covered the office. Ed had been out causing nothing but trouble and it was coming back to us in the form of reports. I swear I must have signed over a hundred today alone. Poor Riza tho… She had been running all over the place delivering papers and memos for me and others who asked. She was beyond tired by the time the day ended. That was why I offered to buy a few rounds before taking her home.

She started with something basic. Just a glass of wine. I got her talking about what she had been teaching hayate and slowly that glass emptied and her mood improved. She had him fill the glass a bit more this time as she got into funny stories about the pup and the others that I hadn't been around to witness. She was smiling and giggling just remembering by the  fourth glass and could barely make it off the stool. I had to catch her and she just laughed.

"I think I might be buzzed." I smiled then.

"Might be?" She just laughed gently and leaned on me a bit almost like a hug. I held her back going red on my ears. Here she was, finally relaxing and almost hugging me. I left cash to cover the tab as I slowly got her outside. She took her hair down by the car just leaning on it looking up.

"This was such a great date… best one I've ever been on in a long time." I chuckled then leaning next to her.

"Well it wasn't meant to be a date… but I'm glad you relaxed."

"Oh yeah… man… if my boss knew…" She giggled then. A dead honest giggle. I felt my heart melt then watching her.

"He would be so jealous… God I really do care about him. But there's someone else." I stopped then. Another man!?  Riza got her door open then and sat down.

"He's got soft black hair… same shade as yours…. And soft little hands. They're so small!!! But he does so much… god I love him. I really do."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! Lets go see him! Come on!" She perked right up then.

"Please sir??? You'll love him too!"

"Alright alright…" I got into my side and left the window down in case. She just leaned by it humming gazing out as I drove. She pointed the direction I needed to go and soon I realized we were at her place. I parked in front of the building and she stumbled out and to the front door. I quickly followed and helped her get it opened. We were quiet heading up and I was getting more upset. How close was she to this new guy that he lived with her?

Really close was the answer I got. I unlocked her door after she dropped her keys and she stumbled in and got the light on.

"Hey!!! I'm home!!!  Did havoc get you home ok!?" I was fully ready to throw down with a human. Then I heard the patter of paws. Riza dropped then and scooped Hayate up in her arms.

"Oh My good boy! Such a good boy!!! I love you! Yes I do!Oh I might just kiss you! All over, my good boy!!"  

Needless to say I was shocked. She had been talking about hayate! She held him up to me then.

"This is him!! Isn't he just the best?"

"Um yes. Hayate is a good boy. Riza… I think you might need to go to bed hon."

"Oh… yeah I've got to work tomorrow."

Nah. I'm sure your boss will cover. Just take the day off."

"Oh? Well ok. Just let me call roy and tell him."

"No need hon I'll tell him. I live close by." I said  as Hayate gave me a look of I've got her. I petted him gently before writing a note on my way out to remind her in the morning. Seems she had forgotten That I was roy in her joy of seeing Hayate again.

[royed-til-im-dead]

weChapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang Characters: Edward Elric, Roy Mustang Additional Tags: Mild Language, Literally only rated M because Ed likes to swear during his inner monologues, Fluff, Color Blindness, Slice of Life, probably, Parenthood, RoyEd Week 2019 Summary:

There were a few rules that applied. First, it didn’t matter how early you met your destined. The youngest person recorded to show color after meeting their destined was sixteen, and it was accepted as common knowledge that sixteen was when one was “of age” for that next stage in their life. Second, it had to occur via touch, skin-to-skin. Brushing their jacket with your fingertips didn’t count, nor did bumping shoulders. Something like a handshake was a good example, as long as there were no gloves. And lastly, though Edward assumed this wasn’t a real rule, it always seems to occur when least expected.

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Day 2 of @royedweek2019 ! Prompt: Color blindness