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redflagshipwriter · 8 months ago

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The Proposal

This mini fic was inspired by the anon prompt to @faeriekit linked here and all the development that Faeriekit did for the idea. This fic is perilously regional. I half expect angry yelling from other areas of the Midwest.

Original post

Word count: 2718

Masterpost of my Archive Down Fics is here.

Jason came to with cream cheese stuck under his fingernails and in the creases of his fingers. He looked around the room wildly, trying to understand the situation he was in. The kitchen smelled fucking weird. He sniffed the air. Meat? Like, ham and also vinegar?

He washed his hands really well, grimacing at the greasy texture. Then he reconstructed what must have happened by the debris. This was not his first post-blackout rodeo, but usually he was reconstructing a literal crime scene.

There was an empty pickle jar on the countertop. There were packets of deli meat in the trash.

There was some kind of abomination on his nicest plate, which was obviously made of cream cheese wrapped around pickles, blanketed by the meat, and sliced thin like sushi rolls. It was lovingly protected by a perfect sheet of cling wrap.

“The fuck?” Jason said, a little scared and pissed off.

He paced the kitchen for a while and then went to pace on the balcony, because he needed a smoke to process this culinary abomination but something in his gut wailed at the tragedy of ruining it with cigarette smoke. Which was absurd, partly because the plate was in the refrigerator. He sensed in his bones that it needed to cool until the cream cheese was as hard as it would get, so that he could safely transport it. Transport it fucking where? Was this an assassination attempt against Batman? That sappy motherfucker was probably the only man in the world who would choke that down to make Jason happy.

He had a long drag on his cigarette and tried to ignore the way his fingers shook.

“Okay,” he said, squeezing his free hand shut and opening it. Maybe stimming would prompt his brain to go brr and explain this. “Did I have a stroke? Maybe I was possessed?”

It was hard to tell. He ground out his cigarette and tossed the butt in the tray before venturing back inside. He was calm. He was more centered. He flicked on the kitchen fan to clear out the pickle stink and then he went and put on his coat and grabbed the plate.

Why was he doing that?

The compulsion led him three blocks before he realized where he was going.

Not far away from the safehouse he was in, some college freshman had wasted the Joker when the clown tried to drag him into a van. He had called the police, crying the whole time in shock about being a murderer.

Jason had not been on the scene. He had only heard through comms. He had been out of town when the Joker got out. He had been rushing back on his bike, heart pounding and sick with nerves at the thought of his family out there without him.

And then the fucker had failed to secure the first victim for whatever sick play he’d had in mind, and the poor out of town kid who had apparently never heard of the Joker was breathing a sigh of relief that ‘oh, this wasn’t like, a birthday clown? Whew, that’s alright then,’ previous guilt over ending a life all gone.

Jason liked that. It was hugely undignified that the Joker had been got by someone who didn’t even know who he was. If he’d known, it would have killed his ego. As it was, Jason had laughed himself nearly sick before barricading himself inside to read the file Timmers put together on Danny Fenton.

Well. If his gut said that he should deliver this horrific dish to Fenton as thanks for the murder, well…

Jason grimaced. He just wouldn’t be seen doing it. If Fenton thought it was an assassination attempt and called the cops, Jason would never fess up.

He broke into Fenton’s apartment, very glad that the guy was in class at the moment. He mourned the loss of his plate but honestly, this was the least destructive black out he’d had, so it was whatever. He put the pickle rolls in the fridge, looked around, and then left. He was done. He’d thanked Fenton, or whatever (maybe he’d attacked him, honestly, Jason didn’t know how he would react to finding that trash in his fridge.)

It could end now.

The next morning, Jason scrubbed away a yawn and realized that he had just scraped a mess of chopped snickers bars into a bowl that already had clouds of something white and -

He took out a piece and bit into it to confirm that it was perfectly cubed green apple.

“I am possessed,” Jason said in horror, looking around the counter to see what the Pit Madness had cooked up this time. Why did the fucking Lazarus Pit know these recipes?

The white shit was a mix of cool whip and vanilla pudding, apparently. There was an untouched bottle of caramel sauce waiting innocently.

“...Does that go in?” Jason wondered, vaguely horrified.

Well, maybe an evil witch was doing this to him. Bottoms up. He poured caramel in until it felt right, guided by what had to be someone else’s goddamn ancestors, and then mixed it all up with a spoon.

This looked a lot better than the last thing. Jason scraped it into a bowl and then stole a spoonful of it to try.

“Holy shit. It’s like eating a caramel apple,” he said, muffled around the food. He swallowed and genuinely considered taking more.

Nope! His gut said nope. This was another offering for–

“Hold up, offering?” Jason put it in the fridge, clingwrap on top, and let his mind be blown. He put his face in his hands and just reeled. He was making offerings for this motherfucker now. He opened his phone, intending to search the things he’d been blackout making and froze.

His lock screen was Danny Fenton’s police intake photo, looking pretty relaxed after he'd been told the booking was a formality.

“I don’t remember doing that!” Jason frantically changed it back to his old lock screen, a grimy alleyway with a hilariously shaped filth puddle and one of his favorite rats.

He snuck this dessert thing into Fenton’s fridge, collected his clean plate with some relief, and left. He didn't know if Fenton had eaten that shit or if he'd thrown it away, but at least he'd washed the plate.

“That was the last time,” Jason told himself, pacing around his room. He wasn’t– that was two days in a row now that he had a normal day, went out on patrol, went to bed, and woke up in his kitchen. It wasn’t going to happen again.

He chainsmoked all day to such a degree that Stephanie Brown saw him, whined “Dude,” in disbelief, and jumped off a building while holding her nose to get away from him. It was a fair reaction. He had a shower before patrol so that no one could make a connection between Jason, stinkiest man in Gotham today, and the Red Hood, a guy who owned a shower.

Patrol went fine. He caught himself veering past Fenton’s shitty apartment building twice but no one was nearby enough to call him out for it.

He went to bed and got a jumpscare because at some point of his most recent fugue state he'd gone out and bought a bunch of wedding magazines and made them into a nest. He made a roar of frustration and pushed them off the bed with only a twinge of interest in what that swan centerpiece was made of.

Jason went the fuck to sleep, determined to walk this off.

He woke up the next morning in his kitchen. “Cream cheese, again,” Jason complained. He gave the bowl he was mixing a furious stir and then shoved it in the fridge.

Cream cheese, chopped meat, and chopped green onion. He searched the internet to identify the fucker. This was a cheeseball.

…He frowned, thinking of the fugly mess in the bowl.

It was the larval form of a cheeseball, he amended.

Why did he know this shitty recipe.

Stomach tight with dread, he looked up the other things. Day one was a pickle roll. Day two was snickers salad.

These were all real Midwestern potluck dishes. He hadn't made them up. Why did the pit know these recipes?

The Snickers salad offended him as a concept and he bitterly regretted finding it delicious.

“Salad,” Jason repeated in aggrieved disbelief. It was good but it was no goddamn salad. “I could just make him a real salad. Will this end if I bring Fenton good food?”

It wasn't the worst idea. He put a pin in it.

Grimly, as if he was going off to war, Jason researched how to shape the ball. If he was doing this, which apparently he was for no goddamn reason, he was going to do it to perfection. When he was done he wrapped it up tight, got an assortment of crackers, and left it at Danny Fenton’s apartment with a sort of tired resignation that this might as well be happening.

This time was different. This time, Fenton was home.

Jason barely avoided being seen by rushing out the window over the sink and hiding from the immediate line of sight. He was, however, close enough to hear–

“Holy shit, is that a cheeseball? Who loves me?” and then some truly ghastly, wet crunching as Fenton tore through the crackers and cheeseball like a wild beast. It felt like being in a horror film. Jason very badly wanted to leave. Jason very badly wanted to crawl back inside and present himself for a scrap of Fenton’s approval.

What the fuck? What the fuck!

He fled. And this time, he decided to take action. He was going get out of this sick mind trap and-

“Nothing wrong with you, it's not a curse,” Zatanna said, bored about it. “Whatever is going on is safe, sane, consensual, and none of my business.” She portalled away before Jason could argue that it did not feel sane. He was having an entirely new category of mental breakdown and when one of the Bats found out about it, he was going to be a case study.

Fine. He gritted his jaw. New plan. Maybe he could beat the curse by showing it up.

He called out of crime for the day and ignored the confused commentary in the background of his phone call– can he do that? Of course he can, he’s the friggin’ boss– and spent it furiously researching. He needed a crowning achievement. He needed to find out what was sacred in this culinary tradition, master it, and then tell the compulsion to suck on bricks.

Casserole. The answer was a casserole.

Jason scrolled through dozens of recipes, scowling fiercely. That was no good. That offended his senses. He just knew that would be bland. He-

“Do I want to make that?” Jason asked aloud, puzzled by his fixation on the old-fashioned goulash casserole recipe. Worcestershire sauce– he didn’t have that in this safe house for sure. Beef, pasta, tomatoes… yeah, okay. This was the one. For no fucking reason at all, this was the one.

He went out shopping like he usually went on life-or-death missions, full of grim purpose.

He got back and assembled his ingredients. It was not exactly a challenge to follow the recipe. Jason turned off the stove top and froze in place. “I don’t have an ancestral pan,” he said, horrified. Holy fuck. How could he dare to give it in a regular baking pan- he had to get one. Where the fuck does one acquire an ancestral casserole pan on short notice?

Panicked, he called the Manor, hands shaking as he packed the whole thing up and stuffed it in the fridge to keep it food safe until he could bake it.

Bruce answered, sounding a little choked up. “Hello, Jason, so glad-”

He hung up. He texted Tim. “I need you to steal something for me from the Manor.”

“You’re allowed in, you gigantic freak,” Tim wrote back.

Jason did some meditative breathing and resorted to outright pleading immediately. “What do you want? I will give you whatever you want. I just need an ancestral casserole pan.”

“I am NOT stealing from Alfred’s kitchen,” Tim wrote back. Which was fair. “Drake ancestral pan alright?”

Jason thought about it. It was still a family pan, sorta. By the transitive property, and that was a perfectly good property. He sent back a thumbs up, his GPS pin, and the word “Hurry.”

A while later, Tim dropped off a glass dish, loudly said “I don’t wanna know,” and slammed Jason’s door shut.

Fine. He was already moving his stuff from the now-cold frying pan into the casserole dish. It went into the oven from there. Jason spent the bake time trying to think of new coping mechanisms, because apparently smoking wasn’t up to this level of mental fuckery.

He waited out the bake time. He let it cool enough to be safe to travel with but hot enough to deliver warm. Jason grappled to Danny Fenton's apartment for the fourth time in four days, let himself in, and nearly jumped out of his boots when he realized that Fenton was in the kitchen watching him.

“Hey,” Fenton said. He was sitting on his counter in his pajamas, eating ice cream out of the bucket with a spoon. He was certifiable. Jason wanted to cross the room and kiss whatever Fenton would let him. Hands, face, feet, whatever.

Wow, weird.

“...Hey,” Jason said, way too late.

Fenton crunched down on his ice cream. “...That a casserole?” He said.

Jason nodded wordlessly, feeling very grateful that he had his hood on. He put the casserole down on the counter. He took a step backwards to flee.

Fenton pointed at Jason with the spoon, wholly unintimidated by the heavily armed man who'd broken into his house. “This is a proposal.”

Oh. Oh, motherfucking shitsocks. Jason felt weak through the knees. It was. Why was- why was he proposing??

Fenton took in his shock with a detached air. “Huh,” he said, like he'd learned something from this. “Um, it's nice of you and all. Have you been like, fixated on me for a while or- ohhh. I avenged you, didn't I?” He dropped the spoon in his ice cream carton and slapped both his palms down on the countertop. “He killed you? That sucks, man,” Fenton empathized. “I get it. I think if someone smashed the portal with a hammer I'd be down on one knee.”

Jason's brain was simply not running any program any longer. He gaped. He wasn't coherent enough to ask why Danny knew he'd been murdered by the Joker, but he had his shit together well enough to be fixated on the point.

“Um, it's not usually me being chased,” Fenton said. He made a face. “I… huh, I think I'm flattered.” He very obviously gave Jason a once-over. “I suppose this is your way of showing that you're a provider.” He heaved himself off the counter and went to investigate the casserole, sniffing and lifting the lid. “Oh, fuuuuuuck,” Danny groaned. He sniffed appreciatively. “Good demonstration of your husband material, t-b-h.”

Jason resisted the urge to tackle him to the ground.

“That's the good stuff.” Fenton closed it back up, but not before giving his ice cream spoon a considering look.

Oh, yuck. This guy was so grungly. Jason needed him badly. He shuddered.

Fenton looked at him.

Jason looked back.

“Do you wanna try moving in and see how we get on?” Fenton offered. “Take it slow, no wedding just yet.”

“Absolutely.” Jason full-body twitched with just how eager he was. “How do you feel about swans?”

“Neutral,” Danny said, after a brief moment of consideration. “I like stars, though.”

Okay, so that would be their wedding theme.

Jason only realized he'd said that aloud when Fenton's eyebrows shot up. Mortified and really wondering what was wrong with him, Jason offered a weak smile.

Fenton made a considering noise. He crossed his arms. He looked Jason up and down. “...Can you grill?” He asked. “Like, beer chicken?”

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dead on main

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 1 month ago

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Unsteady

You get hit on patrol. You go down hard. What happens after is a blur, but what you do know, is that you were never scared for a moment. ~ 2k words

A/N: I wanted to try a new format for my fics, so pictures! I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, tho, so I might change it again

Being a vigilante in Gotham has never been easy. Between the bullet wounds, secret societies, and their attempted brainwashing tactics, and the more than a little tricky partnerships you have to navigate, sometimes you wonder how you've managed to make it for so long.

Don't get it wrong, saving people, taking out criminals, making the streets a little bit safer, you thrive on it. You live for the moments where you feel invincible, shouting awful quips back and forth with whoever you're patrolling with. The seconds where a civilian grabs your hand, smiling and alive and relieved by how easily you've taken down their attackers.

You do good in Gotham, a city that always seems to lack it. And, even if there are dangers that come with it, you've never really minded the risk. At least, not since you've started patrolling with Red Hood.

You're not exactly sure how it started. One day, you spent your nights alone more often than not, and then one day, you didn't. You think it might have been the Falcone bust you worked on together, or maybe it was the trauma bonding over getting trapped and tangled in Ivy's latest strain of living, grabby plant traps together.

Whatever it was, more nights than not, Red Hood lingers at your side while you traverse rooftops, and you've found a routine in following him on his own patrols through Crime Alley and The Hill. What started as a tentative trust quickly built to a steady partnership.

You know which ankle he tends to roll if he lands on the pavement wrong. He knows which shoulder you tend to favor when Gotham gets cold. You know his favorite street food vendor and order by heart. He knows what safehouses you stash your preferred drinks and snacks in– and how often they need to be resupplied.

You both keep each other from being too reckless, and honestly, you don't think either of you have ever really had that. It's not either of you have stopped throwing yourself into fights where you're outnumbered (but never out matched), it's just that you're not alone doing it.

Red Hood– Jason– has your back the same way you have his. And it makes Gotham a little less terrifying. It makes patrol– the idea that one day a simple mistake could mean you don't come home– a little less burdensome.

You knew you relied on him, maybe a little too much if you thought too hard about it. You just didn't realize how much space you made for him until it was pointed out to you. Nightwing makes note of it first, teasing you for having an entire pouch on your utility belt dedicated to extra ammo magazines for Red Hood's gun. Robin notices it next, admonishing you for not checking your six during a fight, even if Jason was covering you.

You'd be embarrassed if Red Hood didn't have the same amount of faith in you as you did in him. He trusts you to take point on missions, believes you when you offer him tips and whispers of cases he's working on.

You try not to read too far into it, but how could you feel anything but special when he so willingly lets you wander Crime Alley at his side, and rarely anyone else? When he calls you his partner? Calls dibs on patrolling with you? How could you not revel in the fact that someone so big and capable and sure in himself relies on you?

But for all the trust and skill that exists between you and Red Hood, sometimes you get unlucky. Sometimes, all it takes is one misstep, one slow reaction, for it all to go wrong.

It was supposed to be easy, routine. Just a small group of thugs trying to break their way into the back alley entrance of a jewelry store. It was supposed to be simple– you were even having fun, holding back laughter at how quickly they seemed to fall to the ground with each well aimed kick and jab.

With Red Hood taking one end of the alley and you the other, you thought you had them surrounded, you didn't even consider that there were more people around the corner.

You didn't hear them come up behind you– more preoccupied with dodging a punch to your throat– when a loud crack sounds through the alley. You drop to your knees– ears ringing, bile rising in your throat, vision swimming.

The back of your head aches, and you know you're in danger, likely concussed. But you don't know what happened– was it a pipe? A bat? You know you need to move, but you can't get your body to listen, can't get yourself off of the ground as the world seems to tip and fade in and out as you heave.

You wait for the next hit, another burst of pain, but it never comes. There's shouting– gunshots maybe, you can't focus on it. You force your gaze up, and the colors and figures seem to blur into one nauseating sight.

You think you make out Red Hood, slamming one of the men into the ground. It's hard to process anything– to understand what you're seeing. Red Hood lurches towards you, or maybe he's just moving onto the next goon. Maybe he doesn't even know you're down.

You can't tell and maybe you should be scared. All it would take is one well aimed bullet to change everything. But you're not afraid. Even as black dots dance in your vision, even as your stomach churns and the noises that fill the alley seem pitched and garbled in your ears, you know that Red Hood will not let you die.

You think you see someone raising a bat to strike at you. You want to block, defend yourself, but your body feels too heavy to move. You squeeze your eyes shut instead, trying to quell the bile in your throat as you curl your fingers into fists, desperately trying to stop shaking, to ward off the cold sweats and pain that seem to be radiating on every inch of your skin.

You wait for the inevitable strike that will knock you clean into unconsciousness, but it still doesn't come. You lean forward, gasping for air as another wave of dizziness hits you, when gentle hands grab your shoulders, guiding you to straighten out again.

"Hey, hey," the familiar robotic voice washes over you, steady, if not a little anxious to the trained ear, "I've got you, open your eyes for me, sweet thing. Lemme see you."

You do, unable to do anything but listen. Bodies lay crumpled around you in the alley. You don't quite understand how he got to you so fast. He was on the other side of the alley, nearly a dozen men between the two of you, and it feels like he fought his way to your side within seconds. Maybe you had gone down longer– and harder– then you realized.

"There you are," He murmurs, carefully tilting your chin up to examine your face, he watches you for a moment, the way your breath doesn't quite seem to find a regular rhythm. He brushes his fingers over the back of your head next, feeling for any fractures in your skull.

He lets out a sigh of relief when he finds none, "Looks like it's just a concussion, some bruising. We'll get you back to the cave, make sure you're not bleeding, alright?"

You want to nod, but you think if you moved right now you think you'd throw up into his lap. Which would be mortifying. You also might be incredibly distracted by how close he is. It's not every day you get to admire the way his hair peeks out from under his hood, the set of his broad shoulders, the way the whites of his mask seem to glow in the shadows of the alley.

He's incredibly handsome in the Gotham moonlight.

And then he laughs, lowering his hand from the back of your head, "Thanks, doll. Think you can stand up on your own?"

Oh. Did you say that out loud? You didn't mean to. You furrow your eyebrows, trying to get the words you actually want to say off of your tongue, "M'fine," you mumble, narrowing your eyes in an attempt to get your world to stop spinning for a moment, to try and find your balance.

"You're slurring your words," he points out, hands finding your shoulders again as you pitch slightly to the side, "How's your head?"

"Hurts," You admit, giving up on your attempt to stand. You choose to admire him instead, the curve of his throat, the tilt of his jaw towards you.

"I bet," He mumbles, before falling silent, letting the moment linger just long enough for you to start to relax, lulled into a daze by your dizziness. "I'm going to carry you," he decides.

You don't get to protest, as if you're in the state to. He just maneuvers himself to your side, gently hooking one arm around your back, and the other under your knees to lift you to his chest.

A new wave of nausea runs down your spine, and you tuck your head into his shoulder, fingers curling against the red bat engraved into his armor, "Sorry" Jason mumbles, going still as he waits for your dizzy spell to pass, "Guess he got you good, huh?"

"Was my fault," you sigh out, closing your eyes as you nuzzle closer into the comfort of the crook of his neck, "Got complacent." It takes you longer than it should have to sound your syllables out, even longer to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, but you think you manage to sound at least slightly coherent.

"Nah, sweetheart, it was mine," He lowers his voice even more as he talks, careful not to make your head ring anymore than it already is, to not jostle your injuries (and brain) and more than they already have, "I should have seen him. Should have warned you," he tells you, slowly and methodically carrying you out of the alley, away from the carnage he created.

If your eyes were open, you'd see exactly how driven he was to get to you– how he left bodies broken and mangled in his one purpose of protecting you. Instead, all you notice is the familiar smell of leather and gunpowder radiating from him.

You shake your head, "Red–" You cut off your own words with a wince, hiding your face deeper into his neck as your whole body seems to pound with pain. You really just want to tug his mask off, to listen to the way his voice dips to a soothing tenor without the modulator, to watch the way his eyes linger on your face, but you're quick to push the notion away, to blame it on your jumbled thoughts.

You suck in a breath as the nausea passes, "You're not responsible for my mistakes." You sound weaker than you mean to, words more slurred than you'd like, but you hope you get your point across.

His breathing seems to stutter in his chest for a moment, and his fingers dip a little tighter into divots of your amour, "Feels like it, though. I hate seeing you get hurt like this."

The confession should be heavy, but it just makes heat bloom straight from your heart, makes you lightheaded in all the best ways. You don't hide the smile that threatens to take over your face, "Yeah. Me too. About you, I mean." You hope that he understands, even if your words aren't as poetic or eloquent as you want them to be, you hope he knows what you're trying to say.

The tension seems to drain from his body at your words, and he lowers his head to press his mask to the top of your head, the mirror of a kiss. Both of you go quiet, basking in each other's touch– the rise and fall of your chest– alive– as your pain finally fades into a dull ache.

Later, you'll protest being taken off of patrol for two weeks. Later, you'll complain that Jason gets to take out the Two-Face shipment you've been planning for weeks. But for now, he's warm. He's holding you close. And there's nowhere safer for you than his arms.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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echo-of-the-eye · 4 months ago

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so since it's ace week i wanna talk about my very specific jon's ace ring headcanon. (btw the beginning of this is very inspired by a fic i read once, but i can't remember the name)

so jon has an ace ring. he got it from georgie in uni after she helped him figure out he was ace, and he wears it everyday.

but then, after jude perry burns his hand, he can't wear it for a while (i know if he wore it when shaking her hand it would have probably melted, so let's say he wasn't wearing it for some reason). he keeps the ring in his pocket and after he comes back to the archives martin notices he keeps fidgeting with it. (now this is the part that i read in a fic) martin asks about it and jon admits how upset he is that he can't wear it (this also ends up functioning as a coming out so martin can hear it from jon instead of office gossip!) and martin gives him a chain so he can wear it around his neck while his hand heals.

now this is the part that's all mine. i imagine right before they leave for the unknowing, jon and martin say goodbye (and they kiss cause it makes s4 hurt more and it's basically canon im my mind). jon takes of the ring necklace and gives it to martin, asking him to look after it until he comes back.

then the coma.

at first i imagined jon waking up with the ring next to him but no martin. but then i came up with something sadder (but also maybe sweeter?). martin keeps the ring. he knows he should give it back after jon wakes up and that he could probably find a way to do it without talking to him, but he just can't get himself to do it. jon notices but kinda forgets about it (he's got bigger things to worry about and assumes martin forgot).

then they go to the safehouse. and martin gives back the ring. he apologizes for not doing it before but jon is just touched that he still has it. it's all very emotional and then martin puts the ring on jon's finger and they are both VERY aware of how much it looks like a proposal

#i have spent a lot of time making myself sad thinking about this #so i figured i'd share it #if i were a writer i'd make this a fic #but i'm not #so feel free to run with this #(and please tag me if you do)#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #jonmartin #tma headcanons #echoing thoughts #echoing thoughts tma

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moody-alcoholic · 23 days ago

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Cross My Heart

Part 1 - Self Preservation

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: Mention/description of injuries, mention/description of weapons.

Part 2

Enjoy <3

A light flicks on waking you from your sleep.

Your eyes open looking round the room, it only takes a few seconds before your eyes land on a man holding a pistol at you. He’s sat on a chair, covered in what looks like military gear. There’s a bigger weapon slung over his back.

“Not a good idea to be sleepin’ when you’re alone.” He has an accent you can’t quite place. Not American though.

“I had lookouts.”

“Yeah, ‘bout that.” You swallow hard, your heart is pumping rapidly in your chest. They’re most likely dead. Innocent people dead.

“What do you want?” You ask, your eyes flick over to the pistol on your night stand. The man seems to see that, a change in your attitude.

You have to act now.

You reach out for the weapon. The man is on his feet in an instant, the pistol in his hand comes down hard on your wrist.

You yelp out in pain, your weapon falling to the floor. The door to the room fly's open, there’s another man now. He makes you jump, training an AR at your head.

There’s no point in fighting.

The man next to you picks the weapon up off the floor, unloading it and throwing it to the side. You swing your legs out the bed, throwing the covers back.

“Don’t fuckin’ move!” He shouts. You hear the safety click off his gun, your breath catches in your throat. You hold your hands up, you’re unarmed, there’s nothing you can do.

“What are you doing in a ULF safehouse?” The man in the doorway asks, you keep your eyes trained on the person holding the pistol to your head. British? You get a better look at the man in front of you, his badges. SAS, Union Jack, fuck.

“You’re injured?” There’s blood on his vest, it’s a long shot but better then nothing. “I’m a medic. I can help.” It’s a lie but all you can think about is getting out here alive.

The man looks to the doorway, you keep still. Even if you could tackle him to the ground his friend would finish you off.

“We’ve got one injured, think you could help?” The man in the doorways asks.

“What happened?” You ask, trying to hide your nerves. Your mum was a nurse, your dad a doctor before. Before the war.

“GSW.” That’s all you’re given, that could mean anything.

“You work with the ULF?” The man in front of you asks. You shake your head.

“Al Qatala?” You shake your head again.

“Who?” The man in the doorway asks again. This time you turn to him. The mask on his face is splattered with blood. He’s bigger, taller and wider than the guy in front of you. He has the same patches though, Union Jack, SAS.

“You said you had injured? You’re not going to find a hospital around here. It’s all Al Qatala controlled territory.” You say. Self preservation at its finest.

“Can you help then?” The man in front of you asks. You turn to look at him, your hands still in the air.

“The longer we wait the less chance I have. Gunshot wounds can be unpredictable.” You say swallowing the nerves. Confidence is key, that's what you learnt once. The man in front of you puts down his weapon grabbing your wrist and pulling you to your feet.

“Try anything and we fuckin’ kill ya.” He says through gritted teeth.

…

When you make it down to the ground floor as their hostage you can smell the blood in the air. The man with the mohawk is walking down first, the man with the mask is behind you, the barrel of his AR digging into your shoulder blades.

You can see two other people, they’re dressed in similar gear. At least one of them is, the other is laid out on the couch. The man standing turns, he brings a pistol up pointing it at you.

“Eazy Gaz. She’s a medic.”

“Doesn’t look like one.” The man-Gaz-says lowering his gun looking around at the people escorting you. You make it over to the person on the sofa. He doesn’t look good.

You don’t know what you’re doing, you didn’t think you could make it this far. They’ve taken his vest, belt and boots off. It’s just his shirt and trousers, his shirt is soaked through, pulled up to his chest. They’ve been trying to stop the bleeding. You’ve seen wounds like this before, you’ve seen people die from wounds like this.

“You said you could help him. What do you need?” The voice snaps you out of your head, you look over at him. The mohawk guy, he’s put his pistol away.

You have no idea what to do.

“Clean water, and bandages. Sterile if possible.” You say, you can’t tell if that sounds professional or not but they exchange glanses and the mohawk man leaves the room. You take another step over to the sofa. You need to know if the bullet has gone through or not.

“Not another step.” Gaz says. You hold your hands up again, holding your ground.

“I can’t help him if you don’t let me check him.” You say.

“Stand down Gaz.” You hear the voice behind you say. You don’t turn but you assume it’s the man with the mask. Gaz shifts gripping the weapon in his hands tighter.

“You won’t hurt him?” He asks, gritting his teeth.

“Cross my heart.” You say lowering your gaze, you keep your hands up until he moves out the way to join the man behind you. You look down at the man on the sofa. He’s unconscious, moans leaving his lips as shuffles on the sofa, his skin is clammy you can see the beads of sweat dripping down his face.

You lower your hands bending down by him. Your hand brushes over the bandages.

“I got water. Ghost, Gaz. Check your medkits for sterile bandages.” It’s the man with the accent.

Ghost. He must be the man with the mask. Gaz and Ghost.

A bowl of water is put down next to you. You look up at the mohawk man and nod at him. You’re still not sure what to do.

Clean the wound, asses the damage and get then fuck out of here.

…

There’s no exit wound. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

You replaced the bandages with gauze, homeostatic gaze, the good stuff you've only seen once or twice. The bleeding seems to be under control but that doesn’t help you if you don’t know how much he’s lost. His blood type is O+ that doesn’t help you either.

You try to remember things you’ve picked up from your parents. He’s breathing, responding to pain even though he's barely conscious. His pulse is as rapid as his breathing, again you don’t know if that's good or bad. You know it can’t be good but you’re not sure what to do.

You dip your hand back into the bowl of water and wring out the cloth before placing it on the man's forehead.

If he dies they’ll kill you. There is always someone behind you, you can hear them shuffle, move their weapon from hand to hand. If you tried to make a run for it they would kill you. Your best chance is to save this man. Save the enemy.

If he’s breathing, you’re safe.

You continue to make yourself look busy. Patting his forehead, keeping pressure on his wounds. He doesn’t seem to have any other injuries, just a gunshot to the abdomen.

“When were you going to tell us huh!?” The voice is loud and angry. You turn to see the man from earlier-Gaz storming towards you with a weapon in his hand. He only stops when the barrel is pressed to your head.

“What’s going on?” Ghost asks, his weapon is still trained on you from a distance.

“She’s Konni.” The man with the mohawk says. You look up at the man with the gun pressed to your head. You didn't even get a chance to get to your feet.

This is it. This is how you die.

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glow-worms-are-believers · 8 months ago

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Tim Drake: Ugly Duckling (dp x dc)

So this is the last day of pride month, and so also the last day of me trying to write as many LGBTQ+ canon dc characters. It’s been fun (and I got to read a whole bunch of comics which was actually much more fun than the first time I’d tried to read those!!)

Now even though this is the end of June, feel free to send an ask if you want me to write a blurb with any character. I make no promises, but I will very much try! (It might take a while especially if I’m in a Tumblr hibernation phase.)

Anyways, for the last day of pride month I wanted to do Tim Drake coz he’s dc’s “it girl” with the gays. I’ve been working on this Dead Tired fic for ages, based on the post about Tim getting turned into a swan and meeting Danny, who as a prince has to give him a kiss to change him back (I can’t find the prompt but it was hilarious so this was my take on it).

Here’s the beginning of the fic:

Red Robin was on patrol duty, while Batman and Robin were following a lead on possible joker safehouses. All in all, It was a pretty quiet night with only two muggings, both low-energy as both perpetrator ran away as soon as a bat-shaped shadow moved.

So Red Robin had spent most of the night chatting with Babs. He was grappling around town, as they started on the new date app they’d both found out Jason was using.

“I told him he can’t put only photos of his motorcycle but- wait I’m getting a call,” Oracle interrupted herself. Tim waited before the earpiece came to life again.

“Sorry to cut this short Red Robin, got a full-attention request from Canary. If you need anything, beep me, and Keep your coms open.”

“Bye, Oracle,” he said, and like that, Red Robin was alone once again.

He stopped on Grand Avenue Station and just let himself take in Gotham. The city was beautiful at night, and Tim was itching for a camera. He seen hundreds of pictures of the city’s skyline but they always managed to be unique. The night sky may always be covered by dark clouds above, but Gotham had its own stars in the lights shinning on top of the skyscrapers. So lost in his thoughts, Tim was, he almost missed the soft noise that sounded behind him. The voice that sounded behind him was harder to miss.

“Wither away so late, Little Red Bird?”

Red Robin turned to see a tall woman standing half in the shadows

“Sorry, can I help you?” Answered the vigilante despite the bad feeling creeping up to him.

“I’d like to know where I can find your guardian,” the woman said, still in the shadows.

“You mean Batman?” He chanced.

The woman nodded and Tim resisted the urge to sigh.If this was another one of Bruce’s ill-advised fling, Tim was going to hack every electronic device the man had to play sex-eds on loops for at least a week.

“He’s busy at the moment.” Then feeling like he shouldn’t assume what the woman wanted Bruce for, he continued. “But if you need any help, I’ll do my best.”

The woman stepped forward, and Tim could see her better. Her face was bare, but her distinctive outfit seemed to indicate she was some kind of vigilante-slash-criminal. The outfit did, in fact, ring a bell in the back of his mind, but it was dim. Tim didn’t tense up, but he did angle his body in a way to accommodate for a better escape through grappling. She continued walking until she was within arm’s reach of Tim, towering over him. She extended a hand to lightly caress his cheek, and Tim went still at the touch.

“Such a kind Little Bird you are,” she said gently. “You know, you remind me of my daughter.” She sighed. “Oh, what pretty children you both are.”

“Thank you,” said Tim as he sidestepped out of the way. “I’m sure she’s a lovely person.”

“Oh she was,” the woman said and through his growing wariness, Tim spared a thought for the girl. “She had dark hair and the fairest skin, just like you. The most beautiful girl in the land some would even say.”

That niggling feeling came back as a feeling of familiarity poked at him once again. “You must’ve been very proud.”

The woman let out an airy laugh before saying playfully/contemplating. “mustn’t I?”

A shiver ran down his back. Alright, there was something wrong with this woman, and Tim wasn’t waiting around to find out what. Not without any information or backup.

“Well, if there’s nothing I can do for you, I really have to get going,” Tim said as he took out his grapple gun. In a second, the gun was ripped from his hand , and he was slammed to the side of the staircase leading up to the roof. He let out a gasp at the impact and his features tensed in pain. The woman hadn’t even touched him.

“Not so fast, Little Bird. We don’t want you going back to the Batman just yet. I’m not ready to make him my Knight yet.”

“Your knight?” Tim managed to get out. He tried to move his arms, but some unseen force was pinning him in place. Shit, that meant he couldn’t reach the comm to send out a distress signal. Hopefully Babs would check in soon.

The woman smiled as she approached him once again. “What better for a Queen, than a Dark Knight?”

And just like that it clicked. “You’re the Queen of Fables.”

“Well look at this, you’ve got the brains and the beauty,” she teased, her voice as smooth as honey.

“What do you want with Batman?” Tim asked though he could guess from previous encounters she had had with the Justice League that the villainess wanted to turn Bruce into a fairytale character of some sort. She’d done the trick on Clark, and twice on Diana, so it was probably Batman’s turn now. So, yes, Tim could guess, But the longer he kept her talking the more time he had to figure out a way out of this.

“I told you, he’ll be a Knight of the Queen,” She extended a hand and tilted Tim’s face up. “Do you know what that would make you Little Bird?”

Most villains assumed the batclan worked like a crime family. So the family of a knight? “Nobility,” Tim guessed, unsure where this was going.

“Exactly.” She smiled, and then she moved. Tim braced for the hit.

Instead of a punch though, he only felt a tingling sensation. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, only for them to grow bigger as he took in his uniform. Or the lack thereof.

He was in something-century clothing, in some sort of frilly shirt and pants, all in white. This was worse than a punch. Then, as the thought hit him, Tim’s hands flew to his face only to come in contact with the silky fabric of a masquerade mask. He sighed in relief, and as he calmed down, he realized he was now free of the force pinning him down.

“The color is for my daughter,” the Queen said. Then, she let her head fall to the side before tracing a line across his forehead and Tim could feel something like a circlet setting down on it. “There you go. Now, it’s perfect. You could practically be siblings.”

“No thanks.,” Tim answered.

The Queen tsked him. “That’s no way to behave Little Bird, has nobody taught you to say thank you when you receive a gift.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Tim disagreed mildly as he took stock of his weapons. Everything was gone, including the earpiece, which meant Babs had to have been alerted and someone was en route.

The Queen frowned. “I was going to be merciful, for you guardian’s sake, but I no longer feel generous.” She raised her hand and Tim tried to roll away, but the magic beam swerved and hit him in a blinding flash of light.

When he managed to open his eyes once again, the world seemed quite a bit bigger than it had been moments before.

“What did you do to me?” He said. Or tried to say.

Instead a strange squawk echoed and Tim took a step back in surprise. However, he lost his balance and started to fall and as he tried to catch himself with his hand, two large white wings unfolded. He dropped down, which wasn’t as far as he would’ve estimated and laid stiff. He moved his left arm, and a white wing followed suit.

Oh, no. Oh no no no.

A grating laugh interrupted his freak out. “There you are my pretty Little Bird, all better. White really is your colour, don’t you th-“

With a loud hiss, Tim propelled himself towards the woman. Making use of his newfound beak, he pecked and bit everything he could, as he flapped his wings.

“Blasted creature- Get off! Stop it, you despicable, puny-“

Finally she managed to grab Tim and throw him away from her. He landed with a squawk, but managed to get himself back to his feet quickly. “You little/awful brat,” she snarled. “You’ll pay for this!”

But as the Queen threw out her hand, something rippled in the air between them and the magic beam seem to explode midway into a green vortex. Tim’s clumsy attempt at waddling away had him head straight towards it, and it was in vain that he tried to redirect the course. She and Tim made eye contact as the swan-boy tipped right into the swirling green vortex, both of their eyes wide-open in surprise.

Danny was exhausted. He was currently on week one of the full month of Royal Duties he’d promised Clockwork. Being Prince of the Infinite Realm was not all that it was cracked up to be, and that was saying a lot since he had already been expecting it to be awful.

When Clockwork had made the request, Danny had proceeded to freak out about his new status, and then tried to abdicate. It was only the master of time reminding him of all the terrible possible candidate for the throne per rites of combat (such as Vlad) that stopped him from washing his hands of this mess. And now Danny was forced to spend one whole month of his summer vacation in the Ghost Zone to fulfill his duty as a Prince.

He thought it would be some paperwork, maybe a battle or two, nothing too bad, but nooo. Because, of course nothing was easy, Danny had to show up at Events, and be Diplomatic. It was meeting, after meeting, after weird parties that were a mix between Medieval Banquets and Debutante balls.

And worse of all were the marriage proposals. Danny could sorta understand, marrying into royalty was a definite plus for a lot of more powerful ghosts but when they called him a half-breed behind his back, only to smile in his face with a marriage contract in one hand and flowers in the other, that was where he drew the line.

Plus there was also the fact that he was, like sixteen.

Suffice to say, Danny was exhausted and hiding out in Pariah Dark’s old castle as a last resort. It wasn’t his favorite place all in all, but the gardens were absolutely beautiful, which was where he was walking. He was currently headed to the hedge maze, since it was the best way to get rid of any tails he may or may not have.

The maze was nasty if it didn’t like you, and it didn’t like anybody but Danny, and even then, it still tried to take a bite every once in a while. Despite the snaking vines and roots trying to capture anything that moved, the flowers that wailed softly when disturbed or the sharp thorns of the hedge plants themselves, it was still a beautiful place. Uniquely, the closer you got to the centre, the more colorful (and dangerous) everything got, which was why he liked it best.

He reached the centre much quicker than the first time he tried, thanks to the maze actually helping him, and something pale caught his eye right in the middle of the open area, right next to the bench Danny loved to use. As he got closer, he realized it was a swan laying on the floor, seemingly unconscious.

“Oh no,” Danny said as he approached. “What happened to you?”

As if awakened by the sound of his voice, the swan started to shift, its wings twitching and it rose its head groggily. As soon as it clocked in Danny, it let out a surprised squawk, followed by a long hiss as it struggled to move away.

“Hey, hey, none of that, Duckie, you’re ok.” Danny raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t want to harm you, ok? I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

The hiss subsided by a bit, but that may have only be due to the swan managing to get further away.

“Sh, sh, it’s ok,” Danny repeated as he slowly inched forward. The swan stopped hissing but still observed him warily. “I don’t want to hurt you Duckie, but I do think we’d better get you out of this maze.”

Danny took another step, and this time the swan stayed still. “How about bringing you back to my rooms just for now.” The swan hissed louder at the statement. “Don’t worry Duckie, I’m not keeping you prisoner it’s just this maze has been known to eat people. And you’re too pretty to be eaten,” Danny flashed a smile at the swan which had it stare back with a gaze saying really?

“So what do you say, wanna crash at my place?” Danny asked. The swan didn’t move forward but he didn’t move away either.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t trust a guy who talks to birds either,” Danny allowed. “And the place where I’m staying is a little gloomy, so I don’t blame you, but I can’t leave you here. The maze is honestly really dangerous, especially for a nice bird is like you. “

The swan seemed to hesitate before it hesitantly made its way to Danny. Ghost animals were usually smart but the swan seemed to understand English, which made communicating that much easier. Danny smiled and opened his arms. “I can carry you.” The swan just looked at him, with what Danny would’ve thought was a deadpan stare. “It would go much faster.”

If the swan was human it probably would’ve sighed, but instead, its wings just fell a little before it waddled towards Danny and looked up as if to say ‘get on with it’.

Danny smiled and gathered the animal in his arms. “Buckle up,” he said before flying off towards the maze exit, which was accompanied by a low hiss. Making sure there was nobody there to ambush him, Danny made it back to the castle in record time.

“Here we are Duckie.” Danny set the swan back down and it plopped down on the ground and just steadied themselves for a while.

Tim was a swan. He had wings and no fingers, and his feet were webbed.

He was handling it though. By which Tim meant he was shelving the impending panic attack for later when he wasn’t stuck in a swan body.

Ok, so he’d been turned by the Queen of Fables, so there had to be an answer in a fairytale,a way to make him normal again. He knew the ugly duckling story. That had a swan in it, right? He didnt know any other swan stories, except maybe as a dish during the wedding banquet of whichever princess. He vaguely remembered a Barbie movie that had passed on the TV when he was younger but the only thing that came to mind were a scary-looking Troll thing, and ballet. So with lack of better alternatives he was going to go with the ugly duckling. The ugly duckling’s happy ending was reuniting with family, so maybe all he needed was to make his way back to Gotham.

“Are you ok?”

And that was another thing. The guy. The one Tim had at first wanted to get away from. He seemed nice and all, but he also had neon green eyes, and fangs. Unfortunately, while they suited the boy very well, they also marked him as an unknown.

On the other hand, if the glowing portal wasn’t enough of an indication, the green tinge of everything around was clear indicator that Tim wasn’t in Kansas anymore. The guy seemed to want to help him, and having an ally wherever he was could only help.

Tim nodded as best as he could with his long weird neck, and he had to take a few steps to regain balance.

“That’s good,” the boy smiled with his white pointy canine. “How did you end up in the middle of that maze?”

Tim just looks back tiredly. He didn’t know how to even try and explain when he couldn’t say a word and had no opposable thumbs.

“Yeah, sorry.” The boy winced. “Maybe stick to yes or no questions.”

There was a sharp knock at the door that had the boy turning away.

“Prince Phantom!” A voice rung through the door.

Prince?

The newly-dubbed Prince Phantom got up to open the door, “yes, what can I do for you?”

“Your meeting with Queen Dora is approaching. Do you still prefer to forgo an escort guards?” a purple lady was saying.

“I’ll be fine without, Maj but thank you very much,” Phantom answered with a polite smile.

“I’ll pass it along, my Prince.” She bowed and closed the doors behind her.

Phantom walked back to lay on the bed with a sigh. “I really hate that they call me that.” He turned towards Tim to continue. “I bet swans don’t have royalty. You guys had the right idea.”

#Yep so this is the beginning beginning #Tim drake #danny fenton #dead tired #dc x dp #dp x dc #roxpox #roxpoxwrote #bisexual character

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altcvnningham · 4 months ago

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canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

364 notes · View notes

curseofaphrodite · 4 months ago

Text

Midnight Chase

REGULUS BLACK X READER

one more marauders fic before I move onto Avengers :) Also, I keep writing Reggie as moody and silent so I wanted to explore the headcanon of him being more like his brother. Have some flirty and sarcastic Regulus for a change!

"Let's try to see this in a positive light," James said, in the middle of the pitch-dark forest which was possibly infested with dementors or worse. "We could think of this as camping!"

Your groan was in sync with Lily's.

"Right, Sirius? Didn't we always want to go camping—?"

"Oh I don't know, I'm not sure I find the death-eaters-made-us-dissapparate-to-an-unknown-forest-while-a-literal-war-is-going-on part all too pleasant!" Sirius replied, which was the closest to a disagreement he had with James. The latter feigned hurt.

"We're all tired," you sighed. "Let's just find a place to rest and we can go back to the headquarters in the morning."

"What if it's too late then?" Sirius said, almost nervous. His mood being depressive was very unlike his usual self, but you weren't too surprised either. The Order was the closest thing to a family Sirius had, and it seemed as if everyone's lives were hanging on by a thread.

"We'll be fine," James, ever the mother of the group, tried his cheerfulness again. "I'll pull up Hogly's tent charm and—"

"No!" Lily said quickly. "Are you stupid? Don't answer that. If we use magic, there's a good chance they'll trace us to where we are."

"But we're of age," Sirius said, outraged. "The Ministry wouldn't trace us — unless, yeah they're infiltrated. That makes sense."

"No magic?" James's mouth fell open. "At least we could use lumos?"

"No," you shook your head. "It's better not to take any chances."

"But then how would we see?"

Even in the darkness, you could feel Lily's gaze on the back of your head. Being two muggle-born witches of the group, you realized there was a lot you needed to do to survive the night.

"Bring me a couple of sticks. And dried leaves. Lots of them."

---------------------------------------------------------

THREE HOURS LATER

---------------------------------------------------------

Light snores came around you, but you were far from asleep. If your guess was right, it was over two in the morning, so the sun would be coming up soon anyway. It took everything in you to focus on the stars and not on the events that led you to apparate here.

Y/N! Get out of the way! Moody had yelled as the death eaters appeared. It was your first time seeing them in cloaks and lifeless masks. You felt exposed, but with the headquarters three feet away, you couldn't run in and let the death eaters follow you.

Moody's sound from the inside had already tipped them off, but they couldn't find the location of the safehouse as long as the charms held up.

Feet rooted to the spot, you felt ashamed to feel your hands shaking.

Can't even hold my wand right, you thought to yourself. And as if on point, your friends had gotten out of the house and placed themselves by your side. If you couldn't get in, they weren't going to let you get outnumbered on your own.

Sirius, Lily, and James were three of the bravest people you knew, but you couldn't let them get hurt on your behalf.

So you did what you should have done at the start. You held on to Lily's hand who grabbed James by instinct. Sirius was to your left, so you placed your other hand on his shoulder, and with every inch of your determination left, you disapparated on the spot.

Now with the same guilt washing over you, was it even a surprise that you couldn't sleep? You won't rest your eyes for five seconds before you let your friends get in the headquarters safely without any nasty surprises.

A soft rustle interrupted your dark thoughts. Being hyper-alert as you were, you snapped your neck towards the source. Another rustle rang out — this one sharper than the last. You stood up, cautiously walking to the root of the sound.

Bunny. Please let it be a soft, cute bunny.

You held your wand high, and someone — a human — let out a startled sound. More rustles followed, and before you could figure out what was happening, a person dashed off right in front of you.

"Hey, STOP!" Was it stupid to follow a stranger in the middle of nowhere simply because they appeared scared? Yes. Did you do it anyway? Also yes.

Both of you sprinted through the forest, the trees being a bare blur. They refused to slow down, so you kept up the chase. The adrenaline helped through most of it though the unknown silhouette was almost non-human in its speed. You pushed harder with your muscles burning, and finally, with a hopeless leap, you collided with the stranger.

They hit the ground hard, rolling over the damp earth. The impact knocked the wind from your lungs. Your fingers dug into the rough fabric and the stranger's hood fell back.

You gasped.

"Regulus?!"

He looked shocked to the core, either from your strength or from the fact you knew his name.

"How do you even know me?" he asked, his voice a whisper from all the gasping for air.

You pointed your wand at his throat.

"Well, you're a little unrecognizable without your mask."

His face drained what's remaining of the blood.

"I just wanted to — can you stop poking that thing inside my nose?"

"I'll poke it wherever I want, you traitorous little scrumbag!"

"I thought you were above that sort of thing."

"Why would you think I'm above name calling?"

"No, the poke it wherever you want part."

Your face reddened. "Shut up while I decide what to do with you."

He laughed. "I'm sorry, it's like you're not hearing yourself!"

Why the fuck is the usual depressed emo Regulus Black as happy as can be? Then again, it was the midnight in a deadly forest so he might have felt right at home.

"That's it, I'm charming your mouth shut." You pointed the wand even further, and he let out an ouch!

"I'm telling you again, get that thing out of my face before I sneeze all over it."

"Ewww," you stood up on instinct, and he used that moment to get his own wand and point at you.

A moment passed.

"You're so... crude," you said in distaste. "I thought you weren't supposed to be like your brother?"

"Something to do with genetics, I assume." He smiled warmly. "Now, I'm only going to say this once."

"Expelliarmus!" you shrieked.

Nothing happened.

He sighed. "I'm skilled in occulumency. I used a shielf charm the moment you said expel. Spells always have too many syllables, don't they?"

You lowered your wand in exasperation. He did the same.

"What do you want?"

"Didn't realize this land belonged to you."

"You could have disapparated the second you saw me. Why didn't you? Why are you here in the first place?"

"The Dark Lord sent me."

You tilted your head and thought for a second. "I highly doubt he'd send only one of his death eaters if he knew where we were, let alone the youngest and most inexperienced."

He gasped, just as dramatic as Sirius. "Are you saying I came here just to be pinned down by you?"

Yup, exactly like Sirius.

"Barty has pull in the Ministry," he went on under your shrewd glance. "I tracked down my brother."

"But we never did any magic here..."

"I've been tracking him since he left home."

You blinked in surprise. "You what?"

"Just to make sure he's alright. . . though I doubt you'd believe it."

A man in moonlight trying to explain his sins. You'd be a fool to believe his words. And even more stupid to ignore them altogether.

"What do you want?" you asked again.

"I was just checking in on my brother, as usual. And I saw someone stargazing. I recognized it was you."

"And?"

His gaze softened, then he immediately cleared his throat. "And I was wondering if you'd speak aloud like some damsels in distress do. I thought I could reply from the trees and surprise you like the skies have replied. But you didn't move, nor did you speak."

"Do you usually go to Elizabethan english when you lie, or is that a quirk?"

He laughed, though it appeared forced. "Trust me, I was just caught leaving."

"Why didn't you disapparate then?"

"Do you honestly think they'd only track the Order? I wasn't going to take any chances."

Regulus Black was... nice?

"Well, I'm not sure how much I trust your words," you said, face high. "Come back with me to see Sirius, and let him make something out of all of this."

"No." It's the first time he sounded serious through the entire conversation. "My brother hates me. He does. I don't want to talk to him."

"But—"

"Y/N." His voice was stern. "I have to go. Take care of my brother — just until I'm back, okay?"

"You'll be back?"

"I've to take care of something," he said, his hands unconsciously touching his locket. "But after that, I'd be back. The freest man in the continent, you'd say."

"I don't trust you."

"So you've said." He walked towards you, giving you a quick hug. It felt awkwardly sweet, as if he's giving a hug for the very first time. You froze, but before you could do anything, he already let go.

"Time's running short," he grinned. "Now, the real chase begins. Do start running."

"Wait, wha—"

But he had already gone, disappeared in the blink of an eye. How can he disapparate if he said he wasn't going to take any chances?

Oh shit.

You remembered how you broke the protection first when you tried to disarm him. How the expeliarmus might have made death eaters alert. Regulus Black had cleverly evaded the scene and you probably had seconds to warn others.

You disapparated on the spot to your makeshift tent, but not before looking at the spot Regulus Black had previously stood.

I'd be back.

You found yourself hoping that was a promise and not a possibility.

THE END

_________

commissions | kofi

#regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black x y/n #astoria writes #fluff #regulus black fluff #marauders fanfiction #timothee chalamet #reader insert

195 notes · View notes

pillowspace · 11 months ago

Text

The Magnus Archives Fic Rec List

Press the read more for recommended fanfiction of The Magnus Archives! Never heard The Magnus Archives and are interested?

Current number of fics: 85

last updated March 18th, 2024

These are all works that I have personally read at least a couple thousand words of and enjoyed myself, so this list will reflect my own reading habits

If you are the author of a fic, you can request your work be removed from the list. Everyone should be comfortable

Table of Contents - 1. England Jonmartin-centric, 2. Scottish Safehouse Period, 3. Gen or Background Pairings, 4. Time Travel, 5. Highly Alternate, 6. Gerrymichael, 7. Other, 8. Updates (note: some categories tend to overlap. Only one will be prioritized)

England Jonmartin-Centric

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Full, Riotous Bloom by BigTed

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding…” Jon looks at him. Looks at him. The look of a boss whose employee was late three times last week, the look of a man who was just busy doing something really important and now he’s here, doing this instead. “...why he stole a grieving family’s oven gloves.”

Martin has a run in with a deadly Leitner, leaving him choking on his unrequited love.

M | Words: 66,962 | Chapters: 13/13

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fell in your opinion when i fell in love with you by Athina_Blaine

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“This is the Magnus Institute, not a creative writing course at university. If that doesn’t agree with him, he can leave.” There was a thud and the sound of rifling tapes. “He can take his bloody tea with him.”

Martin’s fingers tightened on the saucer. Oh.

Martin knows better than to talk about it. It's fine. He's fine.

Part 1 of it's only when i hit the ground it causes all the grief

M | Words: 18,987 | Chapters: 2/2

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Just a Little Bit Pet-tea by arthureameslove

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin makes Jon tea for the first time about a week into his transfer. It’s horrible. Gag-reflex inducing. Somehow sporting all the wrong flavors.

For some reason, he does not have the heart to break this to Martin.

Little does Jon know that Martin actually makes wonderful tea. Just not for him.

G | Words: 13,335 | Chapters: 3/3

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Misshapes, Mistakes, Monsters by ZaliaChimera

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

The Archives are his and stepping away from them, even for a night… it’s strange. Like he’s pretending to be someone else.

Like he’s pretending to be human.

Jon and Martin attend Jon's Oxford University Reunion.

T | Words: 7,969 | Chapters: 1/1

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Say You Love Me (Learn to Lie) by iamcringebutiamfree

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

It shouldn’t have been surprising to learn that Martin hated him. He had been, he knew, a truly terrible boss - he’d treated Martin horribly, caused him to lose his home, nearly gotten him killed. Really, it had been ridiculous to ever think that Martin wouldn’t hate him.

Still, Jon had been trying, in his own way, to make it up to him. There wasn’t exactly a card at the drugstore that said, “I’m sorry I berated you for six months and caused you to nearly be eaten by a swarm of worms of potentially supernatural origin,” but he’d been trying. He brought Martin breakfast every morning, made sure the breakroom cabinets were stocked with his favorite blends of tea, and had tried to work some genuine praise into his feedback of Martin’s work. None of it was the direct apology that his conscience told him he really ought to give, but Martin had appreciated it. Or seemed to, anyway.

Jon wasn’t certain what motivated the decision he made next - whether it was guilt or spite or something else. He could, he knew, be quite petty when the situation called for it. Either way, he made up his mind then and there to prove Martin wrong. He was going to be the best fake boyfriend he could be.

A Fake Dating AU!

T | Words: 37,889 | Chapters: 10/10

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a consideration of tropes by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Do you know much about cataloguing?” Jon asks, a little out of breath from the stairs.

Martin, mid-trolley, rolls his eyes. The gesture he makes at the shelves around him is only emphasised by the book he’s holding.

“What exactly do you think I do here, other than sit around and wait for angry patrons to yell at me?”

“Think of what you’re going to yell back?” Jon says, and Martin’s mouth twitches into a smile.

Asking the very important question: what if Jon and Martin had a gentle archives/library romance, and kept running into tropes? What if there was mutual pining involved? Only one bed? Fake dating? Hurt/comfort? Or perhaps, a soft and happy ending?

T | Words: 40,966 | Chapters: 8/8

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It Serenely Disdains to Destroy Us by trill_gutterbug

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin gnaws his lower lip. “Do you think he’ll - I mean, do you think it’ll be…”

Melanie's smile becomes a little less of a grimace. She claps his shoulder. “Martin. It’ll be fine. It’s only temporary. He’s not moving in.”

Martin chuckles. “Yes. Of course.”

Jon's flat is being fumigated. He is not impressed. Martin offers his spare bedroom.

T | Words: 13,048 | Chapters: 1/1

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terror management theory by prismatical

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (briefly)

“It’s a preexisting condition,” Jon explains, sipping more bitter tea. “I sort of got—hm. You know Spiderman?”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“Heard of him, yeah.”

Jon nods, studying his tea.

“It’s sort of like that,” he says. “A spider killed and ate me when I was a child, and now I can’t stay dead.”

Resurrection isn't all it's cracked up to be.

T | Words: 36,587 | Chapters: 1/1

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Clutching Daffodils by Gemi

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight.

It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs.

He always liked the idea of it.

And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.

NR | Words: 7,624 | Chapters: 1/1

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a little love, a little sympathy by Did

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

And then Jon is snarling into his face, demanding what are you hiding with a strange, bright-eyed intensity Martin has never seen from him before, and Martin thinks god, maybe he should just come clean about his CV, Jon thinking he's a fraud can't be any worse than Jon thinking he's a murderer-

Martin opens his mouth to speak. To his absolute horror, what actually comes out is: "I used to pretend to cry because I liked how nice you were to me when you thought I was upset!"

G | Words: 3,308 | Chapters: 1/1

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all resistance wearing thin by DivineProjectZero

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin Blackwood would do anything for Jonathan Sims. The Web made him that way, after all.

T | Words: 4,799 | Chapters: 1/1

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Sam nie pojmuję, jak w twe zajdę progi by Mad_Maudlin

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin's been acting odd since Jon came back. Well, odder than usual.

T | Words: 3,118 | Chapters: 1/1

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Mundanity by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Inspired by @ themlet's post on Tumblr: Jon has to deal with normal human interactions. Martin helps (sort of). Featuring high school reunions, knitted sweaters, and conversations on the bus ride home.

T | Words: 3,097 | Chapters: 1/1

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Musical Mechanism by Darblesify

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin has always used music to cope. One day he's playing music music out loud in the archive and Tim and Sasha realize the main singer's voice sounds familiar.

AKA Martin's favorite band might happen to be the one Jon was secretly a part of in college.

T | Words: 21,411 | Chapters: 8/8

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Misfiled and Misinformed by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

Jon and Martin are married. Tim and Sasha know this. What they don't know is that it's to each other.

T | Words: 2,507 | Chapters: 1/1

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look no further by inkyindigo

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin just wants to keep Jon safe. Sometimes the easiest way to do that is to bodily remove him from harm's way.

or, a collection of times Martin picks Jon up.

T | Words: 15,145 | Chapters: 8/8

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Touch Me, Even if it Hurts by AuralQueer

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner

People don't really touch Jonathan Sims unless they want to hurt him. That's mostly fine. Jon has never been a tactile person, and he doesn't need anyone but himself.

Except the world is falling down around him, and loneliness aches, and sometimes he'll take anything - even cruelty - just to feel human again.

*A story set between s1 and s4, looking at Jon's relationship with touch, friendship, and his own humanity.

T | Words: 6,540 | Chapters: 1/1

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I'll bring the motion by callmearcturus

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

A long series of kidnappings and international flights leaves its own special mark on someone. Before the Unknowing, Jon is a mess.

Martin helps.

(based on this amazing art by linecrosser)

T | Words: 3,127 | Chapters: 1/1

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thanks for the company by lukeskqwalker

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin had been baffled by how easily he spilled his guts out to this odd stranger. Now, Martin is more baffled by the baggy My Chemical Romance t-shirt he's wearing, paired with tasteful plaid pajama bottoms.

Or, Martin gets a visitor in his dreams. Reliving the same 14 days of loneliness every night isn't as bad when you have company.

T | Words: 4,314 | Chapters: 1/1

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stranger, stranger by blueskiddoo

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Sure,” Georgie says, still laughing at him. At least someone is having fun. “Don’t you have assistants for that kind of thing?”

“Yes, but…” He huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to ask one of them to download an app called...Lover? Lov-rrr? I don’t know how you say it.” He flaps his hands dismissively. “There are--unions and such. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

jon makes a fake account on a dating app to investigate a statement. tim sets martin up with fake account on a dating app to boost his self-confidence. it goes exactly how you might expect.

G | Words: 36,771 | Chapters: 11/11

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i wanna find a home (i wanna share it with you) by heartshapedguy

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Have you got anywhere to stay?” Jon asks him, briskly. “Friends, acquaintances, maybe, who you could stay with…?”

Martin flushes, deeply. “I, I mean— n-no, not really,” he stammers, and then goes even redder. “Or, just, y’know not that I’d want to, to. Put in the middle of this. Put in danger of, of worms.”

“Ah,” Jon says, “No, of course, that makes sense.” Why drag anyone else into this mess? Seven people died during Prentiss’s initial hospitalization; the collateral damage of roping someone from outside the Institute into her orbit doesn’t bare thinking about. “In that case…” Jon feels like there’s some alternative solution, one he’s just not thinking of at the moment, but it evades him, and Martin needs somewhere safe to stay. “My couch is quite comfortable. You’re welcome to come and stay with me until you figure something else out.”

Martin is held hostage by Jane Prentiss for two weeks, and can't go back to his flat. Jon offers him a place to stay until Prentiss and her worms can be dealt with, and they can be sure he's safe.

T | Words: 65,951 | Chapters: 19/19

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true kinda love by Did

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

So. Martin isn't expecting anything to happen. But then, one day, something...does happen. It happens when Martin is passing Jon in the hall, and stops to ask how he’s doing, because Jon always looks a little bit like hell these days, and it makes Martin feel like he has to do something, and useless small talk is pretty much all he can do, so that’s what he does. And instead of grunting or shrugging or mumbling something dismissive, Jon replies, with perfect, involuntary clarity, "Every part of me aches, and I would just about kill to have someone rub my shoulders right now."

There's a positively deafening silence as they both come to grips with this unprecedented turn of events. Then they both start talking at once.

"Ah," says Jon.

"Wow," says Martin, at the same time.

G | Words: 5,053 | Chapters: 1/1

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hey stranger by ennuijpg

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker

It’s a late night Tesco run, how eventful could it be? It’s not like Martin is going to run into his boss who’s wearing something absurdly different from usual and get the most acute form of whiplash possible from seeing him, right?

(Based on this post about alt jon on tumblr because it's all I've been thinking about of late.)

T | Words: 2,701 | Chapters: 1/1

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Sun-kissed by Rauchendes_GNU

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner

Martin doesn’t have any freckles. Jon has watched him and the others for a while now, and he knows that everyone has freckles. Tim is absolutely covered in them, and he seems to get more and more every day as Sasha seems very determined to kiss every part of Tim that is not yet covered in tiny dark spots.

Everyone has been loved by someone at some point. Everyone has been kissed, no matter if a platonic peck on the cheek or a heated kiss on the mouth. Everyone but Martin, it seems.

Or: Jon realises Martin has never been kissed. He rectifies that right away.

T | Words: 3,407 | Chapters: 1/1

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skin deep by isthepartyover

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims

“Hello, Martin Blackwood speaking.”

“Oh thank god-” a woman’s voice answered, rushed and panicked, and Martin immediately closes the folder he was leafing through absent-mindedly and snaps his head towards the door. “Sorry, oh god, I’m Georgie, I’m Jon’s friend, I don’t know what to do-”

(au where georgie calls martin post burn)

M | Words: 3,125 | Chapters: 1/1

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Take Care of You (And I'll Take Care of Me) by Mad_Maudlin

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

When Martin Blackwood met the new research assistant, his heart skipped a beat. Too bad Jonathan Sims seems to hate him.

(A soulmates AU)

M | Words: 20,386 | Chapters: 6/6

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Somebody That I Used to Know by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner (background), Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker

(Minor) SPOILERS FOR MAG 161!!!

Jon gets replaced by the Not!Them. Life goes on.

T | Words: 6,358 | Chapters: 1/1

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a six-step process by bluejayblueskies

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. Not like Nikola's. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have goals, he thinks. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying.

Part 2 of touch prompts

T | Words: 2,138 | Chapters: 1/1

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who's there? by bubonickitten

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Jon has a panic attack after Elias shows him exactly what happened behind the door after Mr. Spider took its victim.

Martin helps him calm down, and Jon tells him the story of his first Leitner.

Part 2 of thresholds

T | Words: 6,139 | Chapters: 1/1

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Clothes Have No Gender by kristsune

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Jon wears a skirt to the Institute for the first time, and gets reactions he hadn't expected.

NR | Words: 1,846 | Chapters: 1/1

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northwest 6 to gale 8. rain. poor, occasionally good. by chewsdaychillin

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

A voicemail made up of a female robot and Jon’s professional work tone tells him to leave a message, but Martin hangs up before the beep. He’s not even sure he can speak, let alone put this into words.

‘Hi Jon, sorry to call at four fifty-two AM. My mum just died and I don’t know what to do or how to feel. Call me back when you can! Love you, bye!’

AUish where Jon is alive when Martin's mum passes away, helps him grieve and heal (and they maybe admit to being in love)

Part 1 of northwest 6 to gale 8

M | Words: 35,828 | Chapters: 9/9

Scottish Safehouse Period

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Resigned, Though Not to Fate by inkfingers_mcgee

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“You’re really suggesting this,” Martin says, voice pulled thin.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“You would- actually do it?”

“I would.”

“With me.”

“Yes, Martin.”

“Why?” Because love is blind, says something cliché and cruel in the pit of his gut. Christ, he never was much of a poet, was he?

Or,

When Jon asks Martin to Quit the Archives with him, Martin says yes. Things don't go as planned. In the Scottish Highlands, they hurt, and they heal.

(Re-written as of 22-12-27; see chapter 9 for more info.)

T | Words: 145,748 | Chapters: 9/9

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nor any more youth or age than there is now by Ravenesta

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

The local Primary school has a new teacher. He is, to say the very least, odd.

A series of statements regarding the interactions of the townsfolk with one Jonathan Sims, never formally given.

T | Words: 6,512 | Chapters: 1/1

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There's a 15th Fear, and it's Teenagers by captloverboy

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Basira Hussain, Basira Hussain & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Helen | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Helen | The Distortion & Basira Hussain, Helen | The Distortion & Martin Blackwood

What if Jonah didn't ruin everything? Didn't send the end of everything statement? What do Jon and Martin do now? Get a job, I guess. A teaching job, for Jon, though it was hardly his first pick. But sometimes your boyfriend looks *really* excited when he suggests it, and I mean, you know literally everything. It can't be that bad, right? Right?

T | Words: 26,140 | Chapters: 14/14

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the Teacher from the Magnus Archives by Athina_Blaine

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Hey, everyone, welcome back to my channel. My name is Maggie Abernathy and today we will be continuing our investigation of the, uh, eldritch monster slash English teacher who calls itself Jonathan Sims.”

Maggie is determined to catch Mr. Sims via her channel, and then everyone would see how cool and smart she was, right?

T | Words: 5,993 | Chapters: 1/1

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Please Don't Tease Me Like You Did Before by bazemayonnaise

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin is grinning at his phone when Jon comes home. This is not an unusual occurrence, but Jon can sense that the particularly smug smile being levelled at him means that whatever is entertaining the man has something to do with Jon.

“Yes?” he asks once he has dumped the day at the door. “What have I done now?”

Part 1 of Jon and Martin teach at a Scottish Catholic School

G | Words: 5,380 | Chapters: 1/1

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beloved of jon by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Oh,” says Jon, numbly. “You don’t. Remember? Um. It’s complicated. What… what do you remember?”

Martin seems to shrink in on himself a little. It hurts to watch, especially after how Jon’s seen him so painstakingly grow back into his openness over the past few weeks.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t – I don’t.”

“But you remember me?” says Jon, and he tries to keep as much feeling out of that question as he can.

---

For no reason that Jon can tell, Martin forgets.

T | Words: 12,739 | Chapters: 1/1

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every good intention (is interpretation) by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

They’re standing entirely too close to each other in front of the hotel desk when the clerk asks them whether they’d like a double, twin, or two singles, and Martin absolutely bottles it.

‘Uh,’ he says, at exactly the same time as Jon says, ‘Oh.’

———

There’s a conversation that Martin and Jon need to have after the Lonely. Unfortunately, they are - historically - fairly terrible at putting stuff into words.

G | Words: 11,227 | Chapters: 1/1

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These words that make a home in my chest by arthureameslove

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

The moment Martin leaves the Lonely is the moment he realizes that it has taken something from him. He is left with the realization that the Lonely fog had been the only thing keeping him whole, keeping him from feeling the aching hollows of his own sorrow.

Speaking makes it worse, so he doesn't. He almost expects Jon to leave, to grow tired of him, incomplete as he is. But Jon doesn't.

Or, Martin is mute after leaving the Lonely, and he and Jon learn how to be people again, together, in the comfort of the Scottish Highlands.

T | Words: 16,060 | Chapters: 7/7

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hello my old heart by firebirdsuite

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Peter’s wrong, of course. When it’s all over, Martin does still want to tell Jon everything. It’s just—well, there’s a few things they need to work through first before they can get there.

Martin and Jon find each other again in Scotland.

T | Words: 15,864 | Chapters: 1/1

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i’m almost me again, you’re almost you by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

After a second Jon steps in towards him, close enough that Martin flinches, but all Jon does is put two fingers under his chin with his free hand and raise it until Martin can’t duck away. Jon has never touched him so casually before – at least, not until today, and it raises a lot of thoughts and feelings that Martin is trying very hard not to process.

Much like a lot of other things that have happened, he thinks. Not that it’s horrible or terrifying or numbing like everything else has been: it’s just another thing on the list of things he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with.

---

In the wake of the Lonely, there's a lot that Martin doesn't really want to think about.

G | Words: 12,928 | Chapters: 1/1

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Prenons-nous la main by luftballons99

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

They still haven't talked about it, any of it, not even to pass the time on the long train ride to Scotland. Instead, Martin fell asleep in the seat next to him, pressed into his side from shoulder to knee, and Jon thought about love confessions and verb tense and how the two fit together when you think you're dying.

or: Good cows, mediocre poetry, and other crucial topics of discussion.

T | Words: 6,027 | Chapters: 1/1

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Diary by luftballons99

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Not for the first time since they ran away together, a camera reel of all the things they don't know about one another whirs behind Martin's eyes, and he can't help but look at all the sprawling magnetic tape and wonder if they’re going to wind up a romance or a tragedy.

or: Office parties, garage bands, and the joy of being known.

Part 1 of showing your hand

T | Words: 5,178 | Chapters: 1/1

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the umbrella by Wildehack (tyleet)

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

"And to think—all of Jonah Magnus’ carefully laid plans, the centuries of scheming, the murders, the sacrifices, all of that work could have been completely undone if Martin Blackwood had gone back for an umbrella" - holdthosebees

M | Words: 4,662 | Chapters: 1/1

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ready to call this love by yewgrove

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

How is Martin supposed to tell Jon that he panicked, stupidly, when the lovely old lady down the village asked him what they were doing in this part of the world? Got the shopping! Oh, by the way, we're married now! Whole village thinks we're on our honeymoon, hope you don't mind!

Part 1 of it is what you have.

G | Words: 5,650 | Chapters: 1/1

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Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? by pantsoflobster

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Jon,” Martin said. “I have made a grave mistake.”

Jon whipped his head up, nearly tossing the elastic from his messy bun. “What? What’s wrong? What--what did you do?”

“I... might have invited guests for dinner.”

Jon stared blankly. “What, here?”

“Seeing as this is where we live at the moment, yes.”

---

In which a week in the safehouse turns into a fake-married sitcom, because they deserve to worry about social ineptitude instead of the apocalypse for a minute

Part 1 of this is not the house that pain built

T | Words: 5,391 | Chapters: 1/1

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Bergamot, Buckskin, and Lace by Qpenguin98

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Jon's never been a touchy person.

T | Words: 3,061 | Chapters: 1/1

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be kind, i beg you by gauras

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Fine,” Jon says, and he tries to ignore the sulky tone of his voice, “fine. What do you suggest?”

Martin pauses, like he’d not expected Jon to give in so easily. Jon’s never been particularly agreeable, but he still feels vaguely offended by the blatant surprise. “W-we,” Martin stammers, clears his throat, continues on much more confidently, “we go in together.”

Or: it takes close quarters and a full 24 hours to finally get them on the same page.

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T | Words: 14,946 | Chapters: 1/1

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tides turning by gauras

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

There's more than one way to say I love you.

T | Words: 20,858 | Chapters: 1/1

Other Scottish Safehouse Period fics: see unassigned supplementals by bibliocratic in Other

Gen or Background Pairings

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a deeply annoying child by ajkal2

No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, blink-and-you-miss-it Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, BUT NO SLASH WHILE ANYONE IS A CHILD

Jon is hiding under the desk.

----

There's a child in the Archives, who shouldn't be there.

G | Words: 9,631 | Chapters: 1/1

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Head in the Lion's Mouth by renwhit

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker, Danny Stoker & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Danny Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Past Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Danny Stoker & Helen Richardson, Danny Stoker & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Danny Stoker & Melanie King, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain & Danny Stoker

He fell into a deep bow, smiling the whole while. “I’m the ringmaster, of course.”

“Is that skin— Is it yours?” Old wood groaned as the Archivist shifted his weight. “Originally.”

“It is!” the ringmaster said as he swooped back upright. “Nikola decided I wore it well, so she let me keep it. Why do you ask?”

The Archivist gave him another once-over. “You just… you look familiar. Like someone I know.”

On relearning, reconnecting, and redefining.

Part 1 of Come What May

M | Words: 157,202 | Chapters: 17/17

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reach inside (to find your heart is beating) by ivelostmyspectacles

No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker

This is Tim, opening the door enough for his tired, careworn face to peer through the crack; Jon sees the genuine horror on his face as he takes in his boss, bloody on his doorstep, and he thinks– maybe– he thinks he might be safe here.

“Christ.”

Chapter two added January 17th!

T | Words: 5,774 | Chapters: 2/2

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Fractals Upon Fractals by cedarbranch

No Archive Warnings Apply, Michael & Helen Richardson

“There was never meant to be two of us,” said Helen.

Or: Michael and Helen play a game of chess, and work out what it means exist in duplicate.

G | Words: 1,652 | Chapters: 1/1

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Other gen fics: see Time is Hard by Serazimei in Time Travel

Time Travel

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Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, x2!, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

"Who the hell are you?" Jon could feel his hands shaking.

The man laughed, taking a step forward and raising a hand to point at him.

"I'm you, from the future!" he said, then swayed, eyes going unfocused, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

--------

Post-season-four Jon and Martin time travel back to the season one Archives.

T | Words: 53,319 | Chapters: 12/12

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Déjà Vu by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

Sasha remembers being unmade.

Tim remembers being Unknown.

Jon and Martin remember being unwound.

All of them think they're the only one.

--------

The S1 crew wakes up in the past with memories up till the moment they died.

T | Words: 37,652 | Chapters: 4/4

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Reflection by LazuliQuetzal

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Emma

Jonathan Sims, researcher at the Magnus Institute, is seeing a ghost. Of himself.

Of course, it’s not really him, no matter what secrets it knows, or how many arguments it brings up. So if it tells him to do something?

Obviously, he’ll be doing the exact opposite.

(AKA: Jon is an idiot, past and future, but somewhere along the way it all cancels out.)

(Expect general spoilers for S4 and specifically, MAG 158.)

T | Words: 51,527 | Chapters: 10/10

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Time is Hard by Serazimei

No Archive Warnings Apply, Michael | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael Shelley & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew & Michael Shelley

The Eye isn't happy with how the end of the world turned out. Neither are Jonah and Jon. There is no other option but to rewind time and go down a different path. But time is hard for The Spiral and The Web likes to meddle.

This is how Jon finds himself back in his eight year old body with all his memories, some of his powers intact and a strange bracelet around his right wrist. Saving the world, Jon realizes soon enough, is much harder when no one takes you seriously.

Part 1 of Diverging Times

M | Words: 170,443 | Chapters: 60/60

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The Cube Rule of Food Identification by bluejayblueskies

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin stands abruptly. His chair spins away from him, wheels squeaking on the cheap lino floor. The tension between him and Jon has reached never-before-seen levels. Tim could probably cut it with a knife. Or a particularly sharp spoon.

Then, Jon lurches forward and half-clambers atop the desk and kisses Martin, and Tim drops his sandwich.

Or, season one Jon and Martin receive memories from the future mid-argument, and Tim and Sasha receive emotional whiplash.

T | Words: 1,630 | Chapters: 1/1

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a map of what matters most by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Is that a body,” Tim blurts before he can stop himself, rising to his feet. Martin looks, if possible, even more scared.

“He’s alive!” he hisses, almost defensively. “It’s not - it’s not Gertrude again, I didn’t kill him, he just – I don’t know what happened to him, I just found him in the stacks like this.”

“And you dragged him up here?” Tim says, and then registers several things at once – the build, the hair texture; the little round scars peppering a pair of thin hands and an awfully familiar face. “Wait, is that Jon?”

----

Jon stumbles back into an earlier Archive, looking for a way to fix the world. (Or, mom says it's my turn for the obligatory time travel au)

T | Words: 20,604 | Chapters: 6/6

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) by OllieoftheBeholder

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker

“So...you’re from the future. In the past. Why?”

“You want the short answer or the long one?”

“Short,” Martin says after a moment’s deliberation. “Until I decide if I trust you.”

The other nods, as if he expected that answer—which, well, if he really is Martin from the future, he probably did. “To stop the world from ending.”

They have one last chance to fix this - one last chance to prevent the Eyepocalypse, to save the world - to save their world. It all hinges on which is the greater force: greed...or love.

Part 1 of leaves 'verse

T | Words: 299,536 | Chapters: 60/60

Highly Alternate

Alternate universes will remain in the other categories, but this category is for alterations that are especially notable in their severity. This will also include any fics where Jon has an important alignment with a different fear entity, whether that be instead of the Eye or in tandem

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The Witch's Cat by Champagne

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“That’s the Witch’s cat,” Tim says, and grins at Martin. “Jonathan Sims, the town’s Witch, said that he’ll marry anyone that manages to get the key from the cat’s collar.”

G | Words: 12,584 | Chapters: 1/1

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What Belongs to the Sea by TwoDrunkenCelestials, WhyNotFly

No Archive Warnings Apply, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“My grandmother taught me about selkies,” said the tattooed man. “Said it’s good luck for them to grace your ship. To treat ‘em right, and they’ll guide you safe.”

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to believe.

M | Words: 126,367 | Chapters: 36/36

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school's out for the summer by kiaronna

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Various Background Relationships, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas

The thing is, Jonathan Sims is someone you’d call the police on if you saw him hanging around a school, those frazzled clothes and bags under his eyes, the frantic muttering and thousand-year stare.

Yet there he sits, headteacher of The Magnus Institute for Gifted Young Minds.

The name’s a bit misleading, it is. They’re in a bad part of town. The parents are either terrible or absent, and the kids—

“They’re monsters,” his new and handsome coworker grins, when Martin’s signature on his contract is barely dry. “Absolute monsters. Get too close and you’ll lose some fingers. Or maybe your mind.”

“They’re babies,” is all Martin can feebly manage, in reply, and Tim’s eyes narrow at the fondness in his voice.

“You’ll learn.”

T | Words: 26,088 | Chapters: 2/2

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See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea by The_Floating_World

No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan Sims & Simon Fairchild, Jonathan Sims & Michael "Mike" Crew, Jonathan Sims & Gerard Keay, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Oliver Banks

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

T | Words: 59,336 | Chapters: 7/7

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rituals by doomcountry

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.

T | Words: 8,492 | Chapters: 1/1

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ships passing in the night by Zykaben

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Tim meets and befriends the new professor on the staff, Jonathan Sim. Tim has also been casual friends with Martin Blackwood for the past year.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Tim to realize that the two of them are married to each other.

T | Words: 5,027 | Chapters: 1/1

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all the flowers of all the tomorrows by ivelostmyspectacles

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims

Martin owns a flower shop.

He starts crushing on the guy from the Magnus Institute, but why does Jon keep needing so many flowers for workplace deaths, anyway??

T | Words: 13,745 | Chapters: 1/1

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The Good Ol' Days by SingingInTheRaiin

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

When Jon moves in with his grandmother he becomes fast (if somewhat reluctant) friends with one of the neighborhood kids, a boy named Martin.

Years later, they find each other again at the Magnus Institute, and whatever mysteries they uncover there, they will solve them together.

T | Words: 107,489 | Chapters: 40/40

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How Particular, My Fondness of You by cedarbranch

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Jon risks a glance over to Georgie, expecting sympathy, or perhaps a grave expression of solidarity. Instead, he’s met with a fond smile. “Oh, Jon,” she says patiently, reaching over to rub his back. “You poor thing. You’re lovesick.”

Jon recoils. “I am not,” he says accusingly.

A college AU in which the whole gang works at the library, Jon is emotionally repressed, and the anonymous Facebook page knows all.

Part 2 of Magnolia Verse

T | Words: 29,263 | Chapters: 1/1

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because light reverses, because the dead return by 1248, Tiili97

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

"Very well then, officer, take me away. And Martin?"

"Yes, Elias?"

Elias opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again with a shake of his head.

"Actually, never mind. I will see how it plays out."

Martin let out an annoyed sigh as Elias left. Always so goddamn cryptic.

Hopefully Jon and the others would be back soon to make sense of things.

Here's a hypothetical question: What would happen if no one noticed that Jonathan Sims survived the Unknowing?

What if they looked at his stopped heart and still lungs and decided he was dead?

What happens when you bury an Archivist?

T | Words: 9,491 | Chapters: 5/5

Gerrymichael

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Echo Chamber by orphan_account

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley

“Look, if you’re another, uh, avatar of a horrible eldritch demon god come to assassinate me in a spooky manner, could you get it over with quickly? I haven’t eaten all morning and I’m starving.”

The thing that calls itself Michael stares.

“And this sandwich cost most of my weekly salary,” Gerry adds after a belated moment.

Part 1 of Spirals and Eyes

T | Words: 21,439 | Chapters: 1/1

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Break Me Like A Pattern by TheLibraryBat

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay & Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley

The year is 2011. Michael Shelley is living his life in circles, blissfully unaware of the betrayal that awaits him in the summer. Gertrude Robinson has plans to enact and plans to destroy. Emma Harvey is hiding a book in the dark place at the back of a cupboard.

When Gerard Keay walks into the Magnus Institute - two years sooner than he was meant to - everything changes.

This is an (eventual) Archivist Michael AU, exploring how certain events might have played out, had one key player been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Part 1 of Archivist Michael AU

M | Words: 215,290 | Chapters: 40/40

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Choke Chain by dramatispersonae

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/The Distortion

Things Gertrude Robinson possesses: decades of experience killing, containing, and otherwise thwarting supernatural beings, an uncompromising drive to destroy the Rituals and the people who would see them completed, Gerry's loyalty. Things Gertrude Robinson apparently also possesses: a monster on a magic leash.

NR | Words: 14,814 | Chapters: 1/1

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Make Me Feel Like I'm Lost by dramatispersonae

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Gerard Keay/MichaelGerard Keay/The Distortion

Gerry meets a door that is not a door. And a person that is not a person. Remarkably, he does not get eaten. He would probably like to keep it that way. (Or, in the process of trying to avoid death by nightmare hallway, Gerard Keay accidentally charms the nightmare hallway)

Part 1 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 11,963 | Chapters: 1/1

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Fill The Gap Between You And I by dramatispersonae

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion

Michael, like a cat, expresses affection with gifts of dead things. Gerry's trying not to be in the business of collecting strays.

Part 2 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 7,377 | Chapters: 1/1

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The Life Of Letting Go by dramatispersonae

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion

Gerry suffers a workplace injury. Michael has concerns.

Part 3 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 3,235 | Chapters: 1/1

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Fever Dreaming by dramatispersonae

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion

Gerry encounters a plot by a nascent avatar of the Corruption. It should be straightforward enough to deal with, especially considering his apparently ongoing... "alliance" with Michael. But when have things in his life actually been as simple as they appear?

Part 4 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 42,284 | Chapters: 5/5

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Please Don’t Eat the Flowers by Sloane

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion, Razor/Wendy, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Instead of retiring to open a book shop, Gerry ends up working at a flower shop run by American lesbians in London. This leads to a brush with the Distortion, who just wants to buy some lilies, the Magnus Institute finding out he’s still alive, and... well, a normal life was never really in the cards for the likes of Gerard Keay, was it?

Oh, and those lesbians who run the flower shop? There’s more to them than meets the eye—bad Beholding pun intended.

(No knowledge of Maniac Mansion required; I take lots of liberties to slot it into TMA’s universe. UNDER MAJOR REVISIONS. Please see last chapter if you’re a new/returning reader for details..)

M | Words: 77,314 | Chapters: 33/?

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Ode to Joy: or, michael distortion's guide to naming yourself by fromthepinnacletothepit

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley

Michael Shelley is sacrificed to the Spiral before he has the chance to come out, even to himself. Now, as an avatar of the Spiral, his identity is even MORE painful and confusing. Alone and filled with pain he doesn't even know how to name, he searches for acceptance in the one person who ever really knew him-Gerry Keay.

***

“What do you want to be called then,” Gerry says and wraps his arms around Michael’s back.

This conversation hurts. This question hurts. Everything hurts, so long as no one knows about his gender, so long as he has to go on being someone he’s not, someone he just can’t be anymore. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it.

“I dunnooooo,” he says, grinning, but inside he knows his name isn’t Michael. It’s just not. He doesn’t have a name. He never has. And it’s absence is like a hole in his chest.

The creature that might as well be called Michael, it supposes, if you have to call it anything, thinks about this conversation while it sits on the ceiling of its hallway and slowly digs grooves into the plaster with its fingers.

Gerry, it thinks desperately. I have to find Gerry.

G | Words: 14,513 | Chapters: 1/1

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Save That Heart for Me by cedarbranch

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael

Gerry has just filled up his mug with coffee when it hits him. It’s a faint but sharp pain, zinging through his left wrist. He exhales a puff of laughter. That’s the third time this week. Whoever his soulmate is, they’re having a rough time.

T | Words: 5,577 | Chapters: 1/1

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call me your harbor by insertcleveracejoke

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael

There was the matter of the owner. It could not be said that most people, when asked about their mental picture of what the owner of a bookstore should look like, would answer angry-looking goth covered in burn scars from the neck down.

He also had a terrible dye job.

Or: five times Michael went to Gerry's domain for help, and one time the opposite happened.

Part 1 of the bookstore AU

NR | Words: 4,488 | tChapters: 1/1

Other

Fic types I have not read enough of to lend it its own category. If I read more fics of its type, it'll be moved to a new category

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unassigned supplementals by bibliocratic

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Oneshot #54: home improvement: or: Jon and Martin vs. IKEA

Oneshot #55: united front: or: Martin helps Jon with his statement hunger . (Set 159/160)

Oneshot #56: evolution: or: There is an uneasy alliance at first, between Jon and the Archivist

(Short TMA JonMartin one-shots, individual warnings in chapter notes, now with a fully-functioning contents page)

G | Words: 73,687 | Chapters: 56/56

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onto a vast plain by yewgrove

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

The world ends. They get married.

Part 2 of it is what you have.

T | Words: 10,313 | Chapters: 1/1

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Out There, Somewhere by Artyphex

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

"I'm sorry, you were found alone."

Jon survived the apocalypse and now will go to the end of this new, unfamiliar world to find Martin again.

T | Words: 54,080 | Chapters: 8/8

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enemy of my enemy by beeclaws

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

Jon comes back from his time with the Circus a little worse for wear. Tim has some feelings about that.

M | Words: 6,263 | Chapters: 4/4

Updates

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a map of what matters most by gruhukens added to Time Travel - Mar. 8, 2024

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) by OllieoftheBeholder added to Time Travel - Mar. 8, 2024

How Particular, My Fondness of You by cedarbranch added to Highly Alternate - Mar. 18, 2024

call me your harbor by insertcleveracejoke added to Gerrymichael - Mar. 18, 2024

tides turning by gauras added to Scottish Safehouse Period - Mar. 18, 2024

a six-step process by bluejayblueskies added to England Jonmartin-centric - Mar. 18, 2024

who's there? by bubonickitten added to England Jonmartin-centic - Mar. 18, 2024

because light reverses, because the dead return by 1248, Tiili97 added to Highly Alternate - Mar. 18, 2024

Clothes Have No Gender by kristsune added to England Jonmartin-centric - Mar. 18, 2024

northwest 6 to gale 8. rain. poor, occasionally good. by chewsdaychillin added to England Jonmartin-centric - Mar. 18, 2024

#the magnus archives #tma #magpod #magnuspod #jonmartin #jmart #teaholding #gerrymichael #doorkeay #fanfiction #fic recs #fic rec #fic rec list #fanfic recs #mag pod #magnus pod #i need to read more time travel fics 😭

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prentissluvr · 5 months ago

Text

cabin, 3:17 a.m. — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, injury, mention of stitches, 658 words. requested ! for my 800 followers event [ closed ] .

summary : a hunt goes badly, but sam patches you up and loves on you until you can finally get some good rest.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

sam can barely open the cabin door with one hand. the lock is temperamental, and the key likes to pretend it doesn’t fit. but his other arm is keeping you from collapsing right then and there, so he has to manage like this.

finally, the door swings open with a frantic push from sam, the hinges of the old place in the woods protesting the movement with loud squeaks and groans. but he couldn’t care less about the poor state of the structure; it’s a damn miracle you were so close to one of his safehouses after getting injured like this.

“we’re here, we’re here. i got you, okay. alright, honey. you’re alright,” sam’s voice is steady and sure, but the way that assurances tumble out of his mouth tells you that he’s worried. he’s scared.

he thinks you’ll be fine. he really does, but he can’t help but feel so terrified that you won’t. it’s just that you have such a high pain tolerance after years of getting hurt all the time, but the gash in your side is pulling pained grunts and whimpers from your mouth. your head lolls on his shoulder, and there’s not a hospital close enough. he has to treat you first.

part of him prefers it; to be the one that takes care of you, the one that fixes it for you. but he knows he’s not nearly as good as a trained doctor, and that worries him.

that can’t matter now, though, as he shuts the door and locks it, then leads your stumbling form to the couch. strong arms settle you into the cushions, which kicks up a little bit of dust and makes you cough weakly.

“god, sorry, love,” he mumbles worriedly, voice plainly guilty and always so sincere. the coughing makes you wince in pain, and sam’s distress over your injury is raw and intense. all you do is grab his hand and squeeze it. he looks to your face, gaze landing on your eyes like he knows you want. all he finds is love there, a silent plea for him not to feel so sorry. your furrowed brows and downturned lips show the pain you’re in. but the look in your eyes spells out the words i love you.

“i love you, too,” he says, the words slipping from his lips without him intending it. one side of your lips quirks up.

talking is tiring. you’re so tired, and you’re not sure why this cut is different from all the other injuries you’ve received to get you so vulnerable and weak. but to you, it’s fine, because sam is taking care of it. you know that sam will take care of it, you just hate how much this pains and scares him. so that’s why you push through the effort of speaking.

“it’s okay, sam,” you grunt out. god, it really hurts. it hurts to breathe, even. sam can see that. and he can see that you don’t like to watch him feel so worried. he puts on his brave face again.

“yeah, it’s okay,” he assures you. “i’m gonna take care of this. gonna take care of you, so you just stay awake for me, alright, honey?”

it works. his comforting words work. you relax a little, you believe in the brave front. you keep your eyes on him, and you nod. you squeeze his bicep when the antiseptic burns, you grunt in pain and grip his shoulder when the stitches make you feel woozy. you let go and lose your own brave face, because sam is there.

because he hushes you sweetly, he murmurs soft assurances, and he holds your hand with tender love. because he dabs sweat from your brow and bandages you up, then carries you to bed. because he kisses your cheek and your lips and your forehead and fixes you right up. or most simply put, because he loves you.

213 notes · View notes

polakina · 1 year ago

Text

how they react to you getting hurt on a mission

call of duty headcanons #3

hc masterlist // masterlist

anyone else feel like there's not enough alex keller fics about? if you've got recommendations, send them my way pls <3

rating: explicit

heard it over comms while the 141 were raiding an enemy safehouse

you had confirmed intel that they were hiding out after an attack on the local town, so moved in to take them out

you were making your way through the upper sections of the building, whispering into comms as you cleared each room

but as you moved further down the corridor, one of the terrorists barged out of the last door on the left, firing all bullets in your direction

you managed to dodge out of the way for most of them, sending bullets through his skin and taking him down, but not before a bullet lodged itself in your shoulder

price was practically shouting in your ear as he heard the gunshots from above and through his earpiece

he made it to you first, checking over you with worried glances, pulling the collar of your shirt aside to assess the damage

cursed out of sheer panic, grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up, calling in for evac and medics

did not leave your side the whole flight back to base, constantly asking if you were okay

reaching the medic tent at base, he kept a stern eye on the medics, barking orders to be careful with you

but he was scared

scared he could have lost you

his fear always turned to anger, it was an emotional side of him you'd noticed since working together

he stayed with you the whole time

angry

so fucking angry

not at you, of course

but at literally everyone else

saw you get knocked up against the wall, pinned by your throat with a knife pointing into your stomach, hearing your cry of pain

he saw red

momentarily blacked out as he shot the guy hurting you at least 6 times

a little overkill but deemed it necessary

was immediately by your side. knocked your hand out of the way when you tried to cover it, and shushed you fiercely when you tried to tell him you were okay

did not leave any room for negotiation before picking you up bridal style and hauling ass out of there

didn't trust any medic to patch you up

did everything himself

turned super super quiet as he saw the wound fully, the blood pooling out of the gash. his face turned almost white

wouldn't speak as he cleaned and stitched the wound

it was only when he finally met your eye that his gaze softened. the apologies started uncontrollably spilling out

he apologised for literally an hour; about how he could have stopped the guy, how he could have gotten there sooner

you had to calm him down the whole night

never let you lift a finger until you were fully healed, and even after that he was hesitant to let you do anything strenuous

you caught him looking at your bandages every so often, even during training

one you even caught him in the act while he thought you were sleeping. he lifted your shirt to check you hadn't pulled any stitches, and you scared the shit out of him when you asked what he was doing

the two of you were climbing to reach a higher vantage point as appointed snipers

your rope snapped and you fell to the rocks below

he damn near snapped his neck trying to repel back down to you

saw your dislocated shoulder and couldn't hide his disgust until you pointed it out

nobody was able to reach you, the two of you were alone

said it'd click back into place on its own, and you weren't sure if he was trying to reassure you or convince himself

but when you explained he needed to knock it back into its socket, he shook his head

flat out just said no

the man can deal with blood and bullets and knives. broken bones or dislocations were not his strong suit

his stomach did that weird flip thing when he saw body parts out of place

you scolded him for being a baby and he pouted at you

had to psych himself up to do it

"its just a stupid shoulder, get it together" "don't be a baby, it'll take two seconds" "god that's so disgusting, why does it look that gross"

your eyes nearly rolled out of your head and the initial pain had basically subsided by the time he actually did it

nearly threw up when he felt your shoulder pop back into its socket

was riding alongside you in the truck when it flipped over from an enemy missile

the whole vehicle launched topside and rolled upside down

his first port of call was to turn and check on you, rushing to panic when he saw the blood on your face

after pulling himself out of the vehicle, he ran around and yanked over the driver side door, unclipping your belt and pulling you onto the pavement

saw your broken leg and almost passed out

literally forgot all his medic training in that one moment and only ended up calling for an evac when you told him to

was at your every beck and call while you recovered

you had to be wheelchair bound during your recovery, and as the base trainer, you were able to do your job from your chair

made jokes about you now having to be on wheels

did anything to lift your spirits

helped you with absolutely anything you needed, and secretly kind of liked that he had to take care of you

fell into the male housewife role really quick. scarily quickly

wheels you around base, and more often than not rolls over somebody's toes when he passes them. doesn't have the best spatial awareness capacity

always there to change your bandages, check your wounds

whenever your leg hurts, he's like a professional masseuse

412 notes · View notes

athenagc94 · 19 days ago

Text

Dear Daddy Long Legs

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

A concept I've been toying with. Will probably post the complete fic to AO3 once I've got a few more chapters written, but though I would share some of the chapters here first to garner interest. This fic is inspired by the (musical mostly, but also novel) of Daddy Long Legs.

Warnings: Some angst and self-reflection, nothing too heavy yet.

First (You are Here) | Next

Prologue

Taking the subway had to be the most mundane thing a person could do, and after the night he just had, Jason needed mundane.

He traded his uniform and helmet for a well-worn hoodie and a Wonder Woman cap that hid the streak in his hair. He sat with his shoulders hunched to make himself smaller, less imposing, but no amount of hunching could hide the broad planes of his chest. The stench of blood and gunpowder clung to him despite ringing off before he left the Outlaw safehouse.

It would have been wiser to stay behind and regroup. Everything that could go wrong with their assignment did, but he didn’t want to sit and stew in all the ways they failed—in all the ways he failed. Bizzaro let him without much fuss. Artemis had more to say.

“You can’t run from your failures like a coward.”

Leave it to her to keep him humble.

Their latest job took them halfway across the globe, and after facing metahumans, myths come to life, and sorcerers, Jason missed the psychopaths of home. This wasn’t the first time he’d been away. A month was nothing compared to five years, but he yearned for the familiarity of Gotham.

Nostalgia was a bitch.

Being back brought a well of complicated emotions with it. Anger, regret, but there was something else, something that tightened his chest and left his stomach soupy. He tried to ignore it, knowing he wouldn’t like what he found if he sat with it too long.

So, subway.

Mundane.

Human—he just wanted to feel human.

His knee bounced as lights rushed past, casting harsh shadows across the rubber floor. It was quiet, save for the slow grind of steel on steel as the car raced down its track. It was empty save for him.

Well, him and you.

He might have missed you entirely if not for the bright yellow jacket thrown over your button up and slacks. Unless your name was Robin or Signal, yellow was a bold choice for Gotham—especially this late at night. You chewed on the plastic end of the drawstring as you pored over the book in your lap.

Jason, despite every instinct telling him not to, craned his neck to identify the book. It might have been an effective strategy if you weren’t halfway across the car and facing him. You seemed to sense the weight of his stare and looked up. The string fell from your mouth as it tightened with the guarded look in your eyes.

An embarrassed flush burned his ears as he looked away. It was easier to pretend he knew how to socialize when compared to people like Bizarro and Artemis, who were far from the paragons of conservation. Charm was learned, and his was a little rusty.

But now that he had your attention, he might as well ask. “What’re you reading?”

Your eyes narrowed a fraction as you gave him a once over. When you found whatever, you were trying to ascertain, you lifted the book to show him the cover. The edges were frayed and discolored; its spine well-worn, but the words ‘Wuthering Heights’ popped against the taupe cloth.

Jason sat a little straighter. “First time reading it?”

You rubbed the page between your thumb and forefinger as a thoughtful deliberation creasing your brow. “Second time. I read it in high school, but I didn’t fully appreciate it. Now that I’ve dipped my toes into a few more classics, I thought it was worth revisiting.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

You were two-thirds finished, which was more than enough time to form an opinion. Jason had thoughts, but he wanted to hear from you first.

You considered him again, almost conflicted. “I appreciate it more than I did back then. I understand why people consider it a cult classic. It’s complex, and I like complex. Heathcliff is deeply flawed, Catherine too, but that’s what makes them compelling characters.”

He smiled. “I’ve never read a more complex, mutually destructive love story like Wuthering Heights in years. I mean, like, full-body chills every time I read it. There’s something thrilling about it.”

“Right,” you exclaimed, a passion igniting in your eyes.

“Now, Darcy, that’s a real paragon of romance.”

The car slowed, coming to a stop at an empty platform. The doors opened with a soft hiss as the automated voice announced the stop. Your gaze flicked to the door, then back to him. He half-expected you to make a run for it, but you stayed planted in your seat. He blinked.

Or maybe you expected him to leave instead?

He settled back in his chair to make himself comfortable. The doors closed once more, and the subway continued down its track.

You relaxed a little. “Well, Mr. Darcy, if you know so much about the classics, what do you recommend I read next?”

He choked on his laugh.

Jason was no leading man despite how often he dreamed of being transported into a regency-era romance novel. Throw him in a silk waist coat with a messily knotted cravat and call him a rake because he’d make the fictional women swoon.

Reality, however, was much darker and hung over his head like a thick smog that threatened to suffocate him. He didn’t exist on this earth to sweep ladies off their feet or duel for their honor. That, and he wasn’t nearly as suave in action as he pretended to be.

“And for the record, I’ve already read Pride and Prejudice.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, boy. How long do you have?”

A small smile curved your lips. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Discussing books came easily to him—probably because he had a lot of opinions and not a lot of people to share them with. Artemis didn't read, Bizarro preferred movies, and Roy—well, Jason was still reeling about their last book-related discussion where Roy tried to convince him that movie was always better than the book. For both their sakes, Jason made a conscious choice to not discuss books with him after that.

You listened as he rambled, going off about his favorite authors Austen and Dumas. He should have been embarrassed by how much he was talking, but the quiet intensity in your gaze spurred him to keep going.

His chest tightened with every stop, believing the next would be the point where you two parted ways for good. From the way your gaze kept darting to the door at each stop, he had an inkling that the feeling was mutual. He decided not to ask, lest it break whatever spell had fallen between you two.

All good things must come to an end. When the door slid open on the Park Row exit, Jason stood, albeit reluctantly. You did the same, slinging a plain canvas bag over your shoulder.

He curbed his surprise. “Park Row, eh?”

“The lifeblood of Gotham,” you said humorlessly.

Jason laughed. You did not. It died on a grunt as he tried to appear more sympathetic.

You exited the car with him, zipping the front of your hoodie as the unseasonably cool air pebbled his skin. He stuffed his hands in his jogger pockets and followed you up the stairs that led out onto the street. It was dark, darker than usual given the city had yet to replace the shattered streetlamp on the corner. It might have been his doing, errant bullets were a hazard of the job, but he was mildly irritated to find it was still broken.

Calm washed over him as he breathed. It was good to be home, even with all the complicated emotions that came with that sentiment.

“You live nearby?”

Your dubious look made him cringe. That sounded creepy coming from him, a random guy you barely knew. Sometimes it was difficult to separate Jason from Red Hood, not that he believed for a second that it would change your reaction. If you lived here, which he assumed you did because no Gothamite in their right mind would willingly follow him onto the street lovingly dubbed Crime Alley, the name Red Hood held weight. For all the good he did for the citizens, there was plenty of bad stack against him. He didn’t expect you to trust him with or without the helmet.

“Forget I asked,” he said.

You stared at him a second longer before walking away. “Stay safe, Mr. Darcy.”

Your tone carried an edge of finality, like you never expected to see him again. Despite the disappointment purling in his chest, he agreed that was probably for the best. A brief conversation with you was a warmer welcome than he anticipated, but he wasn’t about to push his luck by asking for more.

He lifted his hand to wave, though you had already disappeared around the corner. “You too.”

#writing #writeblr #fanfiction #batfam #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #red hood #batman #dc comics #dear daddy long legs fic

91 notes · View notes

reiderwriter · 2 years ago

Note

do you think you could write where reader is a part of the BAU and gets kidnapped/ hurt by an unsub and spencer saves her? much love and i love your fics!

Hi! Thanks so much for your request. I'll admit this took a bit more brain power than usual 💀 may have gotten slightly carried away creating an unsub lmao

Summary: You go undercover for a case and Reid keeps you company through online messages, only to feel absolutely worthless when you go missing.

Warnings: Typical case descriptions, kidnapping and abuse of Y/N, Reid self-deprecating again but it has a happy fluffy ending so a win.

My Requests are Open! Send me an ask if you want me to write something~ 💕 And check out My Masterlist!

“Y/N, what do you think? I’m not going to send you in if you’re not confident you can complete the mission.'' Your Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner, was briefing you on the plan. Luckily for the team, or rather, unluckily for you, you fit the victim profile of your latest case, and with an absence of leads, your last chance to get him before he took another victim was an undercover mission.

“I can do it, but can we establish a background in enough time? He’s devolving and he’s going to need to pick up another victim pretty soon.”

You’d been called in to consult on the case two weeks prior. Local women who lived alone in the metropolitan area had been going missing on a weekly basis for the last three months, and the BAU team had been called in when they’d finally found the dump site of the first three victims.

You’d so far managed to figure out how he was finding his victims from their home computers - a site for young women to look for sugar daddies. You’d previously profiled him as a man in his mid-40s who was going through a personal loss and was lashing out at women who represented someone specific to him, and after searching through the dating profiles, you were pretty sure his stressor was a recent or impending divorce.

But try as Garcia might, these dating websites had a whole lot more encoded data than was expected, and after the Ashley Madison scandal of the previous decade, they’d taken to deleting the majority of their user data regularly so that certain accounts couldn’t be found. Which meant that you were left with a geographical profile you couldn’t pin down, a profile that could match half the men in the city, and a killer that was almost ready to strike again.

“Garcia can get something ready for you in the next 8 hours, and we have some access to some FBI safehouses in the area that we can ready in at the same time. Go get yourself prepared for cover.”

And that’s how you found yourself living in a dingy studio apartment on the south side of the city for two days, waiting to report back about whatever men approached you. There wasn’t much for you to complain about, but you were getting pretty lonely.

You’d greeted your new neighbors and made a show of attending some ‘new to the neighborhood’ events, making sure to get out and about to let the team assess if the unsub was stalking you. Other than that you’d spent the rest of your time in your apartment a constant tab open at the sugar baby website. A few men had been interested, and your computer was cloned and running simultaneously on Garcia’s system so the team could do their best to track suspicious accounts.

The rest of your spare time was, surprisingly enough, spent messaging Spencer Reid. You’d been on the team now for three months, joining the team as a transfer from the blue collar division you’d worked in straight out of the academy. You had spent the same amount of time doing your best to gain confidence to work in the field. Sure, you’d trained for this, but theory and practice were so different and you really didn’t want to fuck up so early into your job.

Which is why, you supposed, that Doctor Spencer Reid was so intimidating to you. Though he admittedly wasn’t the best at field work, noting the amount of exceptions the FBI had to make to allow him outside of the office at all on your first meeting, he was just so damned competent. With three PhD’s, three BA’s and a pending fourth on the way, he was the golden child of the BAU, and you found yourself desperate for his approval. It surely didn’t help that he was also your exact type to boot, and sometimes you found yourself conflicted if you wanted his approval because he was so good at his job or because he was go goddamn good-looking.

With no way to know how the unsub was tracking his victims before he kidnapped them, your team theorized it was unsafe to have physical check-ins, opting instead to set up another account on the sugar baby website, that would be manned around the clock. And tech-averse Reid had volunteered to do the bulk of the manning, leaving you with all the time in the world to talk to him in your private chat room.

sug4rbbY/N: Good evening, Doctor, got any interesting facts for me today? ;)

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Did you know that it is illegal to flirt in Haddon Township, New Jersey? Under the section “Peace and Good Order,” a person may be punished for approaching “any person of the opposite sex unknown to such person and by word, sign or gesture attempts to speak to or to become acquainted with such person against his will.”

sug4rbbY/N: Well, aren’t I glad that we do not live in New Jersey then.

D0ct0rD0ct0r: There’s more where that came from if you’re ever interested.

sug4rbbY/N: I’ll certainly keep that in mind.

sug4rbbY/N: Any plans for the evening, doc?

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Just sitting here talking to you :)

sug4rbbY/N: All by yourself? ;)

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Never feel like I’m alone when you’re online.

sug4rbbY/N: Haha that’s sweet.

sug4rbbY/N: BRB, Doc, my doorbell’s ringing.

You stood up from your desk, a glance at the mirror betraying your feelings, as your flush was prominent. You weren’t sure if it was the intimate nature of the messaging system, or just for the sake of your cover, but the flirty tone of your messages had certainly been leaving you wondering if there could be more to your relationship with your coworker in the future.

You quickly walked over to the door, opening it wide and came face to face with a bouquet of flowers.

“Miss Y/N Harper?” the man behind the bouquet used your cover name to address you, and you hesitated a little before nodding in the affirmative. “Can you sign here please? It’s standard procedure for deliveries like this.”

“But I didn’t order any flowers…” you took the bouquet from the man and grabbed the pen in his hand ready to sign.

“Oh yeah, our shop specialises in anonymous flowergrams. That bunch you’ve got in your hand has some aconite, some white lilies and jasmine flowers.” The delivery man explained, and something in your gut twisted as you listened to his words.

“But aren’t lilies usually meant for funera-” you didn’t get to finish because he had pushed a wet rag to your face, and you had just enough time to shake some small petals off and push them far enough underneath a nearby shoe storage unit before you faded into unconsciousness, your last thought a prayer that your team would uncover your clue.

–x–

Needless to say, when you didn’t check back in a few minutes later, Spencer had alerted every cop in the vicinity of your new apartment that you were gone, and they discovered your apartment empty within ten minutes.

“She was right there,” Spencer ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “She was talking to me and then she just got up and he took her.”

“Reid, calm down, she can’t have been gone long, and we have security cameras all over the building. We’ll find her.” Morgan reassured the younger male while searching the entrance of your cover apartment for clues.

“That’s easy for you to say, it isn’t your fault that she’d gone.”

“And it isn’t yours either, Reid. You did your job, but he wasn’t going to stop until he had her.”

“I should’ve notified the standby officers as soon as she sent through that last message and what was I doing instead? Trying to figure out if she was flirting with me for real or not. I’m pathetic.”

“Reid, get your head back in the game. She’s gone and theres nothing you can do to change that now, but we need your head here or we’re not going to find her. Y/N’s an agent too, remember, she can hold her own. Now look and think.”

“SSA Morgan, Doctor Reid, we may have something over here,” one of the local detectives called the two men over. They’d found the remnants of the petals you’d done your best to scatter, and even though the unsub had taken the bouquet with him, he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have been.

“We didn’t set her up with any flowers when she started her cover, so these must have been bought in by the unsub. I’ll call Garcia, tell her to look for any flower shops within his comfort zone.” Morgan hit the number on his speedial, but before he could start, Reid cut him off.

“Wait, I think we can narrow the search a bit further. Those are Aconite petals, they’re not often stocked by local florists because they have a pretty sinister meaning. They’re usually used to express hatred for the receiver, and because of their poisonous properties most florists don't stock them for fear of doing harm and causing lawsuits. He must be specifically ordering them in to give to his victims. Garcia, can you crossreference the list of florists in the area and check to see how many of them have purchased this plant recently?”

“Just the one. Sending you the address now. Go find our girl Doc.”

–X–

When you came to, in what you assumed to be a backroom of some kind of flower shop, you were bound at the ankles and wrists and there was a gag in your mouth. You struggled a bit against your bindings but it was no good, and you had to reassure yourself that you were going to be okay, doing your best to push down the tears and clear your head.

You decided your best bet was to get to know your surroundings, check to see what was around you and what you could use to your advantage. There was a clock on the wall, and you realised that you’d only been gone half an hour. Reminding yourself that the unsub kept his victims for a minimum of two days did a lot to get your heartbeat back to a normal pace, but it spiked again as soon as you heard the door slam open and your captor walk in.

“Stupid little bitch,” he slurred his words slightly and you could smell the alcohol on his breath as he moved closer to your space in the corner. You tried your best to scamper as far away from him as possible, but he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you up to his face.

You winced at the pain and tried to squirm out of his hold. “Look at you all pathetic now, begging me to let you out. It’s not going to fucking happen, y'know. I’m going to be the last person you see, last person you hear,” he throws you against the wall, pinning you up with his hand on your arms as he sends a leering glance down your shirt and then gives you a disgusting grin. “Last person you touch.”

Your bindings mean your movement is limited, but you still manage to bring both your legs up to knee him in the groin, effectively pushing him off you but landing hard on the ground yourself after you manage to do so.

“Fucking whore,” he shouts at you standing up and dealing a sharp kick to your head that has your vision going white for a minute. “I’ll teach you to fucking mess with me again, you little bitch.” He makes to grab you again, but before he can you hear the blissful sounds of a door being kicked down and the shouts of the FBI to stand down.

Two agents are on him in minutes and you finally allow yourself to let out a deep sob in relief, as a third, very recognisable agent, makes his way to your side.

“Y/N, shhh baby, it’s okay. You’re okay now, I’ve got you,” Reid whispers in your ear as he unties you as gently and carefully as he can. The moment your arms are free you leap into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your face deeply against his chest. He pulls away just enough to untie your legs, and then lets you burrow into him again.

“I knew you’d find me. Knew you’d understand something from those fucking flowers.” You sob into his chest now, as he strokes your hair, just holding you like that on the floor until you’re ready to move.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I should’ve sent someone to check sooner, and I should’ve never let you accept that stupid cover mission,this is my fault and I'm going to make it up to you. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you ever ag-” he begins rambling but you shut him up again, this time by firmly pressing your lips into his.

“Before you say anything else, this is not transference and I’m not doing this because you saved me, we both know I would’ve done that eventually anyway,” you rest your forehead against his, and after he has time to process what has just happened, he’s wiping the tears away from your face, and gently holding it with both of his hands, leaning in to do it again, gently pressing his mouth against yours as if he’s afraid you might bolt at any second.

“Thank you, again. For finding me,” you whisper to him, the space between you so miniscule now that you barely had to move your lips to know that he understood you.

“Thank you, for letting me find you.” He grinned at you and held you again, determined to never let you out of his arms ever again.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid fandom

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dianawinchester03 · 2 months ago

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Season 3, Episode 2 - Take A Picture, It’ll Last Longer

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Hi beauties!! So I don’t know if you guys remember when I said that some minor characters are not canon in my fic.

Two of those characters are Lisa and Ben. No hate for them obviously!! It’s just that Dean’s main reasoning for going to Lisa in this episode was to hook up and I couldn’t find a way to write around it since they don’t add to my plot.

Since Dean and Y/N are now together, it won’t make sense for Dean to go to Lisa at this point and in the season 5 finale…..you know?? So the Changelings are not happening and Lisa and Ben don’t exist in the testa-verse.

So yeah, this is my own little filler original episode🥰First time I’m doing this so I’m nervcited (nervous + excited) and it’s pretty smutty (you’re welcome hehe). So enjoy🫶

MDNI, 18 ONLY!!!

____________________________________________

Third Person POV

Indiana

The trio was currently at Y/N’s Indiana safehouse. Sam was in his own room while Dean and Y/N took up residence in her old bedroom.

It was late at night, Dean was taking a shower while Y/N sat topless on the edge of her bed, fiddling with her old Polaroid camera. A mischievous thought crossed her mind so she pulled open the drawer to her nightstand, retrieving a fresh pack of films that had been sitting in there for years before ripping it open and stuffing it into the camera.

After a couple minutes, the shower was turned off and the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing came through. And then a moment later, the bedroom door was pushed open as well. Out came Dean, a towel wrapped around his waist.

He paused when he saw Y/N, who glanced at him over her shoulder with a sly smirk before returning her focus back to the camera. Dean arched an eyebrow as he dried himself off, not saying a word. The tension was thick in the room as Dean slipped on a pair of boxers before slowly padding towards her, crawling onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard.

"What are you up to, princess?" He asked, his tone curious and slightly suspicious. His eyes shifted down a bit, and he smirked when he saw she was topless.

Y/N was still sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes connecting with his through the mirror that was placed neatly in-front of her bed. "Nothing." She replied simply, the smirk on her lips growing wider.

Dean leaned forward, placing a hand on her hip as he moved closer to her. He was still curious as to what she was up to, "Yeah, right." He said with a soft chuckle before his eyes flicked between the camera and her face. "You're up to something. Let me see." He said, holding out his hand. “I was just thinking…” She trailed off, biting her lip lightly before looking back up at him through the mirror as he sat behind her.

“Cup your hands over my boobs” She instructed him with a sly smile.

Dean's eyes widened at her request, but he couldn’t deny how sexy that sounded. “Yeah?” He replied in a teasing tone, his hand slowly moving up to her hip and around to her stomach, his fingers lightly grazing her skin before coming to rest just above her navel.

“You gotta ask me nicely first.” He said quietly, tilting his head towards her until his lips were mere inches from her ear. Y/N shivered at his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she opened them again and met his gaze in the mirror.

She reached back and ran her fingers to the hair at the nape of his neck, giving it a soft tug before speaking again. “Please?” She asked, her voice soft but with a hint of playful pleading in it. A low growl rumbled in Dean’s chest as he heard the hint of pleading in her voice.

He loved it when she pleaded. “Good girl.” He purred, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, one in each hand, as he squeezed them both gently. His lips brushed against her earlobe as he spoke, his breath warm against her skin. “Now tell me what you were thinking about.”

Y/N smiled again before bringing the camera to her right eye, squeezing her left eye shut. “Stay still..” She whispered before snapping a picture of the two in the mirror. His hands were still cupping her breasts as if they were a bra, his head buried in her neck as she took the picture.

“Oh, so now I gotta be your model?” He teased, his grin widening as he felt her squirm a little under his touch. “You planning on sharing it with someone?” Dean nibbled on her neck. “Only you, charming” She winked at him through the mirror before taking the photo out from the top of the camera, patiently waiting for the photo to develop.

“Damn right, I’m the only one.” He replied, his hand moving down to her inner thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her skin. Dean watched intently as she took the photo out of the camera, the sound of the film whirring and clacking as it developed.

As the image started to form on the paper, Dean's eyebrows shot up. “Say it, we look hot” Y/N grinned widely, handing him the photo. Dean chuckled as she handed him the photo. He looked down at it, his eyes roaming over the image of the two of them in the mirror.

And she was right. They did look hot. Extremely hot.

"Damn right, we do.” He said, his eyes flicking up to meet hers again in the mirror before he leaned in and placed a kiss on her shoulder. "You planning on making a habit outta this?" He teased.

Y/N shrugged, a coy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Maybe I am.” She replied, tilting her head to the side so he could kiss her neck a bit more easily. She reached back again and ran her fingers through his still-damp hair, shivering slightly as his lips moved down to her shoulder again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” She asked, her voice a little breathless. Dean let out a low moan as her fingers ran through his hair, his lips moving down her neck to her shoulder.

He didn't mind at all. In fact, he kind of liked it. Not just kinda, he fucking loved it.

“Mind? Nah, I wouldn't mind one bit... You can be my model anytime you want.” He mumbled, his lips tracing a path along her collarbone before gently biting down on the sensitive skin, causing her to gasp softly. “I wanna take another” She breathed out, tilting her head back, resting against his shoulder.

Dean smirked against her skin as he felt her tilt her head back against him. He loved having her like this, all needy and wanting him. "Another one, huh? Sounds good to me.” He murmured, his lips moving to her jawline, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin there. "What'd you have in mind this time?"

She then handed him the camera, “You take it this time…go back a little on the bed and kneel infront of the mirror” Y/N instructed him. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine as she handed him the camera. He raised an eyebrow at her instructions, but he didn’t hesitate to follow them.

He moved back on the bed a little, positioning himself in front of the mirror like she asked, and waited for her next command. "Like this?" He asked, his voice low and rough with desire.

“Good boy” She praised, kneeling in-front of him to lay a quick kiss on his lips before facing the mirror settling on her hands, now down on all fours, her ass pressed against him.

Dean let out a low growl at being called a good boy. He loved it when she talked to him like that, it always turned him on even more.

He let out another moan before feeling her ass press back against his raging boxer clad erection. His left hand immediately went to her hip, his fingers digging into her skin.

"Fuck, you know what you're doing to me right now, don’t you?” He breathed out, tracing her the vines on the anti possession sigil tattoo that decorated her lower back. Her breath hitched as he ran his fingers along it, that ache between her thighs wasn’t helping.

He couldn’t help but buck his hips forward a bit, his erection trapped and rubbing against the thin material of his boxers and her panties. “Stop teasing me and take the picture hotshot, then you can have me however you want” She responded enticingly.

Fuckkkk, she was playing dirty. But damn, did he love it.

“Teasing you? Me?” He replied, his voice low and rough. "You’re the one with your ass pressed up against me like that." He grunted, “Stop acting like you don’t like it” She shot back in a smug tone.

Her words and her movements were driving him wild with desire, and he desperately wanted to just take her right then and there. But he knew she wanted this picture first, so he bit back a moan and forced himself to focus on the camera. He gripped the camera tight, raising it up to his eye, his other hand still holding tightly onto her hip.

"Lift up a little bit for me, baby" He instructed, his eyes fixed on the camera. Y/N did as he instructed, raising her hips up just a bit to give him a better view. Her back was arched, her head hanging down, her hands bracing herself on the bed, pressing back against him even more.

"How's that?" She asked, her voice sultry as she glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Perfect.” He grunted, his eyes glued to the view through the camera.

He could see everything. Her back arched, her head hanging down, her hands on the bed, and of course her ass pressed up against him, the material of her panties barely covering her... He could see it all, and he wanted her so bad.

He took a deep breath, aiming the camera in the direction of the mirror, trying to steady his hand as he clicked the shutter. The click echoed through the room, the sound filling the air as the camera whirred to life, printing out the picture.

“Let me seeee” She said excitedly, quickly getting up to kneel besides him. He chuckled as she got up to kneel besides him, practically bouncing with excitement. “Impatient much?” He teased, holding up the photo for her to see. “Shut up” She grumbled, taking the picture from him with a gentle huff.

He snorted again, taking in her grumbling and the gentle huff. She was so damn cute. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him as he tilted his head to look at the photo.

"So... How do we look?" He asked, his hand gently moving up and down her hip, his thumb rubbing circles on her skin. “Holy fuck” She gasped, her eyes widening as she picked up the previous picture on the bed, comparing the two side by side.

She threw herself backwards into the comforter, her bare back hitting the fabric with a thud. Dean laughed, amused by her dramatic reaction. He watched as she fell back onto the bed, laughing softly as she let out a small oof.

He followed her, leaning over her and bracing his weight on his forearms. He was hovering above her, his face just inches away from hers. His eyes wandered down her body, taking in the way her skin looked against the comforter, before coming back up to meet her gaze.

“Another” She smiled, biting her lip again as she wiggled her eyebrows at him. Resting the two photos on the nightstand next to her.

Damn, she was really enjoying this, wasn’t she?

Dean’s eyes drifted to the two photos on the nightstand, his lips curving up into an amused smirk at her suggestive eyebrow wiggling. “Oh, you want another one?” He asked, his voice low and rough, his hand gliding down the side of her body. He leaned in closer to her, his lips hovering millimeters from her ear as he spoke.

“You’re awfully demanding tonight, aren’t you?” He teased, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her hip. “Is it wrong of me to want to take sexy photos with my boyfriend?” she raised her brows, whispering against his lips, exaggerating on the word boyfriend.

Oh, she was playing dirty again. But god, he loved it.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. "No, I suppose it’s not, girlfriend.” He murmured, matching her energy, his hand moving from her hip to her waist, his thumb tracing a path across her skin.

"We’re gonna end up with a whole album of these, aren’t we?” He teased, his nose brushing against hers. “Only if you’re into that” She responded with equal snark, brushing her nose against his, a giggle making its way past her lips.

“Oh, I’m into that…and so much more.” He replied, his voice low and gravelly. His hand continued to trail down her body, his fingers moving from her hip to her thigh. He smirked at her giggle, taking note of how her body reacted under his touch.

"I’m into anything that involves you, baby.” He whispered, his lips brushing against her jawline. “Now you’re just playing dirty” She gasped. He grinned wickedly, his lips moving down to her neck, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin there.

"Maybe a little" He admitted, his hand continuing its journey down her body, his fingers tracing patterns on her inner thigh. Y/N bit her lip, trying to contain the moan that escaped from her lips as his mouth traveled down her neck.

"How do you want this one?” Dean asked, picking up the camera in one hand that he rested next to them. She glanced up at the camera in his hand, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Surprise me" She challenged, a hint of mischief in her voice.

Dean’s smirk widened at her words, his eyes darkening with desire. “Ah, so we’re going for the element of surprise?” He replied, plopping next to her.

He held up the camera, adjusting the settings before angling it towards her. "Just stay still" He instructed, his voice rough and low. He looked through the camera, his eyes darting between her face and the viewfinder, taking in every detail. He took a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked, her eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation.

He instructed her how to pose before he adjusted the camera a little, getting the perfect angle. Then, he pressed the shutter, capturing the moment. Click.

He lowered the camera, waiting for the picture to print out before looking down at it. A sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again. "Shit…this one’s fucking…wow" He murmured, his eyes glued to the photo.

"You're gorgeous" He added, looking down at her, his voice filled with admiration, her cheeks flushed, as she covered her face. Somehow, whenever Dean complimented her, she felt like a freaking schoolgirl.

Another picture wouldn’t hurt…He raised the camera again, angling it towards her.

"Just a couple more," He said, his finger hovering over the shutter button. “But I wanted more with you” She pouted. Dean smiled at her pout, his heart swelling with affection.

"I know, baby." He responded, his voice gentle. "But don’t worry, this is just a warm-up. We’ll get plenty of pictures with both of us together. Plus, we need to make sure each one is as perfect as possible."

He raised the camera again, framing her in the shot. "Now be a good girl and do what I say." He teased, his finger still hovering over the shutter button. Y/N rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance, but she knew damn well she couldn’t say no to him.

“Fine…” She responded with a hint of sass in her voice, but there was no real annoyance behind her words. “But just a couple more and then I get more with you, okay?” She said firmly, taking out another pack of films from the drawer of her nightstand.

"That's my girl" He smiled, appreciating her feigned annoyance. He took another picture, his finger depressing the shutter button. Click.

And then another. Click. He lowered the camera, looking down at her as he waited for the last photo to print. The last photo slid out, and he picked it up, a smirk spreading across his face as he looked down at it. "Fuck..." he muttered under his breath.

The first photo was of her on her hands and knees, her back arched, her head thrown back, and ass pressed up against him except the camera was directed to her instead of the mirror this time.

The second photo was of her lying on her back, looking up at the camera with a sultry look in her eyes while biting her nail, her body on full display.

In both pictures the dim lighting of the room and the comforter on the bed created a sexy, low-lit atmosphere.

Dean leaned back onto the bed next to her, admiring the goddess of a woman he just captured for his eyes only to see.

"You're killing me" He said, his voice hoarse as he held up the two pictures, his eyes flickering between her and the photos in his hands.Y/N giggled at this, taking the pictures from him before resting them next to the ones they took earlier. She then wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting on her side.

“Take one more…like this..” She instructed in a whispered before finding his mouth with hers. Dean groaned as she wrapped her arms around him, a shiver of desire rushing through him as her lips found his. He couldn’t deny her anything, he’d give her whatever she wanted.

He slowly pulled away from the kiss, his eyes darkened with lust. "Anything for you, princess” He murmured in a low, gravelly voice before reattaching their lips, holding up the camera as she lifted her leg to throw it over his hip.

He angled the camera outwards to capture the photo, his hand adjusting the lens so he could get the perfect shot. Then, he pressed the shutter button, capturing the moment. Click.

He pulled back from the kiss, patiently waiting for the camera to spit out the photo. When it did and finally developed. He looked at the photo, his breath catching in his throat. Damn, they looked good together.

"God damn" He muttered, his voice hoarse as he looked down at the picture in his hands. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. He slowly looked up at Y/N, the cutest widest smile on her gorgeous face, his gaze lingering on her face then down to her body, his eyes darkening with desire.

"You’re so damn beautiful it’s not fair" He murmured, his free hand moving to caress her side as he leaned over and rested the camera and photo back over her and onto the nightstand. Her cheeks flushed again but she just chuckled at his comment, her eyes locked with his, a smirk playing on her lips as he laid the camera down.

"You're not so bad yourself, handsome" She said in a soft, seductive voice, her hand going to the back of his neck to pull him down to her. She captured his lips in a deep kiss, her tongue brushing against his hungrily.

He let himself fall into the kiss, his hands roaming all over her body, his touch ignites flames wherever he touches. He broke off the kiss, panting softly, his eyes burning into hers. "I think we've got enough pictures for tonight" He murmured, his voice husky.

"But I'm not done with you yet." He added, his hand sliding down to cup her ass, squeezing gently. He brought his other hand to rest on her hip, pulling her closer until she was hovering over his lap, her knees on either sides of his thighs.

She grinned at his words, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Good, because I'm nowhere near finished with you either" She teased, peppering kisses down the nape of his neck, pressing her breasts against his bare chest, her nipples hardening against the cool air of the room.

He groaned at the feeling of her hardened nipples against his chest, his hands gripping her hips tighter. "Fuck, y/n/n...that feels so good" He growled, his voice thick with desire. His hands slid up her sides, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her sensitive peaks. He squeezed gently, relishing in the softness of her flesh beneath his palms.

He leaned forward, capturing one of her nipples between his teeth, biting down gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. He laved attention on her breasts, alternating between licking, sucking, and nipping at the tender buds until they were swollen and aching for more.

His hands slid down her body, settling on her hips once more as he rocked her against him, grinding her core against his straining erection.

She moaned loudly as he bit and sucked on her nipples, arching her back to push herself further into his mouth. She gasped when he ground her against his cock, her legs trembling as she fought to keep herself upright.

Her hands moved to grip his shoulders tightly, her nails digging into his skin slightly. "Please, Dean...I need you inside me" She begged, her breathing ragged, her body aching for him.

He released her nipple with a wet pop, trailing kisses up her chest until his mouth met hers in another searing kiss. "As you wish, Princess" He murmured against her lips, his hands slipping down to peel his boxers off.

Y/N didn’t bother to take her panties off and rather slipped them to the side. She helped him slide his boxers down, kicking them aside before reaching down to grasp his throbbing length. She stroked him once, twice, before positioning him at her entrance. With a slow, deliberate movement, she sank down onto him, taking every inch of him inside her aching pussy.

A loud moan escaped her lips as she felt him stretch her, filling her completely. She started to move, rocking her hips back and forth, setting a slow pace that allowed her to savor the sensation of being filled by him.

A desperate groan tore from his throat as he felt her tightness envelop him, her walls clenching around his cock deliciously. "Fuck yeah, Y/N...you feel incredible" He rasped, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as he guided her movements. He matched her rhythm, thrusting up into her as she rode him, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the room.

“Fuck charming, fuck me just like that” Y/N urged, her voice whiny. He groaned loudly, his own nails digging into the soft flesh of her hips as he held her steady for his relentless pounding. "You’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking like that" He whined, his voice strained with pleasure.

With a sudden burst of strength, Dean flipped their positions, pinning Y/N beneath him on the bed. He braced himself on his forearms, looking down at her with wild, passionate eyes. "I wanna see those pretty eyes when I make you cum," he growled, his hips snapping forward to drive his cock deep inside her.

He set a punishing pace, each thrust hitting her exactly where she needed it most. The force of his movements caused the headboard to bang against the wall, punctuating the lewd sounds of their coupling. Dean's muscles flexed with each stroke, his abs contracting as he powered into her willing body.

Sweat dripped down his chest, mingling with the heat radiating off Y/N's skin. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue invading her mouth as he claimed her thoroughly.

Y/N arched beneath him, her back curving off the mattress as she met each of his thrusts with equal ferocity. The change in angle had her clit rubbing against his pelvis with every stroke, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her entire body. "Oh god, Dean!" she moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shoulders for support. Her pussy clenched around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

The sight of him above her, his muscular form glistening with sweat as he fucked her mercilessly, coupled with how he was hitting that perfect spot, was too much for Y/N to handle. She reached down between them, her fingers finding her clit and began circling it rapidly. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” The dual stimulation was driving her insane, pushing her closer and closer to the edge of orgasm.

"That's it, baby...touch yourself for me," Dean encouraged breathlessly, watching in awe as Y/N pleasured herself. The sight of her fingers working furiously over her sensitive nub combined with the way her velvety walls gripped his cock was almost enough to send him over the edge prematurely.

He gritted his teeth, determined to hold out until he could bring her to climax first. "Come on, Y/N...let go for me. I wanna feel this pretty little pussy squeeze the cum outta me," he coaxed, angling his hips to grind against her G-spot with every deep, purposeful thrust.

One of his hands left the mattress, threading his fingers into her free hand, guiding her motions as he increased the speed and pressure. "Cum for me like a good girl. Now,"

The added touch from his hand sent Y/N spiraling towards oblivion. She cried out, her body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her pussy spasmed around his cock. "Dean! Oh fuck...I'm cumming!" she screamed, her orgasm ripping through her like a tidal wave.

Her inner walls fluttered and clenched rhythmically, drawing out his release as well. Y/N's entire body shook violently beneath him, her orgasm lasting what felt like an eternity as her eyes flashed that sexy ball of white Dean loves.

The sight of her flashing eyes and the intense contractions of her pussy around his cock were enough to tip him over the edge. With a roar of satisfaction, Dean gave into the overwhelming urge to spill his seed inside her. He slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his balls drew up tight. "FUCK YES!!" he bellowed, his vision blurring at the edges as he erupted deep inside her.

Thick ropes of hot cum pumped into her quivering depths, each pulse sending aftershocks rippling through both their bodies. Dean collapsed on top of her, panting heavily as he struggled to catch his breath. He pressed sloppy kisses along her neck and jaw, still buried inside her warmth.

____________________________________________

Meanwhile, Sam was in his room, his ear pressed to his phone as he spoke to Jo, he finally broke after weeks of barely talking to her. “For fuck's sake...how long are they gonna keep this up? It's been weeks!” He grumbled under his breath, complaining to her about Dean and Y/N very loud activities. The banging of the bed against the wall, coupled with their screams were driving him insane, and NOT in a good way.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as Jo snorted in amusement. “It's like they're trying to break the damn bed. And don't even get me started on the noises. I swear, if I have to hear Dean scream 'fuck yeah' or Y/N scream ‘harder’ one more time, I'm going to lose my mind."

It wasn't often that he got any alone time these days, especially since Dean and Y/N had gotten together. Sure, he was more than happy for them. The idiots had been pining for years, but Christ it was disgusting, did they have to be sooo damn loud?

Jo giggled on the other end of the line. “Oh come on, be happy for them. But, maybe if you found someone to help you blow off some steam, you wouldn't be so bothered by it." She said suggestively.

Sam's cheeks flushed at Jo's teasing suggestion. "Are you offering Ms. Harvelle?" he retorted, a deep chuckle leaving his throat, his eyes slightly widening from the dirty comment he let slip. Sam internally cursed himself for it. “Maybe,” Jo replied coyly. “Are you against that, Mr. Winchester?” She chuckled softly, enjoying the playfulness between them.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Not at all," he admitted, though there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. He knew better than anyone that relationships were complicated, especially in their line of work. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the idea of spending time with someone who shared his interests and passions.

Let’s just say…Sam was overthinking everything when it came to Jo.

“Just remember, I'm not easy to handle," Jo teased lightly, trying to lighten the mood, a soft giggle escaping her lips. Sam swallowed hard, feeling his pants tighten at the sound of Jo's provocative tone. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the growing ache in his groin.

His thoughts drifted back to Dean and Y/N upstairs, their voices were growing louder and more urgent by the second but they thankfully eased. "Be careful what you wish for, darling" he warned playfully, his heart racing at the thought of exploring the undeniable chemistry between them.

Sam's words hung heavy in the air, both of them knowing full well what they were implying. Jo bit her lip, trying to suppress the excitement bubbling within her. She wanted to take things further with Sam, but she also didn't want to seem too eager.

"Well then, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens," she said nonchalantly, trying to hide her anticipation and the growing heat between her thighs as she pressed her phone to her ear.

Sam let out a shaky breath, his resolve wavering as Jo's flirtatious words echoed in his ears. The temptation to give in to his desires was strong, but he knew he needed to tread carefully. She didn’t deserve to go down with him.

"I should probably let you go," he said reluctantly, his voice strained with barely contained lust. "We can talk more later." Jo felt her heart pang painfully when he cut their flirty banter short, already feeling as though Sam wasn’t interested as she was but she forced a smile.

Her voice dripped with mock sweetness. "Of course, Sam. We've got plenty of time to explore our...interests." She paused deliberately before adding, "But don't think you can put this off forever. I expect you to make good on your promises sooner rather than later."

She ended the call abruptly before Sam could respond, leaving him alone in his room with nothing but his own thoughts. She sounded very audibly pissed and it twisted his heart.

Sam stared blankly at the phone in his hand, his mind reeling from the unexpected turn of events. A part of him was thrilled by the prospect of exploring his feelings for Jo, but another part was filled with uncertainty and fear.

"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples as he tried to sort through his jumbled emotions. He knew he needed to speak to someone about this, preferably someone who understood the complexities of their unique situation.

____________________________________________

Meanwhile, upstairs in Dean and Y/N's bedroom, the couple lay tangled together in the sheets, their bodies glistening with sweat. Despite the late hour, neither of them seemed ready for sleep, lost instead in the afterglow of their passionate lovemaking.

Y/N rested her head on Dean's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart while tracing idle patterns on his bare skin. "That was incredible," she murmured contentedly, nuzzling into him.

"Yeah, it sure was," Dean agreed, his voice thick with satisfaction. He wrapped an arm around Y/N, pulling her closer against his warm body. His fingers traced along the vines of her tattoo on her lower back, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

Despite the exhaustion tugging at the corners of his mind, he found himself reluctant to move away from Y/N's comforting presence. There was no denying how perfect they were together.

"But we gotta get some rest," he added with a soft chuckle, already missing the sensation of being buried deep inside her.

Y/N nodded in agreement, her eyelids growing heavy as she fought against the pull of sleep. As much as she wanted to stay awake and bask in Dean's presence, her body was begging for rest after their vigorous lovemaking session.

With a yawn, she snuggled deeper into Dean's embrace, relishing the warmth of his body against hers. "Goodnight, my love," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest before allowing her eyes to drift shut.

Within moments, her breathing slowed and evened out, signaling that she had finally succumbed to the lure of slumber. Dean watched her for a few minutes, marveling at the peace and contentment etched across her beautiful features.

A sense of love and protectiveness washed over him as he held her close, grateful for the incredible woman fate had brought into his life from the beginning.

Dean gazed down at Y/N's sleeping form, a tender smile gracing his lips as he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. The sight of her peaceful expression filled his heart with a warmth that spread throughout his entire being.

He knew that with Y/N and Sam by his side, he could face anything that came their way, whether it was hunting monsters or dealing with the challenges of everyday life. They were his rocks, his anchors in the stormy seas of existence.

As he settled in beside her, pulling the covers up to shield them from the cool night air, Dean felt a sense of completeness wash over him. This was where he belonged, right here in this moment with the woman he loved….but for how long?

____________________________________________

It was now the next morning, Y/N was downstairs making breakfast, humming along to random tunes while flipping pancakes, her light pink robe covering her body fully. Her mind kept drifting back to the night she died, that deal Dean made for her. The aching, nagging feeling never left and it’s never gonna leave.

He sacrificed himself for her, sacrificed his soul, his humanity, all because he loved her. She’s trying to keep it together because she’s adamant to save him, and she knows Sam will do anything for his brother, risk is all, you name it. It was up to her and Sam to stop Dean’s impending death and descend to Hell. And they had no idea how they were gonna do it.

Y/N was greeted by the sound of feet padding towards her, assuming it was Dean, she smiled over her shoulder, only to see it was Sam, looking disheveled as he rubbed his eyes tiredly, sinking into one of the chairs at the counter. “Morning” He mumbled gruffly as Y/N reached above the cabinet and took out a mug, along with the pot of coffee. “You look like shit” She snorted, pouring him a mug.

Sam gave a small grunt of acknowledgement, taking the offered mug with a nod of thanks. "Thanks, I feel like it too," he groaned, taking the offered mug of coffee and inhaling its rich aroma deeply. He savored the first sip, letting the caffeine kick start his sluggish brain.

His mind was still swirling with the events of last night - the intense conversation with Jo stayed fresh in his brain.

"So, did you figure anything out last night?" he asked, glancing at Y/N as he stirred sugar into his coffee. "Any ideas on how to stop Dean from going to Hell?"

Sam's brow furrowed with concern, his mind racing with possibilities. They needed to find a solution soon, before it was too late. He knew Dean would never forgive himself if he dragged them down with him.

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she plated him a stack of flapjacks, bacon and eggs, resting it down infront of Sam. “He refuses to talk about it. All he wants to do is…well…” Her cheeks flushed, “Not that I’m complaining” She chuckled, scratching her head as Sam groaned exasperatedly in mock disgust. “But you know Dean” She chuckled, leaning against the counter sipping her own coffee.

Sam gave a small huff of amusement at Y/N's words, pushing his plate aside momentarily to rub his eyes again. "Yeah, I know Dean," he replied, sighing heavily as he leaned back in his chair. "It's just...hard seeing him like this."

He took a bite of the fluffy pancake, sighing appreciatively. “God, these are amazing.” He took another bite of food, chewing thoughtfully before continuing, "We need to figure this out, Y/N. We can't let him go to there."

Y/N's gaze softened, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on Sam's arm. "I know, Sammy. We'll find a way. We always do," she said, patting his hand before retracting it, offering a hopeful smile despite the worry gnawing at her insides as she downed the rest of her cup of joe.

She poured herself another cup of coffee, adding creamer before taking a slow sip. "Maybe we should dig into the old books, see if there's anything about demonic deals gone wrong. Or hell, maybe Jo might know something," she suggested, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

Sam’s chewing paused for a split second at the mention of Jo before quickly resuming, Y/N noticed this, narrowing her eyes at him, "I just wish Dean would open up more. If he'd tell us what's really going on in that stubborn head of his..." Her voice trailed off, frustration and concern warring within her.

“…speaking of Jo…” She began, diverting from topic as she sipped her coffee again. Y/N pumped her brows suggestively at her best friend.

Sam's brow lifted curiously at Y/N's suggestive tone, he stuffed his mouth full of food to hide the pending heat rising to his face. "Huh? What about Jo?" he asked, stuffing his mouth again. Y/N tilted her head as she braced her elbows on the counter. Sam wasn’t one to usually stuff his face so she knew something was bothering him.

Though she shrugged nonchalantly, waiting for Sam to choose to talk about what’s bothering him. “Honestly, I’m just wondering how she and Ellen are doing since the fire at Harvelle’s. I haven’t heard from her in a few days.” She said sadly, a frown creasing on her face.

Sam nodded in understanding, clearing his throat. "They’re holding up as well as anyone could expect, considering everything," he replied quietly, finishing his food quickly. He pushed away the empty plate, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

The look on Sam’s face confirmed her suspicions, he was conflicted and overthinking something. She had a feeling it very likely had to do with Jo, since usually Sam would be on the phone with her almost everyday and since they’ve been up in her safe house, he hasn’t mentioned her once.

With a small frown, she leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. "What’s the matter, Sammy?” She asked, concerned. Sam fidgeted under her gaze, his fingers subconsciously drumming on the counter. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. But Y/N knew better.

She raised an eyebrow, studying him carefully. “Well you’re an even more terrible liar than your brother, and we that for living” Y/N muttered, shooting Sam a look that said, ‘Spill it’.

Sam chuckled dryly at her comment, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine. It’s just...Jo,” he admitted, running a hand through his messy hair. He took a deep breath before continuing, “I can’t stop thinking about her, Y/N. I’ve been trying to stop and failing miserably, might I add” He scoffed. “I don’t know how to do this, or how to go about it.”

He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing. Those pouty puppy dog eyes were seeping through. “I know I have feelings for her, but at the same time...I’m scared. I don’t want her to get hurt with all the shit we’re knee deep in” Y/N’s brows furrowed as she nodded in understanding about Sam’s internal battles when it came to him and Jo, listening to his every word.

Sam sighed, rubbing his temples. “I just don’t know how to balance it all, Y/N/N. I want to be with her, but I don’t want to drag her into this dangerous mess we’re in. She deserves better, you know? Someone without the baggage, someone who can actually give her what she needs."

He glanced up at Y/N, his eyes searching for some guidance, some words of wisdom. “Well, has she ever told you what she needs? Have you ever asked her?” Y/N asked, tilting her head. Sam’s cheeks flushed faintly at her question, realizing the answer was no. “No...I guess I never thought about it like that,” he admitted quietly.

He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “God, you Winchesters are morons” She snorted, reaching over to playfully nudge her best friend's shoulder. Sam cracked a small smile with a playful eye roll. Y/N cleared her throat before beginning.

“Okay. Firstly, She can take care of herself, trust me when I say, you’re overthinking it. Jo really likes you. A blind man could see that, and she’s a big girl. I mean, you guys already act like a couple, might as well make it official” Y/N said softly with a small chuckle.

Sam chuckled at Y/N’s bluntness and the way she teased him. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. He knew that she was right, deep down. Jo was strong, independent, and resilient. And she had shown time and time again that she could handle herself. He was just a scared idiot.

“And secondly, stop being so harsh on yourself” She added firmly, Sam’s face creased into a frown again, “You’re a good guy. Yes, we’re in a fuck ton of shit but Jo is quite literally looking past that because of how much she loves you. Like, hello? Anyone in there? Can’t you see that?” She exaggerated, playfully knocking on his head with her knuckles.

Sam snorted, nudging her hand away as she chuckled lightly, “You two are lucky to have each other, so stop beating around the bush, stop talking shit about yourself and stop beating yourself up.”

He looked up at Y/N, his expression filled with gratitude and appreciation for kind words. She always knew why to say, “Thanks, Y/N/N” Sam thanked her, “No problem, Sammy,” Y/N replied easily with a reassuring smile, reaching over to give his arm a gentle squeeze. She knew how much Sam cared for Jo, and vice-versa, and she just wanted him to be happy. He of all people deserved it.

Let’s hope Sam takes her advice.

A frown graced his face again as Y/N sipped her coffee, his mind replaying the events from that unfaithful night. “You know, I never said thank you for…uh…” Sam’s words got stuck in his throat, clearing it as he felt a wave of emotion coming through his body, his gaze trapped in his own cup. Y/N tilted her head slightly in confusion until she saw the look of despair on his face.

“You don’t need to” She said softly, offering him another reassuring smile. Sam’s eyes flicked up to hers, “I-” Sam is cut off by Y/N, “You don’t need to thank me, Sammy and there’s nothing to feel guilty about” She interrupted firmly. Sam’s features softened, but that didn’t stop him from feeling terrible. “I would do it again in a heartbeat”

This made him smile again, as dreadful as the thought was of either of them, he would do the same. The Winchester-L/N clan would go to hell and back for each other….literally. “Me too,” Sam assured her.

Meanwhile, Dean began to stir awake, stretching out in bed, his muscles still aching from last night's activities. He rolled onto his back, yawning widely as he rubbed at his tired eyes. Instinctively, he reached over to pull Y/N into his embrace, only to pat an empty bed.

Confusion crossed Dean's face as he realized Y/N wasn't there. He quickly sat up, scanning the room, but she was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging it off, assuming she must have gone to shower, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

The delicious aroma of pancakes wafted up and filled his nose as he pushed himself up from the bed, his eyes landing on the ‘pictures’ they took last night. He smirked to himself proudly as he felt his stomach grumble.

He then took up his wallet which was lying right on the dresser next to the pictures, opening it before sticking his favorite picture into one of the clear card slots.

Dean padded down the stairs, following the scent of food to the kitchen where he found Y/N and Sam chatting quietly amongst themselves. His lips curved into a lazy grin as he sauntered over, wrapping his arms around Y/N's waist from behind and nuzzling into her neck affectionately.

"Mornin' beautiful," he rumbled, pressing a kiss to her pulse point before turning his attention to Sam. "Smells great in here. You cookin' today, Sammy?"

Despite the causal question, there was an undercurrent of tension in Dean's voice. He knew they were worried about him, and he hated being the cause of their stress. But he also knew there was nothing they could do to change his fate.

So he focused on the present moment, on the warmth of Y/N in his arms and the comfort of family surrounding him.

“If it was Sam who cooked, the pancakes would’ve been charred into hockey pucks” She joked, flashing her best friend a playful wink. Dean chuckled and nodded in response, which earned a middle finger from Sam, directed at both of them.

Y/N snorted at Sam's reaction, nuzzling back into Dean's chest. "Charred is part of his signature," Dean chuckled, earning a mock scowl from Sam as he kissed her neck lightly, a soft unintentional moan leaving her lips.

The younger Winchester pointed his finger inwards to his mouth, making a gagging noise, “I’d like to keep my breakfast down, guys” He groaned, rolling his eyes as he padded out of the kitchen. Scratching his stomach as he sipped his coffee.

Dean snorted in amusement as Y/N giggled, plating six pancakes, a whooping heap of eggs and a half dozen strands of bacon for Dean.

Y/N smiled softly, watching as Dean pulled out and settled into a chair. "Eat up, handsome" She sighed, leaning against the counter, “You’re not gonna eat too?” He asked but she shook her head in return, “I ate before you guys came down” She assured him, Dean nodded, muttering a sweet, “Okay, thanks” in return.

Her gaze softened as she looked at him, her heart breaking knowing how much he was suffering internally. Dean dug into his food, shoveling forkfuls of eggs, bacon and pancakes into his mouth. He chewed with relish, savoring each bite. The flavors danced on his tongue, the textures mingling perfectly. It was comfort food at its finest.

As he ate, Dean stole glances at Y/N, his eyes lingering on her face. He loved the gentle smile she wore while watching him, the softness in her eyes. It made him feel cherished, cared for.

But beneath the surface, the weight of his impending doom pressed down on him. He tried to push it away, to focus on the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with the woman he loved. But it was a losing battle.

“I’m gonna go take a shower” Y/N announced, pressing a kiss to Dean’s temple. Dean nodded absently, his mind still grappling with the heavy thoughts plaguing him. He watched as Y/N headed upstairs, his gaze trailing after her until she disappeared from view.

With a sigh, he pushed his plate away, standing up to begin clearing the counter. As he did the dishes, his thoughts turned dark once more. The demon's promise echoed in his mind, he would lose everything dear to him if he tried to back out, including Sam and Y/N.

He couldn’t back out regardless, it was a sealed deal, a contract that they held, bearing his soul. He wasn’t gonna risk his brother and girlfriend dying. No chance in hell would he let that happen…literally.

Dean clenched his fists, a growl rumbling in his throat. No. He refused to drag them along with him. It’s not like he wanted to go to hell. But he would fight tooth and nail to protect those he loved, even if it meant facing damnation himself.

But for now, he had to put on a brave face for Y/N and Sam. They needed him strong, not crumbling under the weight of his despair.

Dean finished the dishes, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before tossing it aside. He leaned against the counter, staring blankly ahead as he ran a hand over his mouth.

He wished it had a way out of this mess. A loophole, a bargaining chip, something. He believed that he was truly doomed, that all hope was lost.

A sudden knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. Frowning, he moved to answer it, unsure of who could be dropping by unannounced so early in the morning.

He pulled open the door to reveal none other than Jo Harvelle standing on the porch, a hopeful yet nervous expression on her face. "Jo? What are you doing here?" Dean asked, surprised and wary.

Jo flashed a sheepish smile, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “I, um, God this is stupid and desperate-” She mumbled to herself, running a hand through her blonde hair.

Dean chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Easy, relax dude" he quipped, though there was a hint of genuine warmth in his voice, patting the younger girl's shoulder. “He’s upstairs” He flashed her a sly wink, pointing to the ceiling, indicating Sam was upstairs.

Jo's cheeks flushed pink as she nodded gratefully, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Thanks Dean," she murmured, starting towards the stairs.

Just then, Y/N came bounding down the steps, freshly showered and dressed. She paused when she saw Jo, surprise flickering across her face. "You skank, you didn’t tell me you were coming!" she exclaimed, crossing the room to give her friend a tight hug.

Dean watched the reunion with a fond smile, his heart swelling with affection for these two women who had become such close friends. “I’m sorry, slut. I’ll phone you next time” Jo giggled, returning the tight squeeze. “How are you holding up, and where’s your mom?” Y/N asked softly as she pulled away from the hug.

Jo sighed heavily, rubbing the back of her neck. "Honestly, I'm hanging by a thread most days. Mom's...she's not doing well either." She admitted quietly, her eyes dropping to the floor. "She’s at Bobby’s, I hitched a ride here. It's just been really tough lately."

Y/N frowned at this, her heart swelling before pulling Jo into another hug, “I’m so sorry sweetie…” She cooed before pulling away again. “….but Sam’s upstairs” She whispered, flashing Jo a quick wink.

Dean grinned as he watched Jo disappear upstairs, amused by the blush staining her cheeks. He turned to Y/N, raising an eyebrow. "Well, looks like we got some privacy for a bit," he drawled suggestively, stepping closer to her. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. "What should we do with ourselves, hmm?"

Y/N threw her head back laughing, “Oh, no, no, no” She shook her head frantically, trailing her hands up his chest. “I love you- I do- and I never thought I’d say this but my vagina needs a rest” She groaned, throwing her head into his chest.

Laughing along with her, Dean couldn't resist planting one last kiss on her nose before letting her go. "Alright, alright," he said, chuckling. "Vaginal timeout." The phrase made Y/N cackled loudly.

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he grabbed her hand and led her toward the stairs. "Don't think this means I won't try and change your mind later, though," he added with a wicked grin.

Meanwhile, Jo stood infront of Sam’s bedroom door. Her heart was racing as she raised her knuckles to knock on his door.

Woman up, Joanna Beth. She internally chided herself.

You’re being so fucking desperate. Her mind yelled at her.

Shut up and do it bitch!

And she did, she knocked on his door gently, quickly retracting her hand.

Sam opened the door, expecting to see Dean or Y/N. "What did you wa- Jo!” he exclaimed surprised, looking down at her from his towering height. He was still wearing his pajamas, a faded old t-shirt and a pair of worn-out sweatpants. "I- um- I didn’t expect to see you” Sam chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jo blinked up at him, her hands twisting nervously together. "Um...well..." she stuttered, biting her lip, her mind going back to their conversation last night. “I just wanted to...see how you were doing," she finally managed to admit.

Sam looked down at Jo, concern etched onto his handsome features. "Yeah? Well, I could use a distraction right about now," he admitted honestly, stepping aside to invite her into his room. The space was messy but cozy, filled with books scattered everywhere from his endless research.

As soon as they were both inside, Sam closed the door behind them. He leaned against it casually, folding his arms across his chest. "So, what brings you here?" he asked curiously, trying to mask his nerves with casualness.

“Okay, you know what. Fuck this” Jo snapped, tired of the run around. “Excuse me if I’m being too forward here, Sam. But what is this?” She gestured between the two of them. Sam visibly flinched at her sudden change of tone.

“I mean” She ran a hand through her blonde hair, “Over the phone, we’re flirting. We act like we’re a thing one minute and then we’re not. Ontop of that, you’ve been blatantly ignoring me for weeks for no damn reason. And now I show up here and I feel like some desperate little girl trying to get your attention and I HATE IT!” She exclaimed.

“You kiss me, and then we act like nothing happened, I’m not okay with that, Sam” Sam stared at Jo wide eyed, taken aback by her sudden outburst. He hadn't expected her to come bursting into his room with such aggression. "Whoa, hey" he protested weakly, raising his hands in defense. "That's not— I just..."

He trailed off, chewing on his lower lip nervously as he tried to find the right words. "I like you, angel. I really, really like you and I care about you a lot. I do…but it’s like- like- everything good I touch, everything good in my life, it turns to ash. Shit hits the fan everytime and I- I don’t wanna drag you along with it" he confessed honestly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jo took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She knew that Sam was struggling with something, but hearing him say it aloud made her heart ache. "Sam..." she murmured, stepping closer to him until there was barely any space left between them. "Look at me," she pleaded softly, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

"I know things are complicated for you right now...but that doesn't mean you can't have happiness too" she continued gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon," she assured him with a small smile.

Sam swallowed hard, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of longing and fear. Part of his brain was screaming at him to listen to Y/N but the fear of losing her prevailed. "I wish I could believe that" he whispered hoarsely, feeling the warmth of her hand seeping through his shirt. It was tempting, so damn tempting to lean into her touch, to give in to the desire building within him...

But then reality would hit again, reminding him of all the reasons why this was a bad idea. "I just don't want you to get hurt or worse…," he admitted quietly, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear away those thoughts.

Jo’s jaw clenched, an unamused laugh leaving her throat. “You know, I’ve taken you for many things, Winchester. Smart, handsome, a bit of an obsessive perfectionist. But a coward was not one of them” She snapped.

Sam winced at her harsh words, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I'm not being a coward" he argued defensively, although his tone lacked conviction. "It's just...you deserve better than me, Jo."

Despite his protests, he found himself inching closer to her, drawn towards her warmth like a moth to flame. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and pull her close, to lose himself in her embrace and forget about everything else…

“You know what, fuck this. I should’ve never came” She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. Tears welled up in her eyes as she turned to leave.

The sight of her tears stopped Sam dead in his tracks. "Wait!" he blurted out, reaching for her hand. "Jo, please don't go like this" he begged, gripping her wrist tightly. He felt like an absolute ass, pushing her away when all she'd done was care for him.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I keep screwing things up" he apologized sincerely, pulling her back towards him until their bodies collided. But Jo shoved him away harshly, causing the much taller man to stumble a bit, a look of shock and hurt spreading across his face, his eyes glazing over.

Jo wiped her tears away angrily. "I'm sick of this, Sam," She hissed. "I’m sick of wanting you. Of loving you. I’m sick of being so desperate. I’m sick of the stupid fucking run around. You owe me more than apologies. You owe me honesty" She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

Sam sighed heavily, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You're right, I do" he agreed, nodding slowly. "The truth is...I'm scared, Jo." He met her gaze, his blue eyes vulnerable and raw. "Scared of losing you, scared of messing things up even more than I already have. But most of all...I'm scared of falling for you."

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them once again. "Because if I let myself fall for you completely...and something happens to you because of me...I don't think I could live with myself" he confessed, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Do you hear yourself? Sam, I’ve proven that I can handle myself time in and time out! God forbid something does happen, it won’t be your fault!” She hissed. Sam flinched at her harsh words, taking a step back. "Hey, I didn't mean—" he started, but she cut him off.

"You always do this, Sam. You push me away, make me doubt myself. 'Oh, poor Sam, he can't protect anyone.' Well, newsflash - I don't need protecting!" Jo exclaimed, her voice rising in frustration.

She paced the room, her agitation growing with each step. "You know what? Forget it. Just forget it all. I'm done with this conversation." With that, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Sam stood frozen, staring at the closed door. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of Jo's angry face, the hurt and tears I n her eyes.

With a frustrated growl, he punched the wall beside him, ignoring the pain that shot through his knuckles. "Damn it!" he muttered under his breath, hating himself for yet another mess he'd made.

He slumped down onto his bed, burying his face in his hands. Maybe Jo was right. Maybe he was just a coward, too afraid to take a chance on something real. But how could he risk losing someone else he cared about?

The weight of his past mistakes pressed down on him, suffocating him. Y/N’s words of advice at the back of his head pushed through. He wasn’t gonna let this fuck them up, not today, he couldn’t, she was the best thing that’s ever happened to him in a very long time, so he rushed behind her.

Sam burst out of his room and down the hallway, chasing after Jo. He caught up to her before she reached the front door, grabbing her elbow and spinning her around to face him.

"Leave me al-“ He cut her protest off, snatching her by her face before capturing her lips with his in a soaring kiss. Jo gasped against his mouth, her body stiffening in surprise for a moment before melting into his embrace. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself as she lost herself in the heat of the kiss.

Sam's tongue danced with hers, coaxing her into submission, she melted against him. When they finally broke apart, both panting for air, Jo narrowed her eyes at Sam suspiciously. "What was that for?" she demanded, her voice slightly breathless.

Sam swallowed hard, his heart racing in his chest. "Because I couldn't stand the thought of you walking out that door thinking I didn't want you…thinking I didn’t love you," he admitted, his thumb stroking her cheek tenderly. "Because I do want you, Jo. I love you. More than anything."

Jo looked into Sam's eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. When she found none, she sighed softly, her anger beginning to fade. "Well, since you put it that way..." she murmured, leaning in to capture his lips once more.

Her hands roamed across his chest, feeling the solid muscles beneath his shirt. She tugged him closer, pressing her body flush against his, reveling in the sensation of their curves melding together perfectly. “Prove it, Winchester” She smirked against his mouth.

A low chuckle rumbled from Sam's chest as he responded to her challenge. Without breaking eye contact, he scooped her up effortlessly from the back of her thighs, wrapping them around his waist before carrying her back toward his bedroom. His hand gripped her blonde hair, his bloodied knuckles slightly staining a few of her locks.

Once inside, he kicked the door shut behind them before setting her down gently on the edge of his bed.

His hands were everywhere, exploring every curve of her body, tracing along her sides and over her hips. "How's this for proof?" he teased, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her top to tease at her skin.

Jo giggled, biting her lip as Sam's hands explored her body. "Mmm, that's a good start," she purred, reaching up to tug at his pajama pants. Her fingertips slipped beneath his shirt and traced over his abs, marveling at the ridges and dips of muscle beneath his smooth skin.

As she leaned back on the bed, she tugged him down on top of her, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. "Keep going," she urged, nipping at his neck playfully.

A thrill of excitement coursed through Sam at her encouragement. He wasted no time in shedding his shirt, revealing his toned torso to her hungry gaze. His hands moved lower, sliding up underneath her top to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples which hardened instantly under his touch.

"Like this?" he whispered against her ear, nibbling lightly on the sensitive lobe before trailing kisses down her neck. Jo moaned softly, arching her back off the bed to press herself further into Sam's touch. "Just like that," she breathed out, tilting her head to give him better access to her throat.

____________________________________________

Meanwhile, Dean and Y/N were inside their room. Y/N sprawled out on the bed, impatiently waiting for Dean to pick a movie when they heard Jo moan, “Sam!” Rather loudly down the hall. Y/N stopped mid chew, a popcorn kernel between her fingers as Dean’s head whipped to the door.

Their brows were touching the sky at moaning echoing down the hallway. Shock, amusement and disgust etched on their features. "No fucking way” Y/N mouthed to Dean as he glanced at Y/N who had perked up at the sound as well, stealing with joy at the fact that they finally did it.

But then another loud moan echoed through the house, this time followed by Sam's deep chuckle. “God I’m gonna be sick” Dean shivered with disgust, turning back to the laptop, earning a laugh from his girlfriend.

Jo's moans grew louder and more frequent, punctuated by Sam's grunts of pleasure. "F-fuck, Jo-" Dean rolled his eyes, plugging his ears dramatically. “Ugh, keep it down!" he shouted mockingly, as another particularly loud cry rang out from Jo.

Y/N smacked his arm, giggling. “Aww, let them live, babe” She cackled, “We were worse than that these past few weeks, dude deserves a break” Before Dean could respond, there was a sudden crash from Sam and Jo's room, followed by a string of curses.

Dean and Y/N didn’t hold back this time, the two burst out in hysterics. "Jesus Christ!" Y/N cackled, clutching her stomach as she doubled over in laughter. "I think they broke the bed!" Dean joined in, his laughter bubbling up from deep within him.

____________________________________________

Author’s Note: Zoo-wee-mama🥵 (please tell me you get the reference XD) anyways, I totally did not just lose my pants writing this entire thing. I’ve had this written for months and was patiently waiting to post it HEHEHEHE

I hope you guys loved it! YAY SAM AND JO!!! YOU GUYS FIXED SHIT FASTER THAN DEAN AND Y/N, WE’RE PROUD OF YOU🫶🫶🫶

This one was shorter but I personally loved it🥹I plan on doing more original episodes but ones with actual hunts lol. Y’all know filler episodes give me headaches but this one gave me a different type of headache, if yk what I mean😏

Okay okay, I’m going now LOL! Hope you guys liked it! Lmk what you loved and what you hated🥰

Taglist: @hjgdhghoe @rach5ive @tiggytaylor @star-yawnznn @quarterhorse19

@deangirl96 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @mrsjjkwinchester

@juwu-theliciosa @magiccliopleurodon @nesnejwritings @karrah89 @whattheduckisupkyle

@iloveyou2mia @thelittlelightinthedarkness @lmhf1 @littletomboy2 @zigzoggy

@hey-its-zoe @modiddys-blog @thvxr @tommysaxes @cookiemonstermusic258 @elite4cekalyma

@ladykitana90 @strawberrykiwisdogog @barnes70stark

Xoxo

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