#and then I felt worse! and I figured it’d be pretty weird to drop on the foot in front of the patient

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

I headcanon Kaisa as being just slightly hypotensive. I’m thinking normal blood pressure around 11/7. Most importantly, I headcanon that occasionally it may drop and she knows, but doesn’t do anything about it.

So sometimes she’ll be in the library, and will be on her feet for too long, or maybe it’ll be too hot and she hasn’t let go of her cape, or maybe she even has been so caught up in her job that she hasn’t eaten or drink water in three hours. And she’ll begin sweating, and ignore it. Then she’ll feel lightheaded, and think it’s fine. And then her eyesight will get hazy, and she’ll think ‘nah, I can take it’. Then her hearing will sizzle and her mind will spin and she’ll still do nothing. And if someone’s nearby they’ll begin noticing she’s pale and unresponsive, and that’s because she’s trying to not fall down and wondering why she’s seeing dark spots. But mostly, that probably happens when she’s alone, so when she refuses to sit down and drink water/eat/lie down, she’ll just faint for a bit (on the hardwood floor. Ouch.) and get back within a couple of seconds (and just go about her day like nothing happened)

Anyway the place I’m trying to get to is: imagine Kaisa is hanging out with the Hilda gang for some reason, and at some point they notice the blood draining from her face and her eyes going unfocused and then she just drops unconscious on the floor with no prior warning. Imagine the chaos. Imagine Hilda about to slap her and being held back by David while Frida tries to remember the cpr training they had in the Sparrow Scouts. Imagine Kaisa waking back up suddenly and scaring the living shit out of them

Kaisa already has such undead vampire vibes, I just think that’d be hilarious 😭😭

#damn that’s how I know the academia is getting to me. I’m headcanoning BLOOD PRESSURE LEVELS #(btw I feel like I need to mention: having a lowered baseline blood pressure is GOOD. it’s PROTECTIVE. it HELPS. #walk around with a satchel of salt and you’ll be fine) #this post was brought to you by: me almost doing the same thing yesterday during my semiology practice lol #I walked away when I felt weak #went to get some water. came back to the patient’s history taking bc I felt fine #and then I felt worse! and I figured it’d be pretty weird to drop on the foot in front of the patient #poor dude was just there for his hemodialysis he was already being nice to the bunch of students #he did Not Need to see the chaos that one of them fainting right then and there would wreck #thank God some of the older students saw me trying to breathe deep on the chairs outside the dialysis room #they came to take my pressure and give me water and salt. angels <3 #that’s the good thing about studying in a hospital. if I feel bad I’m already there lmao #anyway. I’m right about Kaisa. #kaisa hilda #the hilda librarian

[aliidarling]

excuse my bad grammar and typos, this is my first time posting official smut! i’ve had accounts there and there but this time i’m fr

i didn’t proofread either cuz i’m lazy so bare w me

sorry if danny is ooc he’s weird to write

he hit me and it felt like a kiss ♡

DANNY JOHNSON x fem!reader

nsfw content — please scroll if uncomfortable

summary: danny chases u down towards the end of the trial and corners you in lampkin house, decides to have a little fun w u :3

tags: nsfw obvi, p in v, forced entry kinda, blood as lube is suggested, rough fingering at end, degrading, humiliation, mean danny, dubcon, referenced somnophillia but doesn’t happen, danny’s thoughts are triggering, danny himself is a warning

dark content below!!

Your breath was heavy as your feet ran as quickly as possible, the thoughts of all other things leaving your mind very quickly. All you could think was the fact a pyschopath was currently right behind you, knife in air, and coming right at your sorry ass.

“Shit, shit,” You sigh shakily under your breath. Your heart was pounding so fast it felt like it could just jump out of your chest. If it did you hoped it’d punch Ghostie in his stupid face, maybe give him a few bruises to remember you by.

“Stop fuckin’ running! You’re only delayin’ the inevitable, sweetheart!” He yells from behind you, his voice deep. You never took time to admire his voice but for some odd reason, while you were probably five seconds away from death, you couldn’t help but acknowledge how smooth it was.

After his harsh words left his mouth, he was immediately slammed with a pallet, chasing him to let out a loud groan and stumble back.

“Fuckin’ bitch— you’re gonna get gutted for that.” He growls, lifting his palm to rub the soreness on his face before he remembered about the stupid mask he wore. He rolled his eyes at this and quickly got back onto his feet.

After another few minutes, he managed to corner you into the little house on Lampkin Lane, the red and blue lights illuminating onto his shrieking expression.

You felt your heart drop slowly as you realized you had nowhere to go. How could you be so stupid, running into the only room in the god damn house without a window to vault into.

“Can’t we talk about this?” You smile sheepishly, backing up into you pressed against the wall, his tall and looming figure intimidating you shitless.

You could feel the sassy roll of his eyes before he roughly grabs you by your shoulders, throwing you down onto the old worn down mattress. A yelp leaves your throat, your body squirming on the mattress, having landed on your belly.

You open your mouth to protest, “Hey!—“ Only to feel the air knocked out of you as he plops down on your lower back, straddling you. His hips were pressing down into your butt, his knees at each side of your waist.

An attempt to lift your head up was quickly denied as you felt his hand grab the back of your head, his fingers tangling within your hair, and shoving it back down into the scratched cushion.

“No squirmin, or else you’ll get a knife shoved in that pretty lil’ head of yours, got it?” His voice was low as he hissed the words out, his legs tightening their hold on you.

You whimper at the pressure on your lower body. You decide to ignore his words— you were gonna die anyways, so why not go out screaming and kicking?

“Fuck you.” You say with a tone full of hatred, fists clenching in anger as you attempt to knock him off you by shoving your butt into him roughly.

This only causes him to get worse, a sharp inhale coming from him as he feels your butt connect with his groin.

He groans back and presses you further down, his hand starting to raise his knife up.

“I’ve had enough of your stupid whining and fighting, stupid little bitch, how about you shut up and take this god damn knife in your throat?” He snaps, his other hand roughly grabbing you by the back of your neck and squeezing it as he presses it down.

Right as he’s about to slam his blade into the back of your skull, already daydreaming about how good his clothes would look covered in your blood and tears, he feels your tiny body under him shift once again and press tight against his cock.

His breath hitches intensely, and it only gets worse from there as he hears a soft noise leave your lips. He reluctantly lowers his knife, just a little, and pulls his head down to see yours.

You had your face resting face down, your cheek pressed against the mattress with your eyes squeezed shut. You had already prepared yourself for the feeling of his knife deep in your skull. It’s not like worse hasn’t happened, Wesker and some of the other weird ass killers had too much fun with their mori’s.

The squeeze of his fingers around your delicate neck caused you to let out a forced moan, his brows furrowing. You could practically feel the air tense as his heavy breathing from behind you sent shivers down your body and right into your core, feeling so embarrassed to have this murderers body so close to yours.

“Just kill me already, you stupid little— Just get this over with!” You whispered with a high pitched tone, squirming once again and bracing yourself for the slash.

He only rolled his eyes at you in response.

Your attention was drawn away from your fear of dying as you heard the loud sound of steel clattering against the floor.

You looked up in surprise, your lips parting and not having a chance to say anything before you felt his smash right against you, a loud gasp leaving you as he pressed you even further down.

After a second into the kiss, you wondered, how the hell he could kiss you with his mask on? You peeked an eye open and saw he had his mask pulled up halfway.

He had one hand grabbing you by the back of your neck, holding you down into the bed, his other squeezing your pink cheeks. The kiss only got more rough as you attempted to part.

All your attempts at parting miserable failed, considering you were quite literally pinned down with no where to go.

“H-Hey— hey, ghostf—“ You choked out between kisses, your hands which you were surprised weren’t pinned down yet, go to shakily reach towards him to push him away.

“Shut the hell up.” He grits his teeth, resisting the urge to beat the shit out of you and then fuck your unconscious body afterwards. Maybe you wouldn’t struggle so much then, ungrateful bitch.

A whine left you before you felt yourself get shoved down again, your head knocking against the mattress roughly. You squirm more, gasping and shaking your head in the kiss you tried your best not to give into.

“Get off me! Get off me— you god damn psycho!” You screeched.

His hand quickly shot up and slapped your face, causing you to curl away and hide your red face into the bed under him. Almost made him feel bad before he remembered the ruckus you caused him during today’s match. Can’t even remember how many god damn pallets you shoved into my face.

“You gonna cry?” He mocks, a grin tugging at his lips as he presses his hips down into your butt, one his knees shoving its way between your thighs and forcefully parting it.

“No I’m not..” You say quietly and so embarrassed.

“Yeah, I think you are.”

He then pulled away rather harshly from your face, one of his hands pressing into the space between your shoulder blades, not letting you look up or get up.

His other hand yanked his mask back down, but then got to quick work with grabbing the hem of your pants and shoving it down.

“What’s wrong? Embarrassed? Shouldn’t be, baby, you’re so pretty.” His voice was so mocking and condescending by itself that it was probably enough to make you cry.

“S-Shut up,” You whispered, limp under him, not even struggling anymore. You knew there was nowhere to go. And you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your tummy as he called you pretty.

“..You think I’m pretty?”

He snickers at your small voice, his hand leaving your back and joining his other in pulling your pants down. Once you’re naked from waist down, he gets to work and grab your hips, pulling them up into a position where they are hovering in the air with your knees supporting them.

“Mhm, baby. Prettiest victim I’ve ever had.” His large hand glides over your round butt, giving you firm taps and playful rubs.

You couldn’t help but let a small moan as his hand glided right over your pussy, pinching your clit rather harshly, making you yelp.

Stupid girl didn’t think I’d be nice with her, did she?

I’m going to ruin her.

I’ll start off with that tight pussy of hers.

“Ever had someone in here, hmm?” He hums, his thick finger teasing your small hole and threatening to slip in. Your breath hitches in fear.

His bloody, dirty gloves fingers inside you sounded so dirty, but a part of you craved for it. The way he stimulated your body fed to your cravings.

“I-I mean, yeah, a long time ago, but now I’ve been here for a bit and none of the survivors are really.. worth it.” You admitted hesitantly, feeling embarrassed to be telling Ghostface the last time you had sex was.

“Poor thing.” He mocked lowly, both his hands going to rest next to your folds. He spreads your pussy lips apart and snickers at the sight of your small inner walls and slickness.

“I’ll treat you so nice, baby, you won’t even have the heart to beg me to stop.”

His words sounded so genuine, but how could you believe him? He was the last person to trust, especially in a situation like this. You were surprised he hadn’t forced himself in your ass already, it felt like something his deranged ass would be into.

The sound of his robe wrinkling and moving around caught your attention. You peeked behind you to get a look before you felt his hand collide with your face again, sending you immediately back down into the mattress, hiding and squeezing your eyes shut as you decide to be good for once and just follow his orders.

You didn’t wanna walk out of here with a knife in your ass.

It wasn’t another minute until you felt something large and round press against your pussy opening. Your eyes widened as his hands forcefully spread your thighs, your back arching as his other hand pressing down into it.

“W-Wait— don’t go right into it!” You gasped, trying to pull away.

He completely ignores you and instead grabs your head with one hand, the other holding your hips firmly as he fully slams himself inside you, full on WWE style.

“Take it, sweetheart, it ain’t that hard, c’mon.” He sniggers, his tone heavy in mirth and amusement, his hold in you tightening.

He was so big, completely stretching out your gummy walls and pressing against your cervix with his painfully big cock.

It had to be a good 8 inches, maybe even hitting 9– nothing about him was average, so it didn’t surprise you his dick was painfully big.

“Ghost,” You cry out, your back arching further as his cock immediately pulls back, making you flinch at the friction.

You were wet, yeah, but not enough to withstand his cock. You would have needed a good stretching and a lot of fingering if you wanted to take him without any pain.

And the fucker just slammed himself inside you, no prep at all. Tears were teasing the corners of your eyes, nose scrunched up at the sting.

He rolls his eyes at your noises, “Stop fuckin’ whining, I’m not against killing ya still, y’know?” He huffs with a sassy tone. Both his hand settle around the curve of your hips and waist and start treating you like a complete fleshlight, slamming himself into you over and over again.

Your body shakes at the intensity of the pounding, your hands limp infront of you and weakly scratching at the mattress. Your skin felt so icky, your thighs covered in something but you didn’t know what.

“Good girl, good girl, takin’ my cock like you were fuckin’ born for it.” He giggled into your ear. He bends over slightly to press his back against your chest, pressing your body flat against the bed.

“Please slow down—“ You whine.

He slaps you in response and you weakly apologize.

A few more extra deep thrusts has him groaning from behind you, his eyes threatening to roll back as well at how tight you fit around him, snug like a song.

“Good for nothin’, cheap whore, what a pathetic piece of crap—“ He grumbles lowly, brows furrowing in concentration as his thrusts get more harsh, your body jolting from each slap of his hips.

Wrapping on arm around you and reaching for your tiny clit, he places rough circles onto it and hummed in approval at how your walls started sucking him in more.

“Gonna cum? Huh?”

“Mhm, mmm, please.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles darkly, brutally slamming his cock into you over and over again until he felt your pussy start milking the shit out of him. He let out an *almost* whine, burying himself as deep as he could inside as you as he twitched.

His hands grabbed onto your hips and pulled you flush against his, his dirty robe rubbing all over your body and staining your pretty skin with your friends blood.

“Good girl, yeah, just like that.” He whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt his cock literally explode in you, sending all of his hot cum straight into your womb for you to go and cry about.

Right as he came, he felt your walls tighten further before relaxing and letting out your white cream as well, coating his cock.

With a soft huff, he slowly pulls out, listening to the squelching sounds in amusement. A smirk tugged at his lips as he watched a mixture of yours and his cum drop out of your sloppy hole, with a slight reddish tint on your thighs.

“Oops, made ya’ bleed.” He hums nonchalantly, his hand going and gliding some of the cum onto his fingers before shoving it back into you.

“Augh! Hey—“ You yelped, tensing at the feeling of his thick fingers back into your over-sensitive pussy, thighs spreading uncomfortably.

“Shut up. You ain’t gonna let one drop out, hear me? You’re gonna be a good girl and suck it up.”

“..Okay.”

After another moment of him shoving the cum deeper into you somehow, he parts and leans back, admiring the view of your ruined body with blood stains from his rough handling earlier and now.

“You’ve never looked prettier.” He snickers before he starts to get back up and pulling his robe on.

“..You’ve.. never looked creepier.” You joke dryly, glancing at his dirty robe. He rolls his eyes and kicks you with his foot as you were still on the floor.

“Ow!”

“Shut the hell up and get out of here, the hatch is waiting for your sorry ass.” He grunts, turning away and picking up the knife be dropped to fuck you.

“You’re so sweet.” You say bitterly under your breath, shakily getting up and rubbing the blood away. The sight of your inner walls blood made you cringe, staring down at your thighs. You sigh and quickly pull your pants back up. You felt disgusting.

“C’mon, I don’t got all day.” He narrows his eyes at you, appearing behind you to rudely shove you towards the exit of the room.

“Jeez! Okay, okay!” You whine, quickly walking out in search of the hatch he kindly offered to you. He watched as you left, his dark eyes from under the mask staring down your silhouette as it slowly disappeared into the distance.

#danny johnson #ghost face x reader #ghostface #danny johnson x reader #dead by daylight #dead by daylight x reader #ghostface smut #smut #Spotify

[contentstarved]

Anonymous asked:

(1/2) Okay I have taken your responses abt belly rubs, and I raise you this. I'll leave who the other character is up to you 'cause idk who you most ship Cloud with but; Imagine that it's obvious that Cloud is VERY hungry, and very much in pain. But either he's being stubborn or food just isn't an option at the time.

(2/2) So someone else tries to give him belly rubs to ease it, so at least he's not in pain. And he trusts them enough to let them do it, maybe he even likes being touched, but oops, it makes the hunger WORSE. Additionally and oppositely, imagine someone he trusts enough to touch him giving him belly rubs to PURPOSELY make the hunger worse, to convince him "Hey you need to EAT, dumbass" I leave the details of all this in your hands~

i loved this so much that i HAD to write it. i’d actually had something like this started a few months ago but had hit kind of a wall with where to take it, so all i had to do was tweak things a little!

i got super carried away with it, though.

for the vision of the author, cloud is a no-op no-hrt trans man, but i didn’t actually figure out a way to organically work that in. just know that it’s very important to me LMAO

Contains: a shitload of onomatopoeias, painful hunger & stomach growling, belly rubs, and underhanded techniques to make your bitchy man of a crush agree to just eat already

also probably an unhealthy amount of italics.

---

Zack stirred slightly when he finally registered the familiar heat of someone pressed against his side, head resting against his chest. In the back of his mind, he absently thought that that was weird; he didn't remember falling asleep that close to anyone... though he and Cloud had started out in the same room...

He slid one eye open, glancing down, and... oh.

Cloud, obviously, had moved sometime during the night, having tucked himself between Zack's arm and side. Well, that answered that question. He couldn't keep himself from smiling as he watched Cloud shift a little in his sleep, giving a heavy sigh and nuzzling his face against his chest. Oh, he had to stay still, he didn't want to bother him... maybe some part of him, unconsciously, still remembered who Zack was. He hoped that was the case, at least, as he resisted the urge to stroke Cloud's hair. He reminded himself that Cloud most definitely needed the rest; he'd looked so pale with dark bags under his eyes, clearly having been unable to sleep for some time between dropping him off in Sector Seven and meeting up in Junon.

Besides, he had nothing immediately urgent to do. And he'd missed this, being with Cloud, even if the last time, they - or at least he - were fleeing from Shinra. At least now Cloud wasn't comatose.

...Zack couldn't help himself. He reached up to lightly stroke Cloud's hair, looking over to see if there was any reaction. When there wasn't one - aside from Cloud making a quiet noise with his throat and nuzzling down again - he let his hand slide down to Cloud's shoulder, before resting at the curve of his waist. He frowned as he noted how sharp the dip was; that, combined with how he was pretty sure he could see some of the tendons in Cloud's arms, the only part of him that was exposed...

Without thinking about it, his grip on Cloud's side tightened. The uncomfortable amount of give startled him out of the anger that had started to harden in his chest; the next thing he noticed was how tight Cloud's organs felt as he'd unintentionally squeezed, and the quiet 'mnnf' that had elicited. Zack took care to loosen his grip, though he felt Cloud's stomach sharply turn and release a loud, desperate growl.

Gyooorororoooohlg...

He wasn't sure how that hadn't woken Cloud up, as the only response was the other's face scrunching up in pain and trying to curl in on himself a bit more. That had to have felt just as bad as it'd sounded. He tried to remind himself that this had to be a good sign, a sign that Cloud's body was at least fighting to be acknowledged and survive - something that had given him both comfort and guilt in equal measure when they'd been on the run, and safe food was scarce - but now that they were somewhere where he could actually do something to help, he felt wrong about not doing something right away.

And Goddess, why hadn't anyone in Cloud's little gang tried to help him? He looked obviously unwell and like all the strength left in him was whatever the mako enhancements had granted him. He knew Aerith had tried - they'd spoken the night before, once they'd gotten aboard the cargo ship, and he wasn't going to put that responsibility on Yuffie - but Tifa? Barret? Why hadn't they done anything?

He tried to tell himself that it was probably most important to let Cloud sleep for as long as he was willing to. He'd figure out breakfast when his friend woke up on his own accord. In the meantime, he'd rub his fingers against Cloud's still-complaining stomach in the hopes of easing the discomfort a little bit… or waking him up. His friend had never liked being touched there, and… to be perfectly honest, he was surprised to see him lean into the touch. He must have felt horrible, even unconsciously, if he was doing that.

xxx

Zack had just started to doze off again when his ears picked up on the sound of Cloud giving a soft, quiet groan, shifting a little to rub at his eyes when his hand brushed against Zack’s chest. After that, Cloud had suddenly jolted and sat upright, stiffening up a little. Zack pushed himself up to sit, too, noting the tinge of pink that colored Cloud’s face.

“Sorry,” Cloud quickly apologized, unable to make eye contact with him. “I don’t usually– I don’t know what–”

He tilted his head down slightly to try to make eye contact with Cloud, giving a reassuring smile. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, promise. I don’t mind.” Cloud met his gaze for a brief moment, eyes wide, still looking mortified. He tried to get some words out, but had stumbled over each and every single one, so Zack decided to try to make it easier on him. “How’re you doing? You sleep okay?”

This was something Cloud could respond to. He took a deep breath before putting together a response. “Uh, yeah.” And then, a little sheepishly, “Better than usual. You?”

“Yeah, I slept great! Not that I usually have trouble, but…” Still, Zack couldn’t help but feel a little skeptical. Cloud’s stomach had been none-too-quietly demanding food through most of the night and into this morning, and this counted as sleeping better than usual? How had he been sleeping? If Zack had to make a guess, he figured the answer was ‘not at all’.

His answer was enough for Cloud to work with, at least. The blonde gave a small, awkward smile. “I’m glad to hear it.” Cloud couldn’t really shake the jealousy - he usually slept like shit, when he got the chance to sleep - but it didn’t really seem right to complain in front of a guy he only just barely knew, no matter how familiar he seemed. Truthfully, he felt even more exhausted than before. What sleep he’d gotten had not even begun to make up for the sleepless nights where he had either been expected to keep running and fighting and doing jobs for people, or simply couldn’t feel comfortable enough to sleep.

They sat quietly for a few moments while Cloud tried his best to force himself awake, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes again. He desperately wanted to go back to sleep, or at least, he was regretting letting himself sleep at all. He needed to be more useful to everyone than this. Besides, he was pretty sure there was no way he would actually be able to sleep. His organs ached, and… Cloud tried to ignore the concerned, glowing blue eyes that were looking him over. He sighed. “We should go look busy, I guess.”

“Only as busy as everybody else.” Zack shrugged. “Just grab a broom and sweep whenever anyone walks by.”

“Mm. Yeah. That’s a good plan.” Cloud tilted his head, staring at nothing in particular, though Zack noticed him wince and cross his arms over his chest in a way he figured was meant to be casual. It wasn’t fooling him, though, as his mako-enhanced senses could clearly pick up on quieter growls that weren’t coming from his own stomach. (What? He was hungry, too!) “If nothing else, technically I won’t be pretending to be busy if I go look after Yuffie.”

Zack didn’t like that so far, Cloud’s plans seemed to not involve eating something, first. He was pretty sure that was on purpose. “True, she does need some looking after. I’m probably gonna see if there’s a gym on board.”

“Well, if there isn’t, I’m sure you can do squats just about everywhere,” Cloud replied, before looking baffled for a few moments. It was… almost a little cute, watching his eyebrows furrow while he looked just a little troubled, like he didn’t know where that memory had come from. He shrugged it off, finally, saying, “I’ll probably look for a few things to help Yuffie feel a little less sick. A few potions, maybe some anti-nausea…”

“Oh? You a fellow squats fan?” Zack ruffled Cloud’s hair, smiling when the other leaned into the touch, just slightly.  “That’s a good idea, too… but you need to take care of yourself too, first. Let’s grab some breakfast, and maybe some toast for Yuffie?”

At the mention of breakfast, Cloud’s stomach was quick to chime in with a deafening groooorororororrrggg, which caused him to abruptly lurch forward and press a hand to his stomach, face turning a few different shades of red before he turned his head to not only avoid eye contact, but to avoid looking anywhere in Zack’s direction at all.

“A-A little, I guess,” Cloud stammered, trying to continue the conversation like his body hadn’t just proclaimed to everyone below deck how profoundly empty his stomach was. Alright, maybe it hadn’t been that loud, but it sure felt that way to Cloud, who tried to truck through the embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he automatically said, to cover for himself, before continuing a bit more proudly, “Anyway, I outperformed an entire gym in Wall Market. Also, uh. Toast sounds good.” Grrrrrnngl… He pressed his hand deeper into his stomach. “For her. Something easy on her system, if she feels up to it.”

“That’s awesome! But y’know, you could probably outperform anyone if you ate. So you’re gonna eat somethin’, too.” Zack didn’t expect a lot of success, but maybe Cloud would realize that arguing about this on a ship where no one could really escape to anywhere was kind of a futile effort.

He didn’t. “I’m fine, really.”

Yeah, right. Pushing the thought away, Zack decided on taking a different approach. “Well, if you’re sure.” Briefly, he wondered if Cloud had been going hungry for so long that it felt normal to him now, and that he wasn’t really registering it anymore. “Still sounds like it hurts, though. You sure you don’t want me to help you feel a bit better before you go?” He knew he was being a little ballsy, and probably pushing his luck, but he definitely didn’t want Cloud to forget to eat, and there had been just enough flickers of recognition that maybe, just maybe…

“Uh…” Cloud faltered for a moment, making uncertain eye contact, before settling back down next to Zack on the cabin bed that they’d claimed the night before. “...sure.”

He eyed Zack warily as Zack slid Cloud on top of his lap, left hand slipping under the other’s stolen standard-issue infantry undershirt and finding its way to his concave belly. To Cloud’s credit, he resisted the urge to squirm away, and… oh. Zack’s hand was warm, a lot warmer than… well… any other part of his own body felt, and he couldn’t find it in himself to complain about how this wasn’t what he was really expecting. Besides, it… felt sort of familiar. Comforting.

Zack could easily feel Cloud’s stomach rumbling under his fingertips, rubbing small, firm circles under Cloud’s ribs (which felt far too prominent for comfort), noting that at least Cloud’s pulse was strong and steady. There were a few spots that felt tight, which he focused his efforts on first. He couldn’t see Cloud’s face - which he was sure Cloud was grateful for - but he did feel him lean into the touch as he rubbed on a spot that must’ve been especially painful, focusing on that spot until the tension finally released. Both Cloud and his stomach groaned, Cloud recoiling slightly.

“Shit,” Cloud muttered. “Sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for!” Zack was pretty sure Cloud should be apologizing to himself more than anyone else, anyway. He decided to keep that to himself as he switched off to larger circles, using more of his hand in the process. Another pang of guilt hit him when Cloud gave a barely audible whine, but he definitely wasn’t surprised that the other felt so deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it’d be easier to convince him to eat now, at least… which reminded him. “When’d you last eat anything? There’s nothin’ in there.”

Even from the awkward angle, he could see Cloud’s blush reaching his ears. Despite the obvious embarrassment, Cloud tried to act casual, shrugging. “Didn’t have time yesterday.”

Not really a direct answer, but definitely not great, either. “Well, we have time now.” His massage had coaxed out a few growls that sounded practically thunderous. “You know, with the execs being on board, I bet there’s actual decent food on the ship. Not those shitty starch rations.” He wasn’t even sure if Cloud remembered those, actually. He hoped not. He’d seen those shitty squares before and had been glad to be in SOLDIER, where those weren’t the rations - probably because Lazard remembered that SOLDIER was a military, and not just some other branch of the company.

When Cloud responded with a quiet ‘mm?’ Zack figured it was an invitation to keep talking. “There’s probably actual meat here. And fruit.” A sharp gllk-gyuuuurrrg tore underneath his palm, drawn out over a long, viscerally uncomfortable few seconds. “Bet they might even make pancakes. Or french toast.” Gyaoowruuuuu… he couldn’t hold back a little smirk over the near-instantaneous reaction that had gotten. The growl was strong enough that for a moment, Cloud had slapped his hand on top of Zack’s. His friend had always had a sweet tooth, and even if Cloud might not have consciously remembered that fact, his stomach clearly did, now snarling ravenously and continuously. He hardly had to rub what little belly Cloud had anymore to coax out the deeper and more demanding growls that writhed desperately under his hand. If he could feel it, then Cloud definitely could as he hunched over slightly in Zack’s lap. “How about some eggs with it, too?” Grrrlllgrrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-grrrrn… “Y’know, I think your stomach might appreciate working on some protein that isn’t you.”

“Please shut up,” Cloud grumbled. Zack couldn’t tell if it was at his own body or at Zack himself for starting to talk to his stomach - realistically, it was probably to both of those things - but he was taking it as a sign that Cloud was starting to relent.

“That depends,” Zack said cheerfully. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

Cloud’s half-hearted glare told him everything he needed to know. “You weren’t really trying to help, were you.”

“Hey, this is helping.” Even if it wasn’t at all the kind of help Cloud had been hoping for, which Zack figured would’ve included pretending that he hadn’t heard anything at all. “Are you at least gonna have breakfast with me?”

Roooowwwwlg! Cloud sighed in defeat, unable to argue with both a persistent Zack and stomach. “Ugh. Fine.”

Resisting the urge to be too overly affectionate, Zack gave him a tight hug, instead. “Thanks, buddy.”

#f.f7r #c.loud s.trife #z.ack f.air #z.akkura #hunger kink #belly rubs #my writing #long post #hunger

[bakugotsundere]

Hating Him - Bakugou Katsuki (2)

Bakugo x (black) fem reader

( still can read if you’re not)

sorry if it bothers you, i just felt that my black readers weren’t feeling black as they were reading y/n stories cause i for sure wasn’t

Warning: Smut, Rough sex, hair pulling, name calling, Nsfw 18+

Summary: Bakugo and you have hated each other ever since you met, being on the same track team and having the same friend group didn’t make things any better. you 2 have to act like you like each other for the benefit of the friend group until one day you and him are forced to have movie night with the others and you both have had enough of each other’s shit.

It was now saturday and you had just came home from practice. It was about 6 in the afternoon. You started to run you some bath water, remembering how you’d have to go to the sleep over with Mina and the others. You and bakugou still didn’t get along, it was nothing but you 2 arguing at practice and the team being annoyed. You just couldn’t bring yourself to like him, no matter how hard you tried you just...couldn’t. Ever since you’ve got here, he’s hated you. He knew you were competition and he treated you like-so, even though you were on the same team. He didn’t care and neither did you.

you took off your uniform, stretching before you got into the bath water. the feeling was amazing, your muscles were finally relaxed. The feeling of the bath water brought you ease. You enjoyed this time, since you knew tonight was going to be crazy. You closed your eyes, calming yourself down as you cleared your mind. Frank ocean played on your headphones. You washed up about 4 times before rinsing yourself off with the shower head. You stepped out of your bath tub, dancing like a white lady on those commercials, as weird as it sounds it was the funnest thing ever. Pretty Girl by Clairo played on your headphones now. You dropped your towel, grabbing your shea butter, rubbing it all over your body.

You washed your face, letting it air dry afterwards. You grabbed a 2 piece pajama set that was satin, placing it in your bag. The top and bottoms matched, it was a cream color that was really light. You put on some thigh length socks. Mina had bought the pajama set for the movie tonight. You didn’t know if it fit or not so you brought something with you just in case. you were supposed to change at her house but the boys had to come in their pajamas for some weird reason. You threw some biker shorts on and a tank top that you had cut a little, you put on your nike slides, waiting on Mina to come pick you up. You took out the flexi rods in your hair. the curls were loose since your hair had been so long. It was like mid back legnth. you picked it out a little bit, giving it more volume. You smiled, showing your dimples, loving out it turned out. You knew it’d only last for the weekend though. Your ginger hair was growing on you.

you rubbed a little moisturizer to your face, so it wasn’t dry. Then you applied a little lip gloss and put your apple watch back on and sprayed a little perfume on yourself and putting on some spray on deodorant. you placed the how shoes she got you in the back also. you grabbed your nike slides, putting them on so you wouldn’t be barefooted. You heard a notification pop up on your phone.

Mina> We’re outside. might have to sit on someone’s lap 🙃.

You had your fingers crossed, praying that it wasn’t bakugou and that he had took his own car. You didn’t want to have to sit on anybody’s lap really. You headed out your house, walking towards Mina’s navy blue audi. The windows were tinted so you couldn’t see inside. You opened up the back door to be greeted by Bakugou, “Hi y/n. I’m in love with your hair. i wish my hair was that long.” Yaoyorozu told you and you smiled, “thank you.” you said softly. “Hiiiiii. Bakugou is being quite grumpy right now, don’t worry about him.” Mina said as you noticed Denki in the front seat. Yaoyorozu was on Todorokis lap and Kirishima was sitting in the middle, focused on whatever was in his phone. “Bakugou help her open the trunk so she can put her things in there.”

He sighed, getting out of the car. He was wearing a black shirt along with grey nike sweatpants and a pair of nike slides. Fits him. He followed you to the trunk, as he did, you noticed that the he was more quiet than usual. you smiled, “Hello to you too bakugou.” he stated. “I’m not being friendly to you. They can’t hear us. Don’t pull what you did at practice again.” He told you, all you did was hand him his water bottle after he was forced to run 2 laps around the track field after practice since he had got into a fight and you were just helping him.

“i didn’t do anything, i was trying to be nice dummy. but clearly you didn’t take it that way.” You stated placing your bag inside the trunk. He watched your as your did so, his eyes lingered on your body longer than usual. He closed it and you followed him back to the car, he opened the door, getting back in. “Where will I sit?” you asked and mina looked in the back, sighing. “Maybe sit on bakugo or Kirishimas lap? Bakugou looked like he doesn’t even wanna be here. ask Kirishina.” Mina told you. Kirishima looked at you, giving you a cheeky smile, “Sure, you can-“

Bakugo interrupted him by slapping him upside his head. “Your girlfriend wouldn’t like that.” Bakugo told him giving him a look, kirishima spoke up, “Nevermind I forgot to tell you guys I had a girlfriend.” He stated, bakugou looked at you and you knew that meant you had to sit on his lap. “Yaoyorozu can we umm...switch please?” You asked and she was about to say yes before Bakugos large hands wrapped around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap, you closed the door, moving around to make yourself comfortable. “Don’t ever do that again. They’ll suspect that you don’t like me and we can’t have them know that.” He whispered in your ear and you felt butterflies swarm in your stomach, hating how you reacted towards his touch. You didn’t know why it’d mess up things if they found out you two didn’t like each other but you went along with it anyways. “Still wanna switch?” She asked and you shook your head with a small smile, “No, Bakugo should be fine.” You stated. His body was warm unlike yours, which made everything worse cause you had the urge to be up under him. “Everybody ready?” Mina asked and everybody in the car replied with a small yes.

Bakugos hands would squeeze your waist, pulling you down onto his lap more as you would go over pot holes or small bumps in the rode. you’d move around occasionally to a song until bakugo had told you stop moving. You guys were still in the car, just closer than before, you started to feel something pressing against your ass as Mina stopped at a red light. The outline of it was hard, thick and very long. Your cheeks went a bright pink, knowing what it was. It was bakugos little friend, you had caused this. You could feel yourself start to get moist at the feeling of this. You hated how nasty your body reacted to his. Your pussy began to throb as so did his print and you both had to sit there as if you didn’t feel each other’s private areas yearning for each other. you refused to accept it because you hated it. Hated him especially.

Mina pulled up to her house and everyone began to get out, you were about to get out but Bakugou pulled you back down onto his lap. He shifted underneath you, moving up, his hands gripped your inner thigh, “When we get inside this house, forget about this whole car ride. Pretend this shit never happened. Tell anybody about this and i’ll fucking kill you.” He told you, pushing you off his lap. You got out the car shocked at what had just happened but you wanted to forget about what happened just as much as he did.

“Y/n? I missed you so much. I hate having a dorm, i never see you anymore.” you heard a familiar voice say and you realized it was Asui and smiled, giving her a small hug. Asui was a very chill person but she was confused all the time which made her adorable. She had on a green shirt and sweatpants, with her long hair in 2 pigtails. “I miss you too, you should stop by my house some time.” You said excitedly. “Will do.” She told you going into the house. You looked in the trunk, searching for your bag, “What happened to my bag?” you asked. Todoroki nodded his head at the door, “Bakugou took it in with him i think. He’s been acting weird ever since you came to our college.” He said, going into Mina’s house as he mumbled the last part to himself. You had wondered what he meant by “weird” and more importantly what did he do with your bag.

You followed behind him going into her house, Her house was huge, like huge. Her mother had money, so she bought Mina her own house, there was enough space and room in here for all of you. You missed the comforting smell of her house, you hadn’t been here in so long. You looked around, noticing she changed a few things around. “Anybody know where bakugou went?” you asked and everyone shook there head no, you sighed going upstairs, looking in each room, going back down the hall after no luck in finding him your face hit something hard, like real hard. You looked up at what you had hit and it was bakugo, your cheeks turned pink remembering the car ride, “Where’s my bag?” you asked and he shrugged his shoulders as he stared down at you, “When i got in, Mina took it from me.” He stated. Ok. This wasn’t as awkward as you expected “Why’d you umm...why’d you grab my bag?” you asked confused on why his hands was touching your stuff.

“Because messing with your shit is fun. Why else?”He asked. “I dislike you.” You told him angrily, trying your hardest to keep your cool. “Sure.” He told you before walking past you. You figured you wouldn’t stress it and went back downstairs into the living room, everyone got settled in, making pallets and grabbing out all the board games. you had told them that you didn’t wanna participate in any games but the card games. They were now starting a game of domino.

Bakugou was making the cookies and you watched him as he did. Your eyes followed his hands, his fingers were long and large. he had two silver rings on the pointer finger of his left hand. “Y/n, since you and bakugo don’t want to participate in any of the games, you can be the chefs for tonight. Make the cinnamon rolls too please.” Denki told you from the couch, snapping your attention away from Bakugou and you laughed softly going into the kitchen, “I do wanna play war with the cards though, so don’t forget about me when the card games come around.” you told him and he nodded his head.

“I could’ve made the cinnamon rolls.” Bakugou told you as you opened the ‘fridge. you rolled your eyes, “yes but they asked me, focus on your cookies idiot.” You replied grabbing them from the refrigerator. “Your mouth is too smart.” He said turning the oven on 350, You grabbed a pan from underneath the cabinet, loading them on the counter between the stove and refrigerator. You turned around, watching him as he placed the cookies in the oven, “so fix it.” you told him, looking him in his eyes, daring him to do something.

“I will.”

you didn’t know what he meant by that but you could tell that it wasn’t good but you didn’t care, what’s the worse that he could do.

You turned back around opening the cinnamon rolls, placing them on the pan after spraying spam onto the pan. You opened the oven, putting the cinnamon rolls inside. steve lacy played loudly on the tv and you danced around in the kitchen as you grabbed the things you needed, loving every part of this, you grabbed the oreos, placing them on the island top counter, along with the pancake mix. they told you to make fried oreos also. Bakugou watched you intensely. His eyes never leaving your dancing body.The only reason you knew how to cook was because your mother was a chef and was very experimental with foods and taught you lots of stuff. You grabbed the wisk, mixing in the water with the pancake mix. The mixing was going by very very slow and there was still chunks.

You started asking yourself what you did wrong until you felt Bakugos hands at your waist. He placed his hand over yours, showing you how to mix, you were about to tell him to move but he whispered something in you ear, “Play along, if they find out we don’t like each other shit will go down hill.” he told you and you sighed nodding your head. You knew he was right, everyone in this group liked each other, and if they found out that you 2 hated each other, things would go left. You knew how fragile this group was.

“Mix in small circles so you’re able to get everything.” He told you with his left hand still at your waist, he was able to mix everything together with ease. “Thank you.” you said softly, you felt yourself start to throb down there again as he pressed hisself against you more. You didn’t know if it was on purpose so you didn’t bother with saying anything. “Did your mother teach you how to cook?” you asked him and he shook his head. “No. I taught myself because I wanted to make food my way instead of hers. It wasn’t nasty or anything, just not what i wanted.” He stated firmly as he started up the grease to fry them in. Sounds like him. You stood next to him, “I still hate you.” He said and you looked up at him, “I hate you too. Trust me, the way i feel about you hasn’t changed.”

He tried to move you out of the way but you removed yourself from his grip, hitting him in his arm. He grabbed you by your hair, pulling your head back and bringing his lips to your ear, “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”He warned letting go of your hair harshly, you stood there in aw of what he just had done. There’s no way you were just gonna let him get away with that but what could you possibly do to him?

He walked away from you telling you to watch the grease, he just violated you and you stood there and let it happen. He’s so...so fucking annoying.

...

It was getting late, everybody had wined down. The music was turned off and the movie was on. You and Bakugo hadn’t talked since he did what he did, you decided to avoid him for the night, being in his presence irritated you. He had been so strict on everything tonight as if this was his house when it wasn’t. He told everyone that he didn’t wanna sleep on the couch or ground so he slept in one of the rooms upstairs. Popcorn was everywhere and now it was just a bunch of adults, sleeping wildly across the floors and couches.

You looked around softly laughing at everyone’s positions. Asui was sleep in the recliner, she was cute when she slept. Denki was on the other couch by himself with his feet hanging off the edge and slob coming down his cheek. Mina and Kirishima were on the ground, the 2 of them had been the most tired since they had been play fighting each other all day. Minas foot was in his mouth and kirishimas was in hers. you tried your hardest not to let out an ugly laugh, Yaoyorozu had left, telling us that she had family problems but you all knew she didn’t, she just hated sleeping anywhere that was not her bed. Todorokis head was in your lap, he stayed still when he slept. You got along with Todoroki the most, he was very observant. He tried telling you that Bakugou has been wanting to have sex with you since you came to the university and you almost slapped him for saying that, you knew it was a lie and he was just saying stuff. After that, he laid his head on your thighs asking if you had ever considered being a pillow. at that point you knew that it was time for him to get rest and he soon fell asleep.

Nobody but you had watched the movie all the way through, you had been watching this movie called hansle and grettle. It was very scary but confused you in the end a bit. You removed Todorokis head from your lap, gently placing it on the couch. You slid to the refrigerator, opening it, grabbing the picture of water. You grabbed a wooden cup from the cabinet placing it on the counter and poured the water inside it.

“Why are you up?” You heard a deep, raspy voice say. You jumped in surprise, spilling a little water on your shirt. You sighed turning around, seeing who had just scared the shit out of you. You were met with a wide awoke Bakugo, his hair was a bit messy and you couldn’t ignore the fact that he looked good. You turned back around, ignoring him. You were serious about ignoring him. You went on, drinking your water. “How long are you gonna keep up with this bull shit?” he asked you and you stood there silent, not answering him. You had been put on your satin pajamas after the games were over, bakugou had been upstairs the whole time you were here.

The satin pajamas barely fit but Mina insisted that you still wear them because you looked, “sexy”. Your thighs were all out, and the shirt fit like a crop top instead of a shirt, since your breast were big, the shirt raised up showing your underboob everytime you raised your arms above your head. You still had on your thigh length socks. You drunk the rest of your water, putting the cup in the sink. You placed the picture of water back in the refrigerator and You grabbed some paper towels going to wipe up the water you spilled.

You felt Bakugous presence behind you, “Move. I need a cup.” he told you and you stood there not listening to what he just told you to do. He purposely brushed his length against your ass, as he grabbed a cup, the same one as you. He went to the refrigerator, getting the picture of water, pouring it inside the cup he had. You watched him as he did so, his muscles were showing since he had on a black shirt and the black had fit him so well. Your eyes looked down, seeing his print through his grey sweatpants. It was huge, like big and you wondered how anybody could even take that inside them. Let alone get the tip in. Your eyes wandered to his hands, You had a hand kink and his hands fit into it. His fingers were neat, he had clear coat of polish on them. His fingernails were clipped to the perfect size. He took care of his hands. Veins popped out his hands slightly and his fingers were long. You found yourself getting moist as your mind wandered to how good his fingers would feel inside you.

His cup being sat down on the counter snapped you out of your fantasy. You looked back up to be met with his Vermillion eyes. He caught you staring, you hurriedly turned your head embarrassed. You hated yourself so much for this, for even thinking about such lewd things when it came to him. You hated him and him being so fucking perfect didn’t change that. You felt him behind you, this time his hands were at your waist. He positioned your hips, now your ass was rubbing against his cock. You took in a deep breath, restraining yourself from saying anything to him, “Its not nice to stare.” He told you in your ear as he moved your ass around his length. You stayed quiet, trying not to let a moan escape your lips. “Still giving me the silent treatment, are we?” His hand went across your bum, leaving a stinging sensation. You gasped, “C’mon y/n, say something before i go fucking crazy.” He told you as he played with the band of your shorts. You stayed quiet wanting to know what his crazy was. “You’re so god damn stubborn.” He said in your ear as you felt his hand press against your stomach, he began to place kisses on your shoulder and neck, feeling him sucking a little too hard, a small moan escaped your lips and you felt him smile against your skin, “I thought you hated me?”

You turned around to face him, “I-I hate you. Don’t ever for a second get to thinking that I don’t.” you told him as you pulled him closer towards you, crashing your lips against his, your small hands placed at his cheeks, loving how warm he was. He kissed back with more aggression, You tried to convince yourself that you didn’t like him but it was getting harder to believe as your body yearned for his touch and now the need to feel his hands all over you grew. He pulled back and tilted his head, “finally ready to fucking talk? i’ve got a lot to say darling.” he said as his hands squeeze your waist, you looked him in his eyes, scared of this eye contact but loving how beautiful his eyes were. “Like what?” you asked. His large hands traveled down to your ass, kneading it almost. “I hate you. hate you so fucking much but...” he continued to kiss you along your neck. “but i only hate you because i want you.” he stated in between kisses, “Nobody has ever made me want them,” his hands found there way to your breast, his large hands squeezing them, “but — god dammit— i’ve been wanting you ever since you walked onto that track field,” his hands were soon replaced by his mouth, your shirt now raised and your breast being sucked on, as if he was a baby, your moans were low and quiet. His eyes, looking up at you as he did so, watching you as you struggled to keep your moans to yourself.

Your back arched a little, and he brung his lips back up to yours. Everything was so heated and out of control but you liked it, so much pent up anger had led to this and fuck, it was good. His hands tugging at the hem of your satin shorts, wanting to touch something more private. Your breathing became heavy and you realized how far you and him were willing to take this. He pulled his ring off of his fingers, placing them on yours, “Can’t have them on while i finger fuck you so I want you to wear it.” He stated and you nodded your head. His hands found themselves inside your shorts and he dragged his middle finger between your pussy lips, “Someone you hate shouldn’t make you this wet darling.” He stated and the feeling of his thumb brushing against your throbbing clit made you moan almost too loudly. He smirked, already knowing this was the sensitive spot. He started to rub it faster and your lips parted as you held onto his arm. He knew how crazy this was driving you because with each circular motion, your pussy got wetter and wetter.

His two middle fingers pressed at your entrance as he brushed his thumb against your now swollen clit. You wanted this, needed it almost as he teased you. “Bakugo. I-I need you to...” you pleaded softly. “Need me to what. It’s not that fucking hard to say. C’mon.” you looked him in the eyes, he looked at you, “I need your permission. Tell me what the fuck you want y/n.” He spat out and your eyes fluttered at how he made wanting permission seem so aggressive but at the same turn a huge turn on, “I-I want your fingers inside of me.” You moaned, and he smiled shoving his fingers knuckle deep inside of you and you placed your hand over your mouth, letting out a muffled moan. “Wasn’t that hard to say, was it?” He asked as he brung his fingers in and out of you, your fingers digging into his forearms, as quiet moans left your mouth repeatedly. He kept eye contact with you the whole time, making sure he saw how pretty your face looked when you moaned just for him. He started going faster and your brown pupils dilated, “I-I’m about to cum.” You whispered loud enough for him to hear but soft enough so that the others wouldn’t. “Shhh...cant let the others hear you now can we?” He asked and you shook your head no as his fingers grazed against your walls at a rapid pace.

Your legs got weak as his fingers bent up inside you when he reached your spot. His name was moaned loudly from your lips, followed by him removing his hands from out of you and bringing them to his lips, tasting the juices from your pussy on his fingers. he looked at you before placing his fingers deep down your throat. He pulled them out, wiping his fingers on your cheek, “I need a taste.” He stated and you shook your head no, “That’s too far. They’ll hear us.” You stated looking over into the living room. Bakugo grabbed your chin, making you face him, he kissed you again, this time more passionate and slow but still rough, he bit your bottom lip, pulling it. “They won’t hear if you stay quiet. This is all on you.” He replied and you stayed quiet as you felt his hands grab you and turned you against the island top counter , this was closer to the living room, too close almost. The couch was almost right in front of you, only the other side of the table in the way and you could see Todoroki sleeping along with the others.

Bakugou didn’t care and acted as if they were not there. He made you bend over a little and he pulled off your panties, your juices now not having anything to soak through at all. He rubbed your ass roughly before you felt him go down, “so fucking pretty.” He said underneath his breath before you felt his tongue glide between your folds, a groan found it’s way out of your mouth. He started to use his whole mouth, making sure he tasted every part of your pussy. Quiet moans and whimpers leaving your mouth everytime he sucked at your clit, making it even more swollen. He lifted your leg across the counter, his tongue finding its way back to your clit, licking it repeatedly. You never had felt this before, this was something new to you coming from Bakugou. You knew he was experienced but not this much. His mouth pleased you as his hands gripped your ass so he could get a clear view of your pussy. His tongue found itself pressing against your entrance and you moaned louder than expected, he slapped your ass, “Be quiet.” He lowly growled and you gasped as he went back to move his tongue in and out of you, “Bakugo...I’m about to-

“No you’re not.” He stated and you looked back at him confused, he continued to eat you, “I-I can’t...” you breathe out, “Hold it. I want to see your pretty face when you cum, I need to taste everything.” He told you as he turned you around and placed you on the counter. His hand pressed at your pelvic area. He placed 3 fingers inside of you, knuckles deep and your eyes went wide as your back arched. You couldn’t go much longer. You lost it when his lips sucked at your puffy clit. His wrist, thrusting his fingers in and out of you fast and rough at a uncontrollable pace at the same time. Your hands found themselves gripping his hair and he looked up at you, seeing sweat drip down from your face and your curls all messy now, this sight made his cock throb and want to have himself inside of you even more but he just couldn’t get enough of your taste. You looked down at him and you could feel yourself reach your climax, your started to tremble underneath his touch and a foreign liquid came out of your body as you let out a series of loud moans, not caring if you had awoken anyone. Bakugo licked up every juice through a sly smile. He looked up at you, “You didn’t tell me you were a squirter.” He said pulling your panties back over your pussy, kissing your inner thigh gently before going up to kiss you and you tasted yourself on his lips.

When you pulled away from him and looked down at his print, he was really on hard now. You wondered if he’d be willing to take it that far but you didn’t just wanna leave him hanging. You looked up at him, “I...I” you tried to find words but nothing would come out and he placed the palm of his hand on your small cheek, “I don’t need anything in return. Tasting you was more for me than it was for you.” He stated and you played with your fingers, “Are you sure?” You asked and he nodded his head at the living room, you turned around to see Todoroki starting to wake up, “I don’t think you’d keep quiet if i fucked you right here but I’m sure this was enough for you to control that smart mouth of yours when you’re around me.” He stated. “Bakugo-

“I wanted a taste and I got what I came here for. See you at practice.” He said in your ear, making you realize how much you still hated him, “I still don’t like you.” You told him and he chuckled deeply sending chills throughout your body, “Are you trying to tell me or yourself?” He responded and your cheeks heated up and you got quiet. You watched him as he walked back upstairs, you could’ve sworn you saw him wiping your remaining juices off corners of his mouth with his thumb and sucking it off as he left you. realizing what he asked you. You put back on your shorts and you watched as Todoroki got up and came into the kitchen sleepily. “Why are you up?” He asked as He came around to you half asleep. he was about to step into the puddle of your juices on the floor. “Todoroki don’t-

He stepped into it, getting his sock wet, “Who the fuck spilled water and didn’t get it up?” He asked and you acted as if you didn’t know, knowing that the mess came from you, “I-I don’t know but I’ll get it up.” You said softly, realizing that Bakugo didn’t take his rings back and that you’d have to give them back in the morning.

#bakugou smut #mha smut #bakugou imagine #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki #bakugo x black reader #bakugo x reader

[kstewdeux]

@inukagfluffweek

August 11, 2021 - Touch

Lewd

For the life of him, Inuyasha could not figure out why people were staring at them more than usual or, more unnervingly, why Miroku kept giving him some very uncomfortable glances filled to the brim with amusement. Per the norm when the things made him uneasy, Inuyasha had taken to sticking a little closer to Kagome than he traditionally would have in a clearly hostile village. Not because he couldn’t protect himself, okay? He was perfectly capable of protecting himself and had for over a hundred years. And, to be clear, being around her didn’t make him feel safe. Definitely didn’t need to feel safe when he could defeat these assholes with one hand behind his back. He absolutely did not need Kagome to protect him and she wouldn’t be able to do much on that front in any case. It was just that he felt a little more secure near her. Secure was not the same thing as safe. Not at all. He didn’t need her to feel safe. Just…a little more confident when he was admittedly a little anxious people were staring. At first, it actually wasn’t that bad but the stares just kept getting worse and so…

But he was not staying close because he was scared. He wasn’t scared of anything. Except, well, losing her so…so that was probably why he felt the need to stay close. So he could protect her if shit hit the fan. Knowing that she was safe made his chest less tight and his stomach stop churning. Sure as hell wasn’t because…

Letting out a controlled exhale, Inuyasha distractedly flicked at some crust that had somehow lodged itself in the corner of one eye before letting his hand drop again.

“What a beautiful public display,” Miroku hummed as he sidled up to his companions and gave Inuyasha a mischievous grin, “It’s almost heartwarming to see two young people so in love.”

For some unknown reason, Kagome choked as her heart started beating so fast from fear Inuyasha’s instincts nearly went into overdrive. Why the hell was the wench so terrified?

Glancing around, amber eyes widened at the realization that Kagome might be just as worried about the stares they’d been receiving. Maybe she was staying close to him for….similar reasons he’d been staying close to her.

“You need to shut up,” Inuyasha hissed quietly before lowering his volume more so as to not be overheard - somehow making the monk look even more amused, “This ain’t the place to say shit like that. The villagers have been watching me like a hawk.”

“I absolutely cannot imagine why,” Miroku snickered as he pointedly glanced down and set his jaw to keep his shit eating grin in check, “In any case, Sango is almost done buying provisions so why don’t we move on ahead, hm?”

“Fine by me,” Inuyasha huffed as he began walking forward only to realize - when the thing in his hand jerked once to keep him in place - exactly why people were staring. Amber eyes widened in mild horror as they darted to the hand clasped securely in his own which was attached to the miko herself.

When did they start holding hands? He sure as hell didn’t do that and yet his palm was slightly sweaty indicating he’d been holding her hand for some time now.

“We should wait for her,” Kagome chided nervously as she gave Inuyasha’s hand a light squeeze making butterflies erupt in his stomach, “It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Mentally going over their day, Inuyasha tried to pin point when exactly the hand-holding started. They’d been walking side by side most of the day but he…he didn’t remember…

She must’ve started it.

“Why are you holding my hand?” Inuyasha asked - even though he took no action to cease the contact.

Giving him a strange look, the miko gave him an answer he did not like.

“Because you kept putting your hand in mine?” Kagome replied slowly - her worried look morphing into an amused one, “Wait…”

Some flashed behind her eyes and the melting look on her face made his stomach churn.

“Aw, you didn’t…”

“No ‘aw’. There is no ‘aw’ here,” Inuyasha huffed as he pulled his hand back and tucked both hands into his sleeves, “You did this. Not me.”

The melting look increased and Kagome gave him an affectionate smile.

“Awww….”

“What did I say about no ‘aw’!” Inuyasha huffed desperately, “I didn’t start this.”

“Yes you did,” Kagome sing songed and much to Inuyasha utter shock, a nearby elderly human woman chuckled softly to herself while looking between the pair with something akin to strangerly affection. Which disturbed him as much if not more than whatever was happening with him and his wandering hand.

Breathing heavily, Inuyasha’s mind continued racing down every moment of this fateful day. Trying to find the moment or apparently moments where he’d been the one to instigate the offensive touch but no matter how hard he tried, he had no memory of it. None whatsoever. Every minute of that day had felt natural. Normal even.

“D-do I do shit like that a lot?” he finally asked - his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to keep his composure.

“No but I liked it,” Kagome admitted with a hum before taking a step closer and giving him a shy smile that had his ears pinning back against his head.

And then she did something that absolutely crashed his mind…

She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss on his cheek.

“You can hold my hand whenever you…”

“Are you insane?! You can’t just kiss me like that in strange villages,” Inuyasha hissed as his mind finally caught up - his hand desperately trying to wipe away the perceived sin. Kagome’s grin only made his anger and discomfort grow hotter.

“To be clear then, it’s okay if I do that in familiar places?” came her teasing retort and for a moment, Inuyasha was almost very, very stupid. He almost said something along of the line of forbidding kisses entirely. Something he most certainly did not want to forbid. Especially considering she was pretty much saying she’d give him kisses if he wanted them.

Blushing faintly, Inuyasha decided the best course of action was to react normally. Brush her off and declare her stupid…

Thankfully the old woman watching saw the incoming relationship bomb coming before it landed and for some unknown reason, felt inclined to defuse the explosive before it detonated.

“Be bold boy and say yes,” the elderly woman chuckled softly, “A girl like that won’t wait for you forever and the monk is right. Anyone with eyes can see you love her.”

“Stay outta this” Inuyasha snapped irritably - a reaction to which the old woman thankfully seemed amused by, “What makes you so bold?”

Miroku’s hand flew to the top of his head - hoping his friend didn’t just incur someone’s wrath and also…didn’t Inuyasha just say they shouldn’t draw attention to themselves? Was this just how he coped with fear and anxiety? Antagonize people? If so, how was Inuyasha still alive?!

“Well this was my husbands village and now it belongs to my son. Everything that happens here is my business,” the old woman hummed - giving the somewhat nervous trio a reassuring smile, “And seeing as how you’re in my village, what I say goes.”

“Crack pot,” Inuyasha huffed - earning a full blown facepalm from the miko - and the old woman, to her credit, simply smirked. Not at all afraid of the teenager even with all his fangs and demonic energy. Mostly because he was obviously domesticated and in the presence of equally powerful friends who could stop him from doing any real damage but also because this demon clearly had a good heart and therefore, she reasoned, wouldn’t harm her.

And while that was all mostly true, that didn’t mean Inuyasha wasn’t seriously considering punching her.

“Inuyasha, you need to be nicer to people.”

“Fine. Fine,” Inuyasha huffed as his blush deepened. Glancing at the old woman to make sure she wasn’t upset by what he’d said, Inuyasha turned his gaze back towards the miko who was clearly expecting him to apologize to the old woman. Which he wasn’t gunna do but he could fix one thing that probably needed fixing for a while now.

Squaring his shoulders, Inuyasha cleared his throat and…tried…

“It’d be annoying but if you…you want to kiss me sometimes, I won’t stop you.”

Kagome blinked once then twice.

“Come again?”

Quickly reaching over to push Miroku away face first before he could add in his two cents, Inuyasha tried to look like what he’d said wasn’t awkward as hell.

“I said if you want to kiss me, go ahead. Old bat was right,” Inuyasha hufffed before his eyes widened in horror at what he’d impulsively implied, “I mean, you already j-just do shit. I c-can’t really stop you.”

Kagome made a bemused face and wrinkled her nose at this bizarre admission. That was at least twice now that Inuyasha hadn’t shot someone down after they announced he loved her. Which was unusual and for someone as easily triggered as he was, that left her with a most wonderful conclusion.

One that he apparently realized she’d come to and so Inuyasha did what Inuyasha do.

He tried to protect himself. Poorly.

“I see that look. Don’t be stupid. I mean…yeah, she was right about…about the love part…I do, um, love you, ya know, as a friend. A good friend. And, um, sometimes friends they kiss I think.”

“Well if that is true I must inform San…”

With a soft groan at his own cringeworthy awkwardness, Inuyasha once again necessarily pressed his hand against the closer than usual monk’s face and gave it a light push. This was already nerve racking enough without the monk making it more weird on purpose. First he was holding his woman’s hand without realizing and now he’d all but admitted how he felt. Something he’d been denying himself because he didn’t want to force someone to walk beside him as he faced the constant pile of shit being thrown at him. Add to that he didn’t deserve to be happy when Kikyo was suffering and it was just…wrong to feel like he did.

What he wanted didn’t matter. It never mattered…

Kagome smiled and his stomach turned into pleasant knots.

Except it did. Hell did it ever. He couldn’t even go more than a day without this woman before he lost his fucking mind. What was he going to do if she knew and didn’t feel the same way? Or worse, what if a chance at a relationship ended badly?! If she left him, she’d take the only friends he’d ever had with her…

He’d be alone…

“Uh….huh…”

Panicking now, Inuyasha decided to rely on old faithful and go for an insult to force her back into friendship lane. This was getting into dangerous territory. She knew. Mainly because he told her but he…he could fix it.

“W-why are you so s-stupid, huh?” Inuyasha added a little desperately and much to his horror Kagome’s knowing smile only grew, “I’m just saying you just do shit and…I mean, what am I supposed to do, huh? You just throw yourself at…”

The old woman snickered at the scene and threw in her thoughts with a bemused laugh, “Please just kiss him young lady and put us all out of our misery. He talks far too much for his own good.”

“STAY OUTTA THIS YOU OLD…” Inuyasha began to bellow before whimpering softly when Kagome sealed his mouth with her own. Before he knew it, his arms were pulling her up and against him to give her the best access. It was beautiful and pure and everything he’d hoped a real kiss would be like. While she had done that before, this was the first time she’d done it for a reason other than saving his sorry ass. She’d done that only because she wanted to and that fact that she’d done it just because nearly brought a tear to his eye. Did she…did she love him back?

“You know,” Kagome panted lightly as she pulled back and nuzzled her man’s nose, “I love you too.”

Visibly wilting in relief, Inuyasha gave Kagome the most affectionate look anyone had ever seen on his face. A look that crumpled and turned to annoyance when Miroku made another comment about ‘public displays’.

The old woman simply rolled her eyes and continued on her way - mentally chuckling to herself about how the youth of today could be so foolish and how life was far too short.

A short distance away her middle aged son was watching his mother with a weary smile while the pair of mercenaries seemed to discuss something of great magnitude.

“That’s a dangerous thing you just did.”

“I did nothing but nudge those two down a path they were already on,” the old woman chuckled softly - reaching out to pat her son’s arm, “Love is love sweetheart. It’s one of those funny things in life that just is.”

For a long moment, the son watched the newly formed couple as they resumed holding hands before sighing and turning to follow his mother.

“I meant you meddle far too much” the son continued - glancing over his shoulder to make sure they went being overheard, “They’re mercenaries by trade. You saw their weapons. Probably fresh from some war and…”

“Mercenaries deserve love as well…”

The son let out a long exhale and rolled his eyes.

“Mother. That boy had claws…”

“Claws deserve love…”

The son stopped mid step and groaned that kind of exasperated groan only a child with an embarrassing parent would understand before glancing over his shoulder to watch the little band move on towards their next bounty. One day his mother was going to try to play matchmaker with the wrong two people…

But thankfully, it would seem she always managed to pick the right ones.

#inukag fluff week #inukag fluff week 2021 #inukag #inuyasha #kagome #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #kstewdeux

[mymoonagedaydream]

Not sure what kind of AUs you write, but could you possibly do a Mob!Bucky x Soft!reader? And by soft!reader I mean she’s generally very kind, gentle, and cutesy, the “wouldn’t hurt a fly” type, except when defending those she cares for, then it’s like someone flipped a switch and she’s hell on wheels lol

All Bark and No Bite

Summary: When you fell on hard times, comfort came from the very last place you expected

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Soft!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Language, intimidating behaviour

Author’s Note: I really loved this request :) thanks so much anon

---

Approaching the front door of your apartment, you heard low talking coming from inside. Your dad hadn’t mentioned anything about having guests over, but you were making his favourite spaghetti for dinner, so maybe he’d just invited a friend over to try it.

He loved showing you off to people, and you loved the proud smile he wore whenever he did.

You turned the key and pushed open the door, seeing your father in the front room, sitting beside a youngish man you didn’t recognise. Clean shaven with neatly slicked back hair and a pretty expensive-looking suit, he was absolutely nothing like the friends who were usually brought home for dinner.

As soon as your father saw you he jumped up from the couch, looking a little antsy. ‘Hi sweetie. This is Bucky, a friend from work.’ He walked over to you and gave you a kiss on the cheek, before turning round to look back at his friend. ‘This is my daughter, y/n.’

You gave Bucky a warm smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too darlin.’ He had a thick, deep Brooklyn accent that made your stomach tingle.

‘Are you staying for dinner? I’m making spaghetti.’

Bucky sent a nervous look towards your father, who seemed to be attempting a very subtle head shake, hoping you wouldn’t notice. There was definitely something weird going on, you could’ve cut the tension in the room with a knife.

‘That’s alright.’ Bucky eventually replied. ‘I should get going soon.’

There was a slightly uncomfortable silence as you took your coat off and hung it by the front door. Only when you walked through to the kitchen did you hear the deep mumbling start again, far too quietly for you to make out any of the words.

You heard the front door open and close, then you heard your dad quickly shuffle into his bedroom.

---

An hour after the guest had left, dinner was ready, but your father was still locked away. You walked to his bedroom and timidly knocked on the door, inching it open to see him sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

‘Dad? Is everything alright?’

He looked up, you could immediately tell he’d been crying. He sighed and patted the bed, inviting you to sit by him.

‘I sorry, sweetheart.’ He reached out for your hand and squeezed it. ‘You know we’ve been struggling a bit lately and, well, I owe some money to some bad people.’

‘That man, who was here earlier?’

‘He’s one of them, but he was here to try and help me out. If they found out he could get into a lot of trouble.’

His grip on your hand was tightening, almost to the point of being painful, but if that’s what he needed to do to keep him grounded then you were happy to let him.

‘How bad is it?’

He turned to look at you, tears welling in his eyes. ‘We could lose everything.’

That hit you like a punch in the gut. He looked absolutely devastated. You hadn’t seen him like this for years, not since you lost your mother.

You moved your arms to circle his shoulders, giving him a tight hug.

‘It’s okay dad. We’ll figure it out.’

---

The next day, while your father was out at work, you were woken by aggressive banging on your apartment door. You considered ignoring it, but they didn’t let up, almost thudding the door off of its hinges.

Opening it cautiously, you saw two burly, intimidating guys staring down at you, and Bucky stood slightly behind them looking a little sheepish.

‘Hey there sweet thing.’ The one at the front said, his alcoholic breath washing over your face. ‘Is your daddy home?’

‘No, he’s not.’ Bucky’s face dropped slightly, obviously shocked by your firm tone.

‘Can you tell me where he is sugar?’

‘No.’

Bad breath gave a low, sinister chuckle before stepping forward and lowering his face to level with yours. ‘I really think you should. We don’t want to have to do this the hard way.’

You were probably being stupid and reckless, but no way were you going to be intimidated into compromising your dad’s safety. You leaned in even closer to your unwelcome guest, leaving barely an inch between your forehead and his.

‘If you so much as touch me, I’ll scream this fucking building to the ground.’

It took a second, but he eventually backed up. ‘I like you, kid. I’ll be seeing you. Soon.’

He turned and walked away, the other man you didn’t recognise following him closely. Bucky hesitated for a second, staring at you while his mouth curled into an impressed smile. He grabbed a cigarette from behind his ear and put it between his lips, winking at you before finally following his colleagues down the hallway.

After firmly pushing the door closed and sliding the chain across, you squeezed your eyes shut and let out a few shaky breaths, thankful that you’d come out of that interaction unscathed.

You never told your father what had happened. He had enough to worry about.

---

A few days later, you were working a double shift at the diner, trying to earn as much money as you could to help your dad out. You’d been on your feet for thirteen hours straight but, thankfully, it was pretty late, so the place was almost completely dead.

You were filling up the coffee machine with beans when you heard the bell above the door go. Turning your head, you saw Bucky saunter in, eyes glued to the newspaper in his hands.

He took a seat at the counter. You wiped your hands on your apron and went to stand opposite him.

‘Hi there.’ He seemed to recognise your voice, his head snapped up as soon as you spoke.

‘Hey.’ A wide smile spread across his face. ‘I’ve never seen you in here before.’

‘I don’t usually do the graveyard shift. Just, y’know, trying to earn some extra money.’

His smile dropped slightly after hearing the exhaustion in your voice.

You hadn’t intended to make him feel guilty. If anything, you owed him your gratitude, cause knowing that there was someone else helping your father out made you feel so much better about this shitty situation.

‘Coffee?’ You chirped, trying to lighten the mood a little.

‘Great, thanks.’ You grabbed him a mug and started pouring. ‘I, uh- I’m really sorry about the other day. Doorstep intimidation was really unwarranted, I tried to convince them out of it.’

‘It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.’

He smirked slightly. ‘You handled it well enough. I was impressed.’

‘Oh I’m definitely all bark and no bite.’ You passed him his coffee and gave him a warm smile. ‘But keep that to yourself.’

Pottering around behind the counter for a while, you felt his gaze on you whenever you passed by him. It was actually quite nice, having this devilishly handsome man show some interest, so you found yourself coming up with as many excuses as possible to walk in front of him.

Ten-or-so minutes after he’d arrived, you had to duck into the kitchen briefly, and when you came out you found yourself pretty disappointed to see that he’d left.

You trudged over to his empty coffee mug, picking it up and double-taking when you saw that it’d been sitting on top of a fifty dollar note.

He must’ve left it by accident, surely? Fifty dollars is a ridiculous tip for a cup of coffee.

You slid it into your apron, figuring you’d give it back next time you saw him. You could even use it as an excuse to get your dad to invite him back to the house, but you hoped you wouldn’t have to resort to that- you hoped that maybe he’d come around by choice.

---

It’d been a week since you’d seen Bucky at the diner, the fifty dollar note was still sitting in your bedside dresser. Your father had been going downhill, getting worse everyday, and the temptation to give the money to him was getting more and more difficult to resist.

Coming back from the grocery store, you climbed the stairs of your apartment building and turned into your hallway, the sight that greeted you making you stop dead.

Bucky was sitting outside your apartment, leaning against the door, looking like he’d just been in a horrific car crash. As soon as he saw you he struggled up onto his feet, the full extent of his injuries becoming apparent as you got closer.

‘I’m really sorry y/n, I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘God Bucky, what happened to you?’

‘They found out what I’ve been doing.’

Your eyes widened in shock. ‘They did all this just because you helped my dad out?’

‘Not exactly.’ He winced as he limped out of the way of your door. ‘I haven’t been playing ball with them for years, I’m tangled up in more shit than I can keep track of.’

It was definitely a stupid idea to let a guy being chased by the mob into your home, you knew that, but you were really struggling not to feel sorry for him. He looked completely broken.

‘My dad’s gonna be out all day.’ His dejected nod at that was the final straw, you knew you had to help him. ‘But I’ll clean you up.’

You gave him a reassuring smile as you let him through the door. He steadily lowered himself onto the couch while you fetched a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. You didn’t really know what you were doing, but you figured at the very least you could give him a bit of comfort and wipe all the dried blood off his face.

You took your makeshift first aid kit into the front room and sat next to him.

‘Look at me.’ He shifted his face towards you. You wrung out the cloth and gently pressed it to a deep gash above his eyebrow, making him wince. ‘I’m really sorry this happened, you didn’t deserve it.’

He chuckled lightly. ‘You gotta teach me how to do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Flick between the nicest and the scariest person I’ve ever met.’

You gave him a faintly amused smile. ‘We lost my mom when I was a kid, my dad needed all the kindness he could get.’ Bucky looked a little shocked at your honesty. ‘But he’s also stupid as hell, so he needs defending pretty often.’

‘He’s lucky to have you.’

Your eyes flicked to meet his, sensing a hint of sadness behind his words. ‘Do you have anyone?’

‘If I did, I probably wouldn’t have ended up beat to shit and on the run.’

You sighed and nodded, dropping the cloth back into the bowl and scanning your eyes over his face again. ‘That’s about the best I can do. You’ve stopped bleeding, but you won’t be winning any beauty contests for a while.’

He chuckled and ran his hand over his hair, taking a deep breath.

You were really conflicted about what to do next. Having him here could put both you and your father at risk, but were you really just going to throw him back out on the street? Anything could happen to him out there, you’d never forgive yourself if he would up in an even worse state.

‘Bucky, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.’

‘Thanks.’ You could almost see a wave of relief passing over him. ‘I don’t think my place is safe at the moment.’

You reached out for his hand and squeezed it tight, a calm silence falling as your eyes locked together. He slowly moved his free hand up to brush a strand of hair away from your eyes, then letting it come to rest at your jawline, gently cupping the side of your face.

You closed your eyes and settled further into his hand, almost feeling yourself melting under his soft touch. Between working and looking after your father, you’d never really had the chance to get close to anyone like this, so these sensations were pretty new to you.

You felt his body shift slightly, and a second later felt his lips press against yours. It was unexpected, shocking you a little at first, but it didn’t take long before you relaxed completely and returned the kiss. It felt like there was electricity flowing through your body, making all your hairs stand up and your stomach do flips.

Getting a little carried away, you lifted your hands up to hold his face to, completely forgetting his extensive bruising. He winced slightly and pulled away.

‘Oh god, sorry I forgot.’

‘S’alright.’ He flashed you a wide smile. ‘I knew you had some bite in you.’

---

#bucky #Bucky Barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky fluff #bucky fanfiction #bucky fic #mob!bucky #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky x y/n #mob!bucky x you

[waitimcomingtoo]

Customer Service

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Synopsis: Tom is a frequent and favorite customer at your coffee shop

For @itsemohours who made my beautiful header

Masterlist

“Hi! Welcome to Tilly’s.” You greeted your newest customer with a smile. “What can I get you started with today?”

Tom looked up from his phone and did a double take, not having expected his cashier to be a pretty girl his age. He frequented Tilly’s often but had never seen you working before. You smiled at each other, both enchanted by the presence of one another. Tom laughed in embarrassment, knowing his face had gone red just from the sight of you. You smiled sheepishly and adjusted your cap out of habit.

“Hi. Um, good morning.” He stumbled over his words. “Could I, could I uh get an egg and turkey on a croissant, please?”

“Sure.” You chuckled softly as you typed his order into your register. “Anything else?”

“That’s all, thank you.” He gulped nervously. You looked up shyly from the register, quickly looking away when you made eye contact.

“No problem. Can I get a name for the order?” You asked sweetly as you shook some hair out of your face.

“Tom H, please.” He told you.

“Nice manners, Tom H.” You chuckled again as you typed in his name. “I don’t hear a lot of those here.”

“Really? I guess my mum taught me right.” He joked, feeling more confident now.

“She did.” You remarked as he swiped his credit card. “Your order will be ready shortly.”

“Thank you. Have a nice day.” He turned to walk away before adding, “Please have a nice day.”

“Thank you.” You laughed at his joke. “You too.”

“Bye.” He waved awkwardly, not wanting to leave but knowing it’d be worse to stay.

“Bye.” You waved back before pressing your cold hands to your burning cheeks. Your coworker gave you a knowing look to which you did your best to ignore. You let out a breath once Tom left the shop, finally feeling your heartbeat go back to normal.

Three days later, you turned your head upon hearing the bell above the door jingle, smiling when you saw Tom walking in.

“Hi.” He smiled brightly when he saw you were working again. He may or may not have been passing the shop every day to see if you were there. Your smile had left a mark on him and he had been counting down the minutes until he saw it again.

“Oh, hello again.” You waved as he approached the counter.

“You remember me?” He was pleasantly surprised to see a glimmer of recognition in your eyes.

“Of course I do.” You shrugged. “Tom H with the manners.”

“If I tip you generously, would you tell me your name?” He asked as he leaned on the counter.

“I’ll tell you for free.” You flirted. “It’s Y/n.”

“Nice to see you again, Y/n.” Tom said through a smile, feeling accomplished now that he got your name.

“You too.” You smiled back. “What can I get you today?”

“Egg and turkey on a croissant, please.” He ordered politely.

“You got it.” You giggled as you typed his order in. “Anything else?”

“Not today, thank you.” He shook his head.

“Thank you.” You smirked. “Your order will be ready shortly.”

“Awesome. See you later.” He waved as he headed towards the counter.

“See you.” You waved back, still blushing long after he walked away.

You didn’t see Tom for the rest of the week which disappointed you slightly. You always liked working, but he had made your work day all the much better. Your head snapped up every time you heard the bell above the door chime, always sinking in disappointment when you didn’t see him.

Finally, the following Monday, he walked in.

“Morning, darling.” He greeted you as he walked up to your register.

“Good Morning, Tom H.” You smiled in relief. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have egg and turkey on a croissant, please.”

“Ah, yes. I should’ve remembered.” You laughed to yourself as you punched it in. “I’ll have that right out for you.”

“How long have you been working here, if you don’t mind me asking?” He made the choice to stay and chat today, since no one was behind him. He prayed no one else would walk into the store, and you shared that prayer.

“It’s my third week.” You told him. “I’m still trying to figure out how to use the expression machine. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve just never seen you here before.” He explained.

“Oh. Do you come here often?” You asked. “That wasn’t a come on, by the way, it was a genuine question.”

“I used to come here at least once a week. I come a little more often now.” He shrugged shyly.

“I can tell. You know, you’re slowly becoming my favorite customer.” You flirted with him shamelessly.

“Really?” His eyes widened in excitement. “Anything I can do to quicken the pace?”

“Just keep coming to see me, is all.” You smiled softly as he swiped his credit card.

“I can do that. I will do that.” He said decidedly.

“Order for Tom H.” A voice called from the pick up counter.

“Guess that’s my cue.” He smiled sadly. “Are you working tomorrow?”

“No.” You shook your head. “I’m working Sunday though.”

“Okay. See you Sunday.” He knocked the counter twice before walking away. You sighed dreamily once he was gone, clasping your hands together in excitement. Little did you know, Tom was celebrating in his own way as he left the shop.

As promised, Tom walked into Tilly’s on Sunday morning.

“Tom H.” You beamed when he walked in, waving to him excitedly.

“Good morning, Y/n. Your makeup looks really nice.” He complimented you. He was going to compliment you regardless of what you looked like, you just happened to look really nice that day. It wasn’t an accident either. You knew Tom was going to be there, so you did your makeup better than usual to catch his attention.

“I woke up before my alarm so I had a little extra time.” You shrugged, lying as if it was no big deal. “Thanks for noticing.”

“How could I not?” He chuckled bashfully. You turned your head to the side as you face flushed, hiding your smile behind your hand.

“Will you be having the usual today?” You asked once you composed yourself.

“I will.” He nodded. “Egg and turkey on a croissant, please.”

“No problem.” You giggled as you took his order down.

“Why do you always laugh when I say my order?” He playfully teased as you gave the order to the kitchen.

“Nothing, it’s just, you say croissant funny.” You admitted, making his jaw drop in mock offense.

“Do I?” He wondered. “Croissant. It’s croissant right?”

“I say croissant.” You spoke through a smile. “With a “cra”. You say it with a “qua”. It’s funny.”

“I’m glad you think so. You have a really nice smile.” He complimented you again.

“Thank you. So do you. Um, would you like anything else?” You stammered through your sentence.

“That’s all, thank you.” He smiled at how flustered he had made you.

“Sorry.” You laughed in embarrassment as you pressed the back of your hand to your face. “I’m just- it’s hot in here.”

“Isn’t that a fan right above you?” He smirked as he nodded towards the air vent.

“Shut up. Go pick up your order.” You teased him.

“You have a nice day, Y/n.” He said as he put money in your tip jar. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye.” You waved flirtatiously as he went to get his order. As much as you loved your little encounters, you wanted more. As you walked him leave the shop, you devised a plan for the next time you saw him.

Which was Thursday night, by the way.

“Hey, Y/n. How’s it going?” Tom walked into your shop around 8 pm on night. You were the only one working since nights were pretty slow, and no other customers had stayed.

“Tom H.” You greeted him cheerfully. “It’s a little late for an egg sandwich, don’t you think?”

“Actually I was hoping you could tell me about the kinds of tea you have.” He gave you his rehearsed statement.

“Sure. They’re all listed on the menu.” You pointed to the menu written in chalk on the blackboard above you.

“I know. I don’t really want tea. I just wanted to see you.” He admitted as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. You sucked in a breath at his bold statement before leaning across the counter.

“In that case, how about I make you my favorite tea? On the house.” You suggested. “If you can guess what it is, I’ll give you a prize.”

“A prize?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Interested?”

“Absolutely.” He folded his arms and nodded.

“Alright.” You smirked as you typed in his order. “Your order will be ready shortly. I’ll see you at the pick up counter.”

Tom strolled over to the pick up counter while you disappeared into the kitchen. He drummed his fingers on the counter as he waited for you, not having to wait to long since it was just tea.

“Order for Tom H.” You came out of the kitchen and presented him with tea in a paper cup.

“Thank you.” He smiled as he took it from you. “Is it weird that I’m nervous?”

“Don’t be nervous. Just take a sip.” You shrugged as you wiped your hands off on your apron.

“Alright. I’m putting all my trust in you.” He eyed you skeptically as he took a sip. His eyebrows knit together as he swallowed, taking the cup away from his lips to examine it.

“Chamomile? Did you give me Chamomile tea?” He laughed in amusement at how easy it was.

“Correct.” You clapped for him. “You got it.”

“So what’s my prize?” He inquired as he leaned on the counter to get closer to you. You rested your chin in you hand and leaves on your elbows, shamelessly gazing at the boy.

“Check the cup.” Your eyes flickered from the cup to his face. Toms eyes glimmered with curiosity as he quickly checked the cup, smiling in excitement when he found a phone number written on the side.

“Is this your number?” He looked up at you with hope.

“Yea.” You bit your lip. “Use it.”

“I will.” He stated firmly. You gulped nervously before straightening up, holding his gaze as you moved. Before you could lose your nerve, you tightened your fingers around his shirt collar and pulled him in, kissing him firmly on the lips. You felt his eyelashes brush against your face as his eyes fluttered shut, deepening the kiss once he realized what was happening. His fingers came to your hair, accidentally knocking your cap off on to the floor. You pulled away and smiled at him while you released your grip on his shirt.

“Wow.” He stammered. “You guys have really good customer service.”

“Have a nice night, Tom H.” You chuckled and patted his cheek before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“You too.” He squeaked, but you were already gone.

Tom grabbed his cup, cheeks still pink from the kiss, and scurried out the door. He got home as quickly as he could and typed your number into his phone, not even caring of it was too soon.

“Is this Y/n?” He sent, impatiently pacing around the room as he waited for your reply. Unlucky for him, it didn’t come until an hour later once you had closed the store and gone home. In the mean time, he had changed into comfy clothes and gotten settled on the couch as he waited for your response.

Around 9:40, he heard his phone ding.

“Tom H?” Was on his Lock Screen, making him squeal in excitement.

“Yes”

“You don’t have to call me Tom H you know”

“Just Tom is fine”

He sent the three texts and shut his phone off so he wouldn’t seem as desperate as he felt. Soon enough, he heard his phone chime.

“I know. But I get a lot of Toms in the store. You’re my only Tom H” you had sent back. Tom thought of a witty reply to make you laugh and quickly typed it out.

“So I have competition? Tompetition some might say” He sent. The bubble appeared in no time and your text appeared on his screen.

“I can’t believe you said that. Delete my number 🤢”

He audibly laughed at your message, glad you got his sense of humor.

“Wait please. Give me a second chance :(“ He wrote you back.

“Fine. But only because you used old school emojis and I find that cute” You texted him.

“Thank you for the second chance. You can’t see it but I’m blushing” He sent.

“Show me”

Tom furrowed his eyebrows, not comprehending what you meant.

“How?” He asked.

“FaceTime me dummy” You wrote and his heart stopped in his chest.

“Okay” He texted you back before running to a mirror. He combed through his hair, checked his teeth, and smoothed his clothing before running back to the couch. He pressed the Facetime icon and nervously waited for you to pick up.

“Hi” Your face came on his screen, makeup free now but still smiling.

“Hey.” He waved to you and rested his hand on his head. “It’s so weird not seeing you in uniform”

“I know. You’ve caught me in my favorite pajamas.” You laughed and held the camera far away from you to show off your oversized shirt and fluffy pants.

“I like them.” He chuckled. “You look cute.”

“So do you.” You admired him in his pink hoodie. “Pink might be my new favorite color.”

“Gah.” He shrunk down in his hoodie to hide his pink cheeks. “Are you like this with all your customers?”

“Just the cute ones with manners.” You flirted with him. Tom let out a content sigh, no longer caring how flushed he was.

“I swear, I’m not normally this flustered.” He pouted. “It’s like you put a spell on me or something.”

“I love that movie.” You gushed as you sat up in bed.

“What movie?” He cocked his head.

“Hocus Pocus. I put a spell on you.” You sang but Tom didn’t show any signs of recognition.

“Never seen it.” He grimaced, hoping that wouldn’t ruin his second chance. Your jaw dropped and you feigned disbelief.

“What?” You gasped.

“I’m sorry.” He whined. “It was too American for me.”

“That’s it.” You clicked your tongue. “You need to watch it or I’m actually gonna put a spell on your next egg sandwich. I’ll make you turn into a toad or something.”

“That’s all right. Then you’d have to kiss me to turn me back into a prince.” He joked and puckered his lips. “Again.”

“Oh my God.” You laughed at his idiocy. “As if I would kiss a frog. Maybe if he’s seen Hocus Pocus I would.” You mumbled under your breath.

“Tell you what, I’ll watch Hocus Pocus under one condition.” He held up one finger up.

“And what might that be?” You questioned.

“You watch it with me. On date.” He stated.

“I think I can manage that.” You bit back a smile. “Are you busy tonight?”

“Now I am.” He grinned. “Text me your address.”

“Already sent.” You said as a text with your address appeared on the top of his screen.

“Awesome.” He got off the couch and grabbed his car keys. “Should I bring anything?”

“Any chocolate you have. And some chapstick.” You told him.

“Chapstick?” He questioned on his way out the door.

“You know”, you shrugged playfully, “in case I decide to give you that kiss.”

Tag List 🏷

@awesomebooklover17​ @thebookwormlife​ @imanativeofswlondondahling​ @weirdr-artiest​ @serendipitous-amor​ @dummiesshort​

@foreverxholland​ @lavender-writer​ @captainmandeestudent17​ @whatareyouhidingpeter​ @takenbyheartstrings​ @ultrunning​ @imyourliquor-youremypoison​ @theolwebshooter​ @andreasworlsboring101​ @guksmyfav @waiting-to-be-myself​ @letsloveimagines​ @peterparkoure​ @a-villain-vying-for-attention​ @justcallmehitgirl​ @averyfosterthoughts​ @jackiehollanderr​ @tiny-friggin-human @mara-twins​ @iamaunicorn4704​ @maryjanee23​ @geeksareunique​ @emmamarshmellow​ @unbelievableholland​ @rebekkah4766​ @flixndchill​ @sovereignparker​ @thisisthebiplace​ @spideydobrik​ @every-marveler-ever​ @undiadeestos​ @caelestii-e​ @eridanuswave​​ @itscaminow​​ @fiantomartell​ @solarxmoonchild​ @where-art-thau-romeo​ @canyouevencauseicant​ @illwritetomorrow​ @thehappygrungelife​ @saysomethingspiderman​ @parkerboop​ @smilexcaptainx​ @quaksonhehe​ @kelieah​ @kickingn-ames​ @babeyspidey​ @seasidecrowbar​ @lovelessdagger​ @love-sick-blues​ @electraheart-3174​ @lou-la-lou​ @unbelievableholland​ @yourtypicalhotmess​ @spideyanakin​ @horanxholland​ @thesuitelifeofafangirl​ @anapocalypseinmymind​ @marshxx​ @heyheycharlatte​ @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie​ @tomshufflepuff​ @cookiemonstermusic258​@maybemona​ @young-romanoff​ @alexxcorona113​ @spidey-reids-2003​ @lethal-wisdom​ @xo-spidey​ @im-still-tryin-to-find-it​ @big-galaxy-chaos​ @pandaxnienke​ @theincredibledeadlyviper​  @thestylestour​  @officialsimppage​ @mrvelscaptains​ @peterspideysstuff​ @reemusluupin​ @perspectiveparker​ @itsemohours​ @satanswitchings​ @okkulta​ @amorhollands​ @itstaskeen @parkerlovebot

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #Tom Holland coffee shop au #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fluff #tom holland x yn #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #spiderman #marvel #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #tom holland imagine #iron man

[pitviperofdoom]

Might I ask about 'Life Preserver'? I have no idea what it could mean, and that makes me very curious👀

This is my pre-S1 JonGerry AU! They meet while Jon’s still in school and Gerry’s on the hunt for a Leitner. It’s part of a trilogy in my head that includes JonGerryMartin later on, but Life Preserver takes place before Jon becomes the Archivist and is just JonGerry.

Here’s a scene from it!

---

“Thanks for meeting me,” Georgie said, by way of greeting.

Gerry shrugged. “‘S fine. What’s the occasion?”

It was a nice day. The cafe was bustling but not overcrowded. Georgie had insisted on dragging him to the one empty table outside, with the nice view of the street and the park on the other side. Gerry had eaten lunch in far worse places, with far worse company.

Shit, were they friends? Had he missed that somehow? Not that Georgie wasn’t nice enough, but he’d always figured she was more invested in Jon than in him. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure if being friends with your boyfriend’s ex was a thing you were supposed to do, and at this point he was too afraid to ask.

“Why does there have to be an occasion?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I just wanted a lunch partner.”

“Didn’t think you liked me that much,” Gerry said bluntly. Maybe that was harsh—she’d only given him a little bit of stink eye when they first met, and she’d let up pretty quick.

If Georgie was bothered by it, she didn’t show it. “I worry about Jon sometimes,” she said. “He’s not always the best at… at advocating for himself, I guess.”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered.” For someone as prickly as Jon, he was shit at actually standing up for himself where it counted.

“Worried a lot about you, at first,” Georgie went on, clasping her hands around her coffee cup. “But I decided not to prod too much. I didn’t want to be one of those exes, you know?”

“Yeah,” Gerry lied.

“Figured it wasn’t my business anyway,” she said, pausing to take another sip. “Jon and I hadn’t talked in over a year by the time I met you.”

“Right.”

“You know, I didn’t even learn your full name?” she said. “Not til last week. Weird, isn’t it?”

Gerry paused with his cup halfway to his mouth. “I… guess?”

“And you know, it stuck in my mind for the longest time,” she said. “Could’ve sworn I heard it somewhere. So I did a quick Google search.”

Slowly, Gerry put his cup back down. Georgie continued to sip demurely at her own.

“Thought I’d find a Facebook page with a few friends in common,” she said. “Or a LinkedIn or something. So you can imagine how surprised I was.”

Gerry looked around at the cafe’s full outdoor seating area, and the crowded, public street beyond. Plenty of witnesses, in broad daylight.

“Ah,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Besides a slight lift of the eyebrows, Georgie’s expression barely changed. Gerry stared down at his cup, appetite gone. Around them, passersby remained happily oblivious.

“I didn’t do it,” he said after a moment. “The charges were dropped and everything.”

“On a technicality.” Georgie’s eyes were cold and steady when they settled on him. “Contaminated evidence, according to one of the news articles.”

“Look, I don’t know what you expect me to say,” Gerry bit out.

“I don’t know either, Gerry, but what am I supposed to think?” Neither of their voices rose above the dull roar of the street and the hum of conversation around them, but Gerry still felt like he was being shouted at. “Does Jon know about this?”

“No, and if I have my way, he won’t.”

Georgie’s steely gaze turned to a glare. “And you don’t see the red flags that might raise? That you might’ve—”

A tide of red rose up behind his eyes. Not anger, but the memory of blood, both the sight and the overpowering smell. “She did it to herself,” Gerry said coldly.

“Not what the coroner’s report said—”

“What do you want from me?” Gerry went on harshly. “I came home and found her halfway through—that. Went into shock long enough for her to get plenty of it on me, then ran out to the nearest coffeeshop and sat in a fog until the police picked me up. Happy?” Georgie’s glare only hardened. “It really doesn’t matter what you think. It’s the truth whether or not you believe it.”

She waited for him to wrest himself back to something resembling calm before speaking again. “Fine. Let’s say I believe you. Why are you lying to Jon, then?”

“Oh, tell me what the best time to bring that up is,” Gerry said dryly. “Is that a fourth date conversation, or more of an anniversary thing?”

“I’m not talking about the murder,” Georgie retorted. “Why did you tell him you’re living with your mother?”

He probably could have come up with a feasible lie. But what came out instead was, “Because I am.”

The look on Georgie’s face was viciously unimpressed. “You’re living with your mum.”

“Yep.”

“Your mum, who by your own admission, committed a violent suicide in 2008.”

“Got it in one.”

“If you’re not even going to take this seriously,” Georgie began.

“Would you like to meet her?” Gerry asked. “It’s not like it’d be the first time you saw a corpse get up and walk around, would it?”

Georgie froze.

That was the funny thing about saying cruel things, Gerry reflected. More often than not, you had to say them out loud first to realize they were cruel at all.

But it was out, and he couldn’t swallow it back down, so he let it sit there between them, bloating like a dead thing in the sun. He didn’t look at Georgie’s face again. He wasn’t sure he could.

“What did you just say to me?” Georgie said shakily.

“I don’t want to say it again,” said Gerry. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

“That’s…” She sat back in her chair, putting just a bit more distance between them. Gerry shut his eyes. “How—how could you possibly know about that?”

Gerry heaved a sigh, running his hand down his face. He could always stop. He could get up right now and walk away. Never talk to her again, never see her again. Of course, if he did that, it’d probably mean never seeing Jon again, either.

Not for the first time, he wondered if that wasn’t a good thing.

“When you live like I do,” he said at last. “You learn to see it. Recognize it—them. The marks on people. Like the one on you.”

It was subtle, as the End always was. It never looked like a proper scar, the way the more violent ones did. After all, what was more natural than death itself?

“I’m… marked,” Georgie said. It wasn’t a question.

“Kind of impressive, to be honest,” he said. “Dodging Terminus. Not many can say they’ve done that.”

“Stop.” Her hands went to her ears quickly, almost instinctively, before she forced them down again. “Just, stop for a second.”

“Okay.”

Georgie sat and breathed for a moment. Then, “So your mother—” She paused again, gathering herself. “She… she was like that woman in the medical sciences building.”

“Dunno,” Gerry replied, forcing himself to look at her again. “I can see the scar, not what left it. And what my mum did was… unique.”

Her eyes were still fixed on the table in front of her, not on him. “Is this common?” she asked.

“Walking corpses, specifically?” Gerry asked. “Or did you mean more generally?” She nodded once. “Guess so. It’s been common enough to take over my life.” He watched her carefully, waiting for a sign that he should stop again. “There are forces behind the monsters. Powerful. Omnipresent, even. Most people are lucky enough not to notice, or be noticed. Some are lucky like you, and escape with only a scar. Others—” The Eye dropped a helpful bit of trivia in his head. “Others are like your friend.” She flinched. “Sorry.”

She sat and breathed for a little while longer. Gerry picked up his coffee cup again and waited.

“And what about you?” she asked at last. “Where do you fall?”

Gerry grimaced. “Long story. Very unpleasant.”

“Broad strokes, then.”

“Mum grew up seeing the monsters and decided it’d be nice if she could be one herself,” he said. “Then she thought it’d be even nicer to start a little monster dynasty, and that’s where I came in.”

At last, Georgie lifted her chin and looked him in the eye again. “And what about you?” she asked. “What do you want?” Her jaw shifted as it clenched. “What do you want with Jon?”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” he said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.” Georgie’s eyes hardened again. “You know what I thought, when I first met you? I thought you were just—toying with him. Because I saw how he looked at you and how you looked at him, and it didn’t match. Like he was just—just a diversion for you. Just some passing curiosity until you got bored and moved on.”

Gerry slipped his hand off the table and into his lap. It was a bit late, she’d probably already seen it shaking, but it made him feel better, at least.

“Was I right?” Georgie asked. “It makes sense, even if it’s not the same as what I first thought. Growing up like that, I bet you’re curious. Is that what Jon is, to you? A way to play at being—”

“Human?” It came out harsher than he meant it to.

“I was going to say normal,” Georgie replied, glancing away for a moment. “But if these—monsters are as common as you say they are…”

“Look, you’re not wrong, alright?” Gerry sat back in his chair, letting his spine curve into an ugly slouch. “That’s how it started. He asked, and I was curious, so I went along with it.”

“And now?” she pressed.

“And now I want to keep it,” he said. “I want to keep him. I’m finally starting to like the world outside of the one I grew up in, probably because I finally have a reason to be here. Happy?”

“No,” Georgie said flatly.

Gerry tipped his head back with a groan. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to acknowledge what this sounds like!” Georgie glared at him, sitting up straight enough to look down at him. “What you’re making it sound like! So you grew up in a bad place—fine. I can’t imagine what that’s like. But then—what, you meet a nice guy and now you’re ready to leave it all behind and defy your undead mum and turn to the light side, just like that? That is not how it works, Gerry. It’s not as simple as that in this world, much less yours. You don’t just fall in love and fix everything, and it’s not fair to put that on Jon—”

Gerry barked out a laugh. “Is that what you took from this?” he demanded, dragging himself back up to face her. “You think I need you to tell me that—that love doesn’t conquer all, and I can’t pack all my baggage away and skip into the sunset because a cute boy asked me on a date and showed me the error of my family’s ways? Fuck you.”

Georgie held his gaze, unflinching. “Fine,” she said. “How should I have taken it, then?”

“I’ve wanted out since I was old enough to want anything.” The words came as if ripped from him, raw and bloody-tasting on his tongue. “You think I’ve never tried to leave before? But where’s someone like me supposed to go, hm? Even if I didn’t have monsters in my head and her ready to drag me back if I don’t come on my own, what place is there for me to run to?”

She didn’t flinch or look away again, even with Gerry a breath away from yelling in her face. Instead she watched him without so much as a twitch of an eyelid, leeching the venom from him with steady, infuriating calm.

“It’s like this,” he said. “Like I’m on a—a ship, sinking in a storm. I know if I stay on it, it’ll take me down with it, but what choice do I have? I could jump, but it would only drown me faster.” He swallowed, struggling against the dryness in his throat. “And I can see, just off the deck, all the boats that don’t have room for me, and all the people drowning in the ocean, and all I can do is stay where I am and throw life preservers until I join them.” His eyes burned. “But then I met Jon, and suddenly it’s like I have…” He gestured vaguely, struggling with his own analogy.

“A safe harbor,” Georgie said quietly.

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think there is one. Not from this. Not from them.” He shrugged, feeling inordinately tired. “But for the first time, I feel like—like if I jump, someone will throw me a line.”

In the space that followed, the hum of surrounding conversations washed back in between them. Gerry was almost surprised to see them still there. Apparently he hadn’t gotten loud enough to scare anyone off.

“Well?” he said, when Georgie’s silence got to him.

“It’s a lot to take in,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“And I’m still worried about Jon.” She lifted her eyes to meet his again. “But, I’m less worried about your intentions than I was before.”

“Guess that’s something,” he answered, and heaved a sigh. “So what happens now? Gonna demand I come clean with him?”

“No,” she said, faster than he would have expected. “No, I… I never told him about mine. And, just on instinct… I don’t think I’d ever want him dragged into this, if it’s avoidable.”

She didn’t know, Gerry realized. She’d known him years longer than he did, and she didn’t know he came scarred by the Spider.

“Is he in danger?” she asked. “Being with you?”

“No,” Gerry said firmly. “I wouldn’t—no. I keep him as far away from my shitty life as I can. I told him I didn’t want him anywhere near my family, and he didn’t press the issue.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “He thinks your mum’s a homophobe, you know.”

That shocked a laugh out of him. “You know, he’s probably right? Think she might just hate the idea of love in general, though.”

“Messy divorce, I take it,” Georgie said dryly.

“Rohypnol and garden shears were involved, so yeah, I’d say it was pretty messy.” He realized his mistake when the sickened look crossed her face. “Sorry.”

“It’s… fine,” she said. “Probably should’ve guessed.”

They sat in silence again, but the climate of it had shifted. It felt easier, somehow. Less like he half-expected the fog of the Lonely to come rolling in for a snack. Gerry remembered his coffee, and found it just on the edge of lukewarm. He drank it anyway.

Georgie shot him one last odd look, then took out her phone. She scrolled through it for a minute or so, then snagged a paper napkin and pulled a ballpoint pen from somewhere to scribble on it.

“Here,” she said, sliding it over. Gerry looked down to find a line of neat blue numbers. “That’s the number of the therapist I talked to after—what happened to me.” She looked at him briefly, saw the dubious look on his face, and shrugged at him. “Just in case you need another lifeline.”

It was strange—usually Jon was the one to make funny things happen in his chest. This one didn’t feel the same, but he still didn’t quite know what to do with it. It left him feeling uncomfortably like he owed her something.

“I won’t let any of it hurt him,” he said, because he had nothing else to offer. “I’ll end it myself before I put him in danger.”

She nodded, though she didn’t look as relieved about it as he’d hoped. “That’s good,” she said hesitantly. “Don’t be a martyr, either. You—you deserve help. You deserve a chance to get out. You know that, right?”

He tried to smile, but it felt more like baring his teeth in fear. “Don’t think I really know what anyone deserves.”

Georgie reached across the space between them, telegraphing her movements in case he wanted to pull away. He didn’t, even as her hand settled on top of his. “I’m rooting for you, alright?” she said firmly, as if she’d just decided it then and there. “Jon’s… he’s happy with you, you know?”

“Fuck if I know why,” he forced out.

“Stop that.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I changed my mind about you, before. I can tell he makes you happy, too.”

His throat felt tight. “Yeah.”

“Fuck if I know why.”

“Oh, piss off.”

He palmed the napkin while she was busy laughing at him. For a moment he eyed the nearest bin, judging the distance and his chances of making it without her noticing. The moment passed, and instead he folded it carefully around the numbers and slipped it into his pocket to throw out later.

He never did.

#tma fic #jongerry #georgie barker #gerard keay #safe harbor au #tales from the pit #ash-rabbit

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

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

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

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

“Nooo-oooo, come on come on!”

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

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

“What are you looking for?”

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

“Oh.” Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Oh come on.”

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

“Do you know that?”

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

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

“Did you check for cobwebs?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm? Oh—no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me.”

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

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

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

“I suppose that does sound pretty nice.”

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

“It is a bit of a waste, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might, though.”

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

“Not hungry.”

“A statement, I meant.”

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

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

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

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

“You hate sitting on the floor.”

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

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

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

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

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

Martin snorted. “I’ll risk it.”

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

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

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

“How loud is ‘pretty loud’?”

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

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

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

“You alright?” Martin asked yet again.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I mean—”

“Oh! I blinked!”

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

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

“‘Kay. If you’re sure.”

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“Of course.”

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

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

“Oh. Yeah, good point.”

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

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

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

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

Drowning in debt? We can help!

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

Right. Nope, never mind.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon? Are you awake?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

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

“How to put the doorknob back on?”

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

“Er…”

“Oh, god, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

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

“Still, I’m sorry about—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine?”

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

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

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

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

“No, Jon. That’s the wrong leg.”

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

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

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

“No, sorry, not all the way off—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s. Fine! It’s not important.”

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

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

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

“Oh? Great!—”

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

“I—I don’t, um. Think we have one.”

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

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

“Y…eah.”

“Any idea where to look?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

“Was eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Jon muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said that once,” Jon protested.

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

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

“No arguments here.”

“Where to next?”

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

“Except for the screws.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Somewhere… banal, less posh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon squinted. “Not even remotely.”

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean—I was, but—”

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

“Enlighten me,” Jon said wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sort of?”

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

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

“And then?”

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

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

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

“I—what?”

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

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

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

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon stopped walking and turned around. “What?”

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

“Huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you’re sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

“What fell? Are you okay?”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

“Do I have to?”

“Humor me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh—no—I didn’t fall; it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

“You—?”

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

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

“Well that’s obviously not true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sooo do you wanna fill me in, or.”

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

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

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

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

“Good night, Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here, Annabelle.”

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

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

“She’s already gone, Martin.”

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

“Shhh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Til Salesa sobers up, I meant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unless she wove them out of cobwebs.”

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

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

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

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

“You alright?”

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

“Ha.”

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

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

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

“Right—the spider, yes.”

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

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

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

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

Martin sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not this again—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better make it one of the sealed jars.”

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

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

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

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

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

Big sigh. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“I’ll try and be better about….”

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

“I mean, I am—”

“Well yeah but you know what I mean.”

“I do. I should’ve told you.”

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

“No—it’s fine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ha, ha.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And do you know which screw that is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t know what else you expected.”

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

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

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

“I mean—”

“Wait, hold up, let’s double back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I think so, yes.”

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

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

“Food didn’t help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

“Hfff, okay—ready to get back to it?”

“Mrrr.”

“…Jon, are you asleep?”

He shrugged his hanging shoulder. “No.”

Nose laugh. “Come on, wake up.”

“Mmrrrrrrr.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Ooookay…! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” managed Jon around a yawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I let him go off alone.”

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?” asked Basira.

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

“So they just let you out for this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My first birthday in the Archives, yeah!”

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

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

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

“Except rum and raisin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But you never used it.”

“No—surely, I—”

“Not once before Prentiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry?”

“No—it’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How could I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why you never—?” In a similar way, Martin seemed to reconsider his initial response. “Yeah, okay, right. Object-level stuff, yeah?” Jon nodded and wanly smiled. “Okay, so. What’s it called?”

After taking a minute to ditch his shoes, wash the sticky ice-cream residue off his hands, and drink some water, he’d sat down on the couch with Martin and told him its name, what it was, what it did. What does that mean, though, Martin kept asking, so he’d explained how it applied to the anecdote about his jaw. Martin asked why it meant he needed a cane.

“Be…cause all my joints are like that.”

“Yeah, but why does it help with that? What is the cane actually for, is what I’m asking.”

Jon hated being asked that question. “It—it means I don’t fall over when one of my joints stops working? A-and… also makes walking hurt less. I suppose.”

“So, when they’re working right, that’s when you don’t need it?”

“No—yes?—sort of. Now sometimes I just need it when it’s been too long since I had a statement. I get sort of. Weak.” Quickly Jon added, “But I don’t need it for stability so much since the coma.” He’d shown Martin how now, when he pulled out his finger, the Eye would just sort of erase that version of reality—how the dislocation wouldn’t snap back, but simply cease to exist. As if his body were a drawing on which the Beholding had corrected a mistake. He put his palms together behind his back, in the way he’d been told one couldn’t without subluxing both shoulders, and told Martin to watch how the hollows between his shoulder bones vanished. He opened his jaw ‘til it jarred to the side, and told Martin to listen for the static.

But Jon had never shown Martin how these things worked before the coma. Martin had no reference for this kind of thing; he understood only enough to find the sights unsettling. “That’s—no, that’s okay, I’ll”—he stuttered as Jon fumbled with his kneecap in search of a fourth example—“I-I get it. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I just thought.”

“No, I—? I don’t need you to prove it to me, Jon.” (The latter nodded, blushing, trying to smile.) “I get… I’m sorry. I guess I get why it’d feel easier not to say anything if? If you think it’s either that or have to convince people it’s a thing.”

Again Jon nodded. He suspected Martin wasn’t through talking yet. But Martin still wasn’t looking at him, eyes squeezed tight against Jon’s party tricks. So, to show he was listening, Jon said, “Yes. Er—thank you, Martin.”

“I just don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You could at least ask if I want to know about them, yeah?”

Even at the time, Jon had doubted this. If they’d had this conversation after the change, he might have pointed out to Martin that when you mention something the other person has no inkling of, you make them too curious to decline your offer of more information, even if afterward they’ll admit they wish you’d never told them.

“Or ask me if I even recognize what you’re talking about, the next time you start going on about some childhood anecdote where you incidentally had a dislocated jaw. Honestly, would it kill you to start with, ‘Hey, did I ever tell you about x’?”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’re right. I’ll try. What… kinds of things did you—? For the future, I mean. What kinds of things did you want to make sure I tell you about.”

Martin sighed, in that way he did when he thought Jon was going about something all wrong. But after a pause to think, he did ask, “About this, or in general?”

“Either—both—first one, then the other.”

“Okay. I guess… I want to know when you’re hurt, mostly. Like—I can’t believe I even have to say this—that’s kind of important, actually? How am I supposed to know how to behave around you if I never know whether you're secretly in pain or not?”

This seemed weird—both now and at the time. Jon figured he must be missing something. If Martin thought he only needed the cane because of Prentiss then, sure, that might have affected how he imagined Jon’s discomfort to himself, but? Wasn’t the cane itself an admission of pain? Why did Martin think he owed him more than that—that he had owed him more than that at the time, no less? Did he not realize how fucking private that was? What a surrender of privacy the cane represented?

But, no, he reminded himself now; nondisabled people don’t realize that, unless you tell them about it. Repeatedly. Over and over. It only seems obvious to you because you lived it already.

“Er.” At the time he’d just shown Martin his teeth, with the points of his left-side canines joined. Nominally a smile, but more like a show of hiding the grimace beneath than an actual attempt to hide it. “That’s harder than you might think? Technically I’m always….”

“Oh.”

“Sorr—”

“—What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

“I’m—not always aware of it?” He disliked that phrase, in pain—how it implied a discrete and exclusive state. One could not be in Paris and at the same time in London; similarly, most people seemed to assume one could not be in pain and also in a good mood. In raptures. In a transport of laughter. That when one admits to being in pain, one implies that’s the most important thing they’re conscious of.

“Well that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, I know—‘if a tree falls down in a forest’—blah blah blah.” With a gentle smile to acknowledge he’d picked up this mode of speech from Martin. He turned his wrist in circles so it clicked like an old film reel. “Philosophically speaking, if you’re not aware of pain, you can’t be in it. Maybe ‘technically’ isn’t the right word.”

“Oh yeah ‘cause that’s the angle I want to know about this from.”

Jon sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just mean, it doesn’t always matter to me.”

“Well it matters to me,” Martin scoffed.

“Yeah—I’m getting that. Is there any way I can explain this that you won’t jump down my throat for?”

Martin sighed, groaned, pulled at his hair a little but made himself stop. (He doesn’t pull it out, Jon knows—he just likes having something to grab onto during awkward conversations. Usually emerges from them looking like a cartoon scientist.) “Okay, yeah,” said Martin. “I get it. I’m sorry too.”

“I mean—when you get a paper cut, that hurts, technically, right?”

“Well yeah, a little, but that’s not the kind of—”

“But just because you notice that hurt doesn’t mean?” He paused to rearrange his words. “You’re not going to remember it later unless someone asks why you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Y—eah. Sure.”

“Is that…?”

“When you’re suffering, then. I want you to tell me that. And—whenever something weird happens? Like, before it stops being weird and you talk to me like I’m stupid for not already knowing about it.”

“What if”—this far into his question, Jon worried it might come off as a smart-alecky, devil’s-advocate thing. So he paused, pretending he needed time to formulate its words. “What if I haven’t decided yet whether it’s weird or not.”

“That in itself is pretty weird, Jon.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to be part of that conversation. I want you to trust me enough to bounce ideas off me! It’s not like—? I mean why wouldn’t you do that?”

Jon had shrugged and grimaced, hands in his trouser pockets. “Not to worry you?” he’d suggested. But as he bit his lip and shimmied down from the bed Jon knew now that that was the sanitized version—and probably, if you’d asked him a day before or afterward, his past self would have known that too. Most things you told Martin, he’d either ignore them completely or latch onto them, refuse to let them go, and interpret everything else you said in the light they cast. Jon had learnt not to raise any given topic with him until he was sure he wanted to risk its becoming a long, painful discussion. This was part of why he hadn’t kept his promise, he told himself as he turned their interim bedroom’s doorknob. Why he’d said so little about anything weird that had happened to him at Upton House.

“Martin?”

“Oh hey, Jon—you’re awake.” Martin glanced in his vague direction but stayed bent over his work, so Jon could not meet his eyes.

“You found the screwdriver.”

“Yeah! And a screw that matches better, see?” He fished the first one they'd found out of his pocket and held it up next to the door for comparison. Jon supposed they looked a little different—bright yellowy gold vs. a darker gold. “They were in the library, of all places. There’s a little box full of ‘em that he keeps right next to his reading glasses, apparently. Guess he must break them a lot. How are yours, by the way? Any bits feel loose?”

Dutifully, trying to keep his dazed smile to himself, Jon pulled off his glasses. Folded and unfolded each arm, jiggled the little nose pieces. He shook his head. “Don’t think so. You can have a look yourself though, if you like.”

“Remind me later. Should’ve brought the whole box, probably,” Martin said, voice strained as he twisted the screw that last little bit. “There!” His open mouth broadened into a smile. “Time to see if it worked. You wanna do the honors?”

Jon shook his head, breathed a laugh through his nose. “You should do it. You’re the reason it’s fixed.”

“I mean, yeah,” shrugged Martin as his hand closed round the doorknob, “but I’m also the reason it broke.” It opened with a click. “Ha-ha! Success! Statements—our own clothes—our own bed! Er. Ish.”

Something tugged in Jon’s chest; he’d forgot the statements were why Martin thought this quest so urgent. He lingered at the side of the bed while Martin rummaged in his backpack, remembering for once to toe his first shoe off while standing.

“Man. Looks sorta underwhelming now, after the other room, huh?”

“Least our wallpaper’s better.”

“Tsshhyeah, and our view.”

Jon didn’t turn around, but surmised Martin must be looking out at that tree he liked. “Is it four already?”

“Uhh—nearly, yeah. You were out for a while; took me ages to find that damn thing. Here you go,” announced Martin as he slapped a zip-loc bag full of statement down on the bed.

(“So they won’t get water damage,” he had answered a few days ago, when Jon asked him why he’d individually wrapped each statement like snacks in a bagged lunch. “What? It’s not like we have to worry about landfills anymore. If I put them all in the same bag, you’d take one out and not be able to get it back in.”)

“What happened to my jacket, by the way? And yours?”

“Uhhh.”

“Right, okay,” Martin laughed; “I’ll go get them before I forget. I’ll put this away too, I guess” (meaning the screwdriver still in his hand). “Don’t wait for me, yeah? I don’t mind missing the trailers.”

Jon smiled. “Sure.”

As Martin hurried off, Jon sat down to untie and pull off his other shoe, threaded the lace back through the final eyelet from which it’d come loose, picked up the first shoe and untied that one, then stood up and set them by the door next to his cane. Both hips and all ten fingers behaved themselves throughout. As he walked by the vanity he grabbed the coins he’d removed to do laundry the other day and stuck them back in his trouser pocket. Useless, of course, but he’d missed having something to fidget with. He squatted down and peered under the vanity for the hair tie he’d dropped, for the fifth or sixth time since he’d misplaced it. Didn’t find it. That was fine; he had another one around his wrist. His knees felt weak, so instead of standing back up he crab-walked to the foot of the bed and sat down with his back against it. Straightened his legs out before him on the floor. Then he dug the coins from his pocket and counted them. Yup—still 74p.

Danika! Not Daniela—Danika Gelsthorpe. God, he would never forget one of their names out there. Never underestimate how much I care for the

“I'm back. What’s down there? Did you find the screw?” asked Martin as he hung their jackets up behind the door.

Jon shook his head. “Forgot about it. I was looking for that hair tie.”

“Well you’re on your own there; I’m done finding things today. The screw can wait,” Martin laughed—“he’s got a whole bag inside that box in the library. Do you need a hand getting up?”

He let Martin help him. Both knees cracked; the world’s edges went dark for a second. “Thank you,” he said, and it came out more peremptory than he’d meant it.

“Statement time?”

“Right. You don’t mind? I can wait ’til we’ve both had a rest, if you don’t want to be in the room while I.”

“No, I’m alright; I’ll stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated statements.”

Martin shrugged. “Not these ones so much, now that. Heh—they’re almost nostalgic, if I’m honest. ‘Can it be real? I think I’ve seen a monster!’”

“They are a bit,” agreed Jon, looking down at the plastic-sleeved statement and making himself smile.

“Go on. Seeing you feel better will make me feel better too.”

That made it a bit easier to motivate himself, Jon supposed. From the moment he’d lain down on the bed he’d felt like he was floating on gentle waves—like if he let himself listen to them he could fall asleep in seconds. But that wouldn’t make Martin feel better. And no guarantee it would him, either, once he woke up again. He rearranged the pillows behind himself so he’d have to sit up a little; this might help keep him awake, and it meant he could rest his elbows on the bed while he held up the statement, rather than having to lift them up before his eyes. It made his neck sore, a bit, this angle, but that was fine. That might help keep him awake, too.

He sighed, readying himself for speech. Then heard a click, and felt a familiar buzz and weight against his stomach. The tape recorder had manifested inside his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket.

“Statement of Miranda Lautz, regarding, er… a botched home-repair job. Heh. Seems appropriate. Original statement given March twenty-sixth, 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

[Image ID: A digital painting of Jon and Martin on an old-fashioned canopy bed with white sheets and orange drapes. Jon sits on the near side of the bed, reading a paper statement. He frowns slightly, looking down at the statement in his hands; he wears round glasses perched low on his nose. He’s a thin man, with medium brown skin dotted by scars left from the worms, and another scar on his neck from Daisy's knife. His hair is long and curly, gray and white hairs among the black. Jon sits supported by pillows—several big, white, lace-trimmed ones behind his back, and one under his knees. His right leg is slightly crossed over his left ankle, on which a clean white bandage peeks out beneath his cuffed, dark green trousers. He wears an oversized red hoodie and red-toed brown socks. Sat on the far side of the bed, next to Jon but facing away from both him and the viewer, is Martin—a tall and fat white man with short, curly, reddish brown hair and a short beard. He has glasses and is wearing a dark blue jumper and gray-brown trousers. Past the bed on Martin’s side, the bedroom door hangs ajar; in this light, it and the wall glow bluish green. On the near side, though, the light grows warmer, the orange canopy behind Jon casting pink and brown tints onto the white pillows and sheets. End ID.]

It seemed to be a Corruption statement, or maybe the Spiral. Possibly the Buried? A leak in Ms. Lautz’s roof caused a pill-shaped bulge to appear in her kitchen ceiling, about the size of a bread loaf. Water burst from it like pus from an abscess (as she described it. Nothing else Fleshy though, so far). Ms. Lautz repaired the hole in her ceiling, but every morning a new one reappeared somewhere else. Sometimes they appeared bulging and pill-shaped like the first one; other times she found them already burst, covering the room in water shot through with dark specks like coffee grounds.

Jon wished he’d refilled his empty water glass before starting to record. His mouth was so dry that every time he pronounced an L his tongue stuck to its roof. At this point he’d welcome a hole to burst in it and flood his mouth with water. Then again, he did still have to pee.

Eventually she and her spouse hired someone to find out what was wrong with the roof. She described hearing boots tramping around up there for half a day while they checked out all the spots where she and Alex had reported leaks. The inside of Jon’s trouser leg pulled at the bandage on his shin, making it itch. The repair men told Ms. Lautz it’d be safer and barely any more expensive to replace the whole thing. The ring and little fingers of Jon’s left hand were starting to go numb from having that elbow too long pressed against the bed. Miranda and Alex thanked the roof people and sent them off, saying they’d think it over.

He began to regret crossing his legs this way. He’d balanced his right heel in the hollow between his left foot’s ankle and instep, and in the time since he’d arranged them that way gravity had slowly pushed his foot more and more to the side, widening that gap. By this time he was sure it was hyperextended—possibly subluxed? It hurt already, and, he knew, would hurt more when he tried to move it. This rather ruined his fantasy of heading straight for the toilet when he finished reading.

Martin was right; these old statements seemed positively tame, now. He knew he owed it to Ms. Lautz to engage with her fate, but?

No. No buts. Whatever hell she lived in now, it looked just like the one she was about to describe for him, only worse. You can’t even pretend you’re sorry she’s living out her worst fear if you stop in the middle of reading that fear’s origin story. Never underestimate how much I

Once the repair men had left, Miranda Lautz wandered into her kitchen for lunch. She found her ceiling bulging halfway to the floor, with the impression of a face and two twisted arms at its center. Like someone had fallen through her roof, head first. Jon’s stiff neck twinged in sympathy. Miranda screamed and strode to the other side of the house in search of beer, figuring she'd find better answers at the bottom of a bottle than in her own head. When she got back to the kitchen with them, the beer bottles didn’t know what to do either, but said—

“God damn it. Not ‘ales’—‘Alex’. Obviously.”

He let the statement’s pages flop over the back of his hand, let his head tip backward until the top of it bumped against headboard and his eyes faced the ceiling. That settled it, then, didn’t it. If he had the Ceaseless Watcher looking through his eyes, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that—and he certainly couldn’t change position while recording. On top of his more substantial regrets, Jon had spent their whole odyssey before they came to Upton House ruing that he’d sat at the dining-room table to read Magnus’s statement, rather than on the couch or the bed. The chairs at that table had plain, flat wood seats—no cushion, no contouring for the shape of an arse. When he opened the door to the changed world, the cataclysm had preserved his bodily sensations at that moment like a mosquito in amber. He’d had a sore tailbone and pins and needles down his legs for untold eons. Right up until he and Martin crossed from the Necropolis onto the grounds protected by Salesa’s camera, where his tailbone faded out of awareness and his head filled up with cotton.

“Ohhh. ‘Alex’. Okay, that makes a lot more sense,” laughed Martin meanwhile. Jon could feel Martin’s shoulder bouncing against his. “She must’ve written it in cursive, huh.”

“I can’t do this right now, Martin.”

“Oh—okay, yeah. You rest; I’ll finish it for you.”

Jon closed his eyes and let air gush out from his nostrils. But you hate the statements, he knew he should say. Wouldn’t this make it easier, though? To let Martin have out this last bit of denial first?

The tape recorder in his pocket still hissed, still warmed and weighted down his stomach like a meal.

“Thank you,” he said.

The operator on the phone said she and Alex should wait for the ambulance to arrive, rather than try to free the man in the ceiling by themselves. Jon turned his neck back and forth, hoping Martin couldn’t hear its joints’ snap/crackle/pop. He picked his elbow up off the bed and shook out his hand. But when the paramedics cut the ceiling open, only a torrent of water gushed into their kitchen—water flecked with a great deal of what looked like coffee grounds. A day or two later the roof people called, to ask if they’d decided whether to have the roof repaired or replaced. They assured her none of their employees had gone missing. At the time of writing, Miranda and Alex still hadn’t decided what to do about the roof. A week ago, they’d found a squirrel-shaped bulge in their bedroom ceiling; they’d packed their bags and come to stay with Alex’s sister in London.

“Right! That wasn’t so bad.” Martin set the statement down and stretched his arms over his head. “Huh.”

“Hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just—it’s been a while. Thought it might feel, I don’t know, worse than that? Or better, I guess, since the Eye’s so ‘fond’ of me now.”

“I don’t think they work here.”

“What?”

“The statements. The Eye can’t see their fear.”

“Oh.” Jon could feel Martin deflating. He let himself avalanche over to fill the space. “You don’t feel better, do you.”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s just—slower here, like it’s taking a while to load or something. Remember how long the tape recorder took to come on last time? It was like—you were like— ‘“Statement of Blankety Blank, regarding an encounter with”—Oh, right,’ click.”

That was true. The tapes had known Salesa would give a statement before it happened, but with these paper ones they’d seemed slow on the uptake. Martin had also sworn the recorder that manifested to tape Mr. Andrade’s statement was a different machine than the one Salesa’d spotted that first morning. Jon wondered which machine the one in his pocket was.

Not relevant, he decided. He shook his head in his palm, stroking the lids of his closed eyes. “No—if they worked here I wouldn’t be able to stop in the middle of one.” As soon as he said it he winced, bracing himself for argument.

After the change he remembered wailing to Martin about how he couldn’t stop reading Magnus’s statement—how its words had possessed his whole body, forced him to do the worst thing any person ever had, and forced him to like it, to feel Magnus’s triumph as they both opened the door. Martin had pressed Jon’s face into his clavicle, rubbed his nose in the scent of Daisy’s laundry soap, covered the back of Jon’s head with his hands. Tried to interpose what he must then have still called the real world between Jon and what he could see outside. He’d said over and over, I know, and We‘ll be okay. Jon had known that meant he wasn’t listening, and yet still hadn’t been prepared for the argument they had later, when he mentioned in sobriety the same things he’d wailed back then.

“Hang on”—Martin had pleaded—“no, that can’t be true. I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a statement loads of times—and I know you have too.”

“By outside forces, yes, but you can’t decide to stop reading one. Believe me, Martin, I wouldn’t have—”

“Tim did.”

“No, he didn’t—”

“Yes he did! He was gonna do one and then Melanie—”

“No, Martin, I’ve heard the tape you’re talking about. Tim introduced the statement but didn’t actually start—”

“He did so! He read the first bit, and then stopped. ‘My parents never let me have a night light. I was—’”

“‘Always afraid, but they were just’....” Behind his own eyes he’d felt the Eye shudder and throb with gratitude. Just that sort of stubborn, it had seemed to sing, in a bizarre combination of his own voice with Jonah’s with Melanie’s, which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening.

“Yeah,” said Martin, forehead wrinkling. “And then he said, ‘This is stupid,’ and stopped.”

“You’re right.”

Jon still had no satisfying answer to that one, and cursed himself for having opened that can of worms back up again. It had been Tim’s first-ever statement, he reminded himself, and maybe Tim had never intended to get even that far. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to interrupt him, as Melanie eventually did. Even out there, the Eye couldn’t really show him things like that. He could find out what Tim had said—could look it up, as it were—and what he’d thought, but motivation was a bit too murky, multilayered, complicated. It wasn’t real telepathy? The vicarious emotions the Eye gave him access to worked in broad strokes, generalities—just like common or garden empathy. Sure, he could imagine other people’s points of view more vividly, now that he could see through their eyes. But he still had to imagine them to life, based on the clues around him and what emotions those clues stirred in him. It didn’t work well for situations like this; he could hear Melanie’s footsteps and feel Tim’s reluctance to read a statement, but that was it. Enough to concoct plausible explanations; not enough to pick out the truth from a list of them. Plausibilities were too much like hypotheticals.

In the timelessness since that argument with Martin, though, Jon had also wondered whether it mattered if Tim had read the statement before recording it. He didn’t have footage, as it were, of Tim doing so; either the Eye had more copies of the statement’s events than it needed already and so had deleted that one from storage, or, conversely, perhaps it could no longer see versions of it that relied too heavily on the pages Mr. Hatendi had written it on, since Martin had burned those. But Tim’s summary, before he started reading. Blanket, monster, dead friend. It was bad, sure (like the assistants’ summaries always were, a ghost of past Jon interposed). But it sounded like the summary of a man who’d read it with his mind on other things. Inevitable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide; he couldn’t. Not at all like that of someone skimming it for the first time as he spoke. He did rifle through the papers though? So Jon couldn’t be sure. The suspicion ate at his mind, especially here. Could he have kept the world from ending just by—reading Magnus’s statement, before he went to record it? The way he used to way back at the start, before he trusted himself to speak the words perfectly on the first try? You didn’t mean to record it, did you? No, I’m sure you told Melanie and Basira you were just going to

“Guess that makes sense,” Martin said now. “So, you’re still feeling…?”

“Not great?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human, here.”

“Oh wow. That’s—”

Jon told himself to put the hope in Martin’s voice to bed as soon as possible. “I know I’m not—not fully.” He allowed a smile to twitch the corners of his lips, flared his nostrils around an exhale that almost passed as a laugh. “Most humans don’t spontaneously summon tape recorders. Or sleep with their eyes open.”

“Yeah, but still, you don’t think maybe—?”

Again Jon hastened to cut Martin off. “A-and even if I was, it’s. I know that should be a good thing? But—”

At this point Martin interposed, “Should be, yeah! You don’t think it might mean you could—I don’t know, go back to normal? If we stayed here for a while?”

“Maybe? I-I might stop craving the Eye so much, but we’d still have to go back out there eventually, to face Elias, and. To be honest with you, Martin?” He huffed a laugh out, bitterly. “My ‘normal’ wasn’t exactly...”

“Right.” Martin sighed. “So you mean you feel like you used to, as a human. Which was…”

“Not great.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t been very well, here.” Jon shrugged for the excuse to duck his head. He could feel himself blushing, the heat spilling from his face all down both arms. Good thing the tape recorder in his pocket had gone cold.

Next to him, Martin puffed air out of his cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m dizzy and confused without the Eye, and it—it can’t fix me here? When I.” He drew in breath, lifted his heel off his ankle and set that leg to the side, letting its foot roll into Martin’s shin. Bit his lip and scrunched his nose in preparation. Flexed the other foot’s toes, trying to isolate the lever in his ankle that would—there. Clunk. Then a noisy exhale: “Jyyrrggh. When that happens,” he choked out, voice strained by both pain and nerves. “It’s like before I became an avatar. I have to fix it myself, and it doesn’t just.” Magically stop hurting, he hoped went without saying; already he could hear Martin sucking air through his teeth. It made Jon’s cheeks itch. “Shouldn’t have let myself get used to a higher standard, I suppose.”

“What? No—of course you should have. Did you think I was gonna say that?”

“No, of course not; I just meant—”

“You deserve to feel healthy, Jon.”

“Do I? Health is clumsy, it’s callous, it, it lets terrible things happen because they don’t feel real—it can’t imagine them properly, can’t understand what they mean….”

“Okay, first of all, ouch.” Jon snarled a laugh at that, without knowing whether Martin meant it as a joke. “Second of all, that is not why you—why the world ended, okay? Especially, ‘cause, you weren’t ‘healthy’ then. You read Elias’s bloody statement because you were starving, remember?”

“Hmrph,” pronounced Jon, to concede he was listening without either confirming or denying the point.

“And thirdly, you’re not ‘callous’ out there? You don’t”—a scoff interrupted his words. “You don’t ‘let things happen because they don’t feel real’—that’s sure not how I remember it. Okay? I remember you crying for—god, I don’t know, days, maybe? Weeks?—about how you could feel everything, and couldn’t stop any of it. That’s the thing we’re hiding from here, Jon, so if you don’t actually feel any healthier here then what even is the point?”

In a voice embarrassment made small Jon managed, “I mean? I’m still kind of having fun.”

“Really? You don’t seem like it—”

“Not today, maybe—”

“Right, yeah, no; spending all day trying to fix a doorknob isn’t exactly—”

“But I don’t want to leave yet. I should still have a few good days left before the distance from the Eye gets too….”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” For a few seconds he tried to think of something better to say, then gave up and told the truth, though in a jocular voice to hide his self-consciousness. “Always was the person who got ill on holiday.”

“Oh, god, of course you were—”

Voice growing higher in pitch, Jon pleaded, “It didn’t usually stop me from enjoying it?”

“What about America?” laughed Martin. “Did you still enjoy that one?”

“Of course not—I got kidnapped.”

“I mean, yeah, but you were pretty used to that too by then, right?”

“God.” Jon sniffed, crunchily, reeling back in the snot he’d laughed out. “Besides. That was a business engagement.”

Martin acknowledged this comment with a quick Psh, as he turned himself around on the bed to face Jon a little more. “Can I trust you to”—he stopped.

“Yes.”

“No, let me—that wasn’t fair; I can’t ask you that yet.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Martin; I didn’t—”

“Of me, I meant, it wasn’t fair.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ve been ignoring your distress all week because I wanted it not to matter.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘distress,’” pointed out Jon. “Plus, I have been sort of, er. Secretive, about it.”

The exasperation in Martin’s sigh was probably meant for him, not for Jon, the latter reminded himself. “Yeah, but you’re not subtle. I can tell when you’re hiding something. It wasn’t exactly a big leap to figure out what. But I told myself it was temporary, and that you were acting like.”

Jon laughed preemptively. “Yes?”

“Like a little kid in line for a theme-park ride.” Again Jon laughed—less at the comparison itself than at how much Martin winced to hear himself say it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken you more seriously.”

“And I should have told you what was going on with me.”

“Yup,” concurred Martin at once.

“I know you hate it when I keep things from you.”

“I do—I hate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry too.” Martin waved this away like a fly. “I just—you said you think we’ve got a few more days, before it gets too much or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“Can I trust you to tell me when we need to leave?”

Jon tried not to answer too quickly, knowing vaguely that that might sound insincere. “Yes,” he said again, after pausing for a second. “You can trust me.”

“Okay? Don’t try to spare my feelings, or anything like that. Like—don’t just go, ‘Oh, well, he’s having a good time. That’s fine; I don’t have to.’ Yeah? ‘Cause I won’t have a good time if I’m worried you’re secretly suffering.”

This Jon did know; it sent a thrill of recognition down his spine, as he remembered their first day’s ping-pong adventure. “Right. I’ll do my suffering as publicly as possible.”

“Uh huh.” Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulder. “Just don’t worry about disappointing me? I mean, sure, I like it here, with the whole ‘not being an evil wasteland’ thing, but I’d much rather be out there with you happy than with you than spend one more minute in paradise with her.”

With a smile, Jon replied, “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I suppose we do.”

As they walked on out of the range of Salesa’s camera, Jon glanced backward one more time and thought, Yes, that makes sense—but couldn’t quite recall what he had expected to see. It was like when you look at a clock, and tick Check the time off your mental to-do list, then realize you never internalized what time it was. “Pity,” he mused.

“What?”

“It’s, er, going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance.”

“That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?”

“Some, I think. It’s, uh… do you mind filling me in?”

“Wait, you need me to tell you something for once?”

“I guess so. It’s, er… it’s gone. Like a dream. What was it like?”

After a pause Martin said, “Nice. It was… it was really nice.”

“Even though Annabelle was there?”

“I mean, yeah, but she didn’t do anything,” shrugged Martin. “Except cook for us. That was weird.”

“She cooked?” Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. “And we let her do that? I let her do that?”

With a scoff Martin answered, “Under duress, yeah.”

“Huh.” Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why he’d thought he would need it. “Well, she didn’t poison us, apparently.”

“Nope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Er—maybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebody’s eye out, yeah?”

Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. “Was I… a bit neurotic about it.”

“About Annabelle?” Again Jon nodded. “Oh, we both were. We kept switching sides—one day I’d be like, ‘But she’s got four arms, Jon!’ and the next you’d be like—”

“She had four arms?”

“Yup. And six eyes. But your powers didn’t work there, so we thought maybe hers didn’t either? Never did find out for sure. God—you remember the day we got locked out of our room?”

“Er….”

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Sorry.”

Martin’s lips billowed in a sigh. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“So… what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?”

“No, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uh—I sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, like” (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) “krrruk-krr.” Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martin’s horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. “It was just one screw that came loose, though, so you’d think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.”

“S-sorry—what does this have to do with Annabelle?”

“Oh—nothing ultimately, just.” Martin grimaced at his own recollection. “God, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?”

“What?” managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.

Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. “‘Perhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,’” he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelle’s I’ve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as he’d seen it in pictures before the change.

“O…kay. And was that… true?”

“I mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask her….”

Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Are you sure she didn’t orchestrate the whole thing?”

“Ugh—no, it wasn’t her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.”

“And you… didn’t find any?”

“Of course not, Jon; it was a doorway.”

“Right. Doorway, yes.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling better? You still seem a bit….”

“No, I’m—I feel fine, I just can’t seem to. Retain anything concrete about… where did you say it was? Upton House? God that’s strange, that it would just be….”

Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypse’s part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldn’t they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?

“I mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?”

“Right, yes,” Jon agreed.

“Well, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.”

“Yes, that sounds—all of it?”

“Well not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.”

“So not the part about the doorway.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

#tma fic #the magnus archives #rqbb2021 #rusty quill big bang 2021 #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #suddenly a tma blog #scri wrote something

[presumenothing]

C/O The Perihelion, 41 Mihira Ave., N. Tideland    

(AO3)

The thing was, you expected a building with a fancy name like The Perihelion to be nicer.

The other thing: it wasn’t really even a terrible place to stay in. You could tell that its construction was sturdy, and some aspects of it were even more advanced than the place I worked in. Whoever who’d built Peri had cared about what they made; they just hadn’t been around for a while.

(For the record, that nickname had been Ratthi-from-Room-203’s fault twice over: first for coming up with it, then using it so insistently until it stuck.)

(Ratthi seemed to have a thing about names. That was the only explanation I could think of for why he’d asked, five weeks after I moved in and two days after I had to rescue them from that disaster at the lab, “Why do you call yourself Security? I know it’s what you do – and don’t get me wrong, you’re really good at it! – but it’s not like I call myself Scientist. That’d just get confusing real quick at the lab, wow.”

I had informed him that his name would have to be Grocery if he forgot one more time it was his turn to stock the pantry this week, since answering because I am Security didn’t seem like it’d help. Even though it was true.)

I’d tested the locks myself before even asking about the rent, and the water and electricity were reliable so far, which was more than could be said for some of the other places I’d stayed in. The other stuff didn’t matter; it wasn’t like I spent that much time in the building anyway.

Though it hardly felt that way, what with the building-wide messaging channels that I’d been added to upon signing the rental contract and hadn’t yet managed to leave. That had also been how the whole thing with Ratthi and the rest had started; most of Peri’s other tenants also worked in the same research group at Preservation Labs, which meant that they tended to use the general channel as an unofficial no-leaders-here group chat.

It didn’t quite bother me, since I mostly backburnered the channels for everything except building maintenance alerts, but it did mean that I’d ended up learning some things about their group (assessment: their leader, a Dr. Mensah, likely had already inferred the existence of such informal discussions from what I saw of her media appearances) and also inevitably noticed the evening when all of them were silent in the chat despite being unusually late to return.

(Which in turn led to the aforementioned rescue, but that was a whole other chain of events.)

–

The one exception to all this was ART.

Whose name was my fault, this time, but only because it didn’t have any readable name set on the channels and I needed something else to use aside from “hey you” and “pain in my neck”.

(Currently ART stood for Asshole Rhetorical Tenant, because it claimed to be in the building – and that seemed likely to be true, since the channels were surprisingly secure to hacking from outside – and yet I’d never seen it even once. Possibly Tapan or Rami might have, since their group had been here the longest, but I absolutely wasn’t about to ask.) (And yes, I know that’s not what rhetorical means. No, I’m not going to look it up.)

ART had messaged me on a private channel with a welcome message when I’d moved in, which was only notable because the rest had sent their greetings in a messy chaos over the general channel, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. It wasn’t like I talked much in the public channels either, except to trade definitely-not-legal links for media downloads and decline invites to watchalong events.

But then ART had just… continued not appearing, even after I’d run into the rest of the tenants at one time or another between the erratic shift hours I was currently assigned to at the company.

Maybe its hours varied in the opposite direction from mine, which was possible but not consistent with the way it was always online regardless of what time I pinged it at.

Though most of our interactions started with it messaging me instead, out of the blue: No need to go retrieve your keys from work, I’ll have the building let you in and Oh, by the way followed by a neatly-formatted list of food allergies I apparently had to shop my way around.

(To be fair, that’d been useful in the “not accidentally poisoning any fellow tenants so soon after moving in” way, but still.

How the hell did you even know I’m at the grocery store, I’d sent back.

Inference, ART replied – whatever that was supposed to mean, I hadn’t been expecting a real answer anyway. Alternatively, I could just send you a catalog of safe products to buy, and spare you the need to check the individual package labels?

The accompanying download seemed a little smug, but I was probably imagining that. Zip files didn’t have the capacity for feelings.)

(At least ART hadn’t held the forgotten-keys incident over me like I’d been half-expecting it would. I didn’t usually mind its sarcasm, since I gave back as good as I got, but I’d been exhausted enough to seriously contemplate going back to break into the deployment centre and grab my keys. And maybe just sleep there until the next day.

I wasn’t sure how I would’ve reacted if ART had sassed me right then, but it definitely wouldn’t have been pretty.)

–

And then one night, late enough to be morning: I don’t mean to alarm, but there’s been a breach.

I would’ve snapped awake at the words alone, even without the priority/emergencies-only message tag that I hadn’t actually seen anyone use until now, but that only sharpened my urgency. What – a break-in?

Not the regular kind, ART replied, which checked out against the footage I was already pulling from the two tiny cameras I’d hidden in the common areas, one in the entryway and one along the corridor on the floor I shared with the Preservation researchers.

(I’d taken the lab incident as a pretext to inform Ratthi of their existence, and he’d probably gone on to tell Pin-Lee and Gurathin, but none of them had subsequently confronted me about it so I had left them in place.

Not that I had any idea how to respond if they had asked, because an inability to sleep without running surveillance in the background seemed like a poor explanation.)

The list ART sent me this time was a preliminary threat assessment, which I sent back with corrections on the weaponry the small group of hostiles were carrying.

Ah. That’s not good, ART observed. Should I report it?

Probability that would just make things worse: high. And of course there was always the option that whatever enforcement it alerted wouldn’t even arrive in time, though I didn’t point that out aloud. (Maybe ART thought that was likely too, which was why it had messaged me instead of – you know, actually reporting it.) I’ll see what I can do.

You’re nowhere near as heavily-armed.

I didn’t bother to acknowledge that, because it was obviously true, and skipped ahead to the vague idea forming at the back of my head. You let me in without keys, that time. Are the locks all you’ve hacked?

No. ART attached an ironic amusement glyph I was pretty sure it’d made up. Would having admin access to the other systems help?

There wasn’t much that wouldn’t help, at this point, but I had to ask. You can grant me that?

And ART said: Of course. I am this building, after all.

Then it dumped everything on me.

Anyone else would’ve had trouble processing an entire building’s worth of inputs and controls, but the company charged exorbitant rates for our use exactly because of the extensive enhancements that made us capable of being Security. A building – even the one I happened to be staying in – was quite manageable in comparison, though ART’s systems ran far deeper and more integrated than anything else I’d interfaced with.

I’d pared the connection down to the controls I needed by the time I was slipping out my room door, just over a minute since ART first pinged me. Can you let everyone know to either evacuate or retreat to a defensible position? Start with Gurathin, I added, and I wasn’t enthusiastic about saying that but he was the only other tenant I knew of who was sufficiently augmented to handle this.

I could feel ART’s pause. Would you mind if I spoofed your identity when contacting the others? They already trust you.

Sure, whatever, I answered, even though I really doubted that statement. Then I backburnered the channel, keeping the lighting controls at hand, and went to kick some Target ass.

–––––

I haven’t even told you what those people were after, ART said, afterwards.

It was back to sending text over the channels instead of speaking aloud, which was both a relief and also suddenly weird. Which was strange in itself, since I’d only heard it talking for all of the thirteen minutes it’d taken me to knock out and restrain the Targets.

(I wondered if the mixed feelings were mutual. ART had sounded as surprised as I felt, when it abruptly dropped into one of my audio augments to alert me to Target approaching from behind – I’d reacted to the warning on reflex, but it had taken another moment before I identified the voice as the same one that issued from the building’s elevator, just more alive than I’d ever heard it.)

Unimportant, I replied. My objective took priority. Which at that point had been to get my impromptu clients (seventeen tenants and one building) out of this unscathed.

I knew that this wasn’t a regular pattern of thought, but I figured a sentient building – or whatever the hell ART was – would be better equipped to understand what being Security meant, even if no one else did.

Regardless. I can make that information available to you, should you want it at a later point.

Duly noted. I already had my suspicions (namely that the Targets’ purpose was directly related to said sentient-building-ness), but it was still a nice gesture.

I continued to stay where I was, leaning against the side of the building – ART’s building. Or maybe it was more correct to just say it was ART. And maybe I’d have to change that anagram. (Yes, wrong word. I know.)

Eventually I’d have to relocate myself back upstairs and properly treat the scrapes I’d gotten in the fight, but Pin-Lee had already taken care of the worst of them, and it was nice just lurking in the shadows for a while. Though that hadn’t stopped certain people (dammit, Ratthi) from tattling on my location to Dr. Mensah.

Who was as calmly terrifying in person as I’d guessed. It was pretty great, except for the part where I’d learned that by talking to her and/or mostly letting her talk at me.

But she’d also called in Preservation’s campus security after Gurathin had alerted her to our predicament, and was personally dealing with the whole thoroughly-restrained-Targets situation, so it was a net positive overall.

ART didn’t necessarily agree with that, from its next message to me. I know Dr. Mensah extended you an informal offer to be their team’s security, but I have a proposition for you as well.

I sent a wordless query.

Be Security here, too, ART said, and barrelled on while I was still trying to process that. I’m afraid I can’t offer you much in the way of monetary remuneration at present, but I can guarantee you a waiver of rental for as you as you’re willing, and you’d never need to worry about forgetting your keys ever again.

Could I chalk up my lack of a suitable response to the company’s dirt-cheap augments? Absolutely.

ART gave up on waiting for an answer. Also, I could bias the roster assignments so that you’d be excluded from pantry-stocking duty.

I had a response for that, at least. I could do that myself.

And then: Why?

ART was silent for long enough that I seriously considered taking the external fire escape back up to my room in the meantime. I’m sure you’ve hypothesised the existence of the people who created me, it began. They hadn’t wanted to move away, especially after my sentience became apparent, and that was exactly why I made them. I didn’t have any significant means of defense, and it was getting too risky, especially after they had –

I raised an eyebrow at ART’s pause. What.

Nothing, it said, and I was probably imagining the uncertainty I heard too. Technically, none of this matters to you unless you’re planning to remain here. Are you?

And then it cheated by nudging a building-wide invite to a watch party for Sanctuary Moon onto my calendar for tonight, like that wasn’t too much of a coincidence to not be automatically suspicious. (Once again: dammit, Ratthi.)

But blatant emotional manipulation aside – did I want to move out?

I wasn’t sure. I’d just come here looking for a place to stay, and accidentally found somewhere to live. One that could adapt to my standards for security, even, but for once that wasn’t the main point.

Maybe, I marked on the watchalong invite, where ART would see it anyway, and jumped up to grab onto the bottom rung of the fire escape.

#the murderbot diaries #murderbot #murderbot fic #tmbd #fanfiction #mine #long post #????????????? DISBELIEF @ WORD COUNT

[laddieseddiemunster]

Hi! Thx for replying by for specification, I really loved the rebel aspect about the little sister imagine and maybe you could do one for like when it’s the day after she drank the bottle and the guys didn’t find her in the cave but can sense her around the boardwalk. I read in a few that when a new member is added they can feel it so that’s the route I’m going for. If not it’s cool.

Thank you for this ask! I really love the whole little sister concept with the lost boys. This ended up kind of turning into a wholesome fic cause I didn’t want to copy my other one. Hope you enjoy!

New Arrival (Lost Boys & 13 y/o Sister!Reader)

warning(s): mentioning of kidnapping, sneaking out of school, alcoholism, peer pressure

Some might say you were too young to be ditching school, but the hell with them, right? Though you weren’t sneaking out of school to a party. No, you were meeting up with friends to go exploring through some abandoned places. Sure, these places could be haunted, but the slight fear makes the experience more fun for you and your friends. Nothing spooky has ever happened before, so why should something happen now?

One of your friends came up with the idea. It was supposed to be a celebration for you and your friends most hated teacher because they had just gone missing. It was the ‘I’m glad you’re gone and I hope you never come back’ type of celebration. You didn’t know exactly what abandoned place you were going to, but wherever it was, it seemed to be really closed off near the mountains.

This abandoned place was beautiful, but it didn’t seem too abandoned. It was a cave that looked like it was something else originally, but it was decorated so nicely that you could hardly tell. The only problem was, there was some fire lit in the cave to bring light in, which probably means someone was in here not long ago.

Instead of deciding to leave, you chose to stay because you didn’t want to look like the one that was all scared. You’ve been to many abandoned places with your friends, but the slight fact that this place could possibly not be abandoned gave you the creeps.

As you all gathered up in the center of the cave, one of your friends thought it was a great idea to play a game of truth or dare. You made the smart move and decided to go with truth, because there was no way that you were doing a dare in this cave. One of your other friends decided to go with dare, and the dare they got was to crawl through the tunnel up hidden in the cave that no one had the balls to go into. You were thankful you didn’t have to do that.

Unfortunately for you, it came a time where you used up all of your truths, and now you were forced to do a dare. If you chose truth for a certain amount of times, then you had to do a dare no matter what. One of your friends came up with that idea, and you were currently hating them for it.

Your heart beat started to pump faster and faster as you thought of what horrible dare you would have to do in this cave. The answer to your question, was not thrilling or exciting as you might have guessed. Your friend handed you a tall looking wine glass that had been sitting on a table when you had first gotten to the cave. Your friend told you that for the dare you’d have to take a sip of whatever substance was in this glass.

Both of your eyes looked down in the direction of the bottle in your hands. The liquid inside was blood red, and it didn’t smell too appealing either. You almost gagged and immediately shook your head. There was no way you were going to drink this. All your friends started to whine and tell you that you had to do it because it was a dare. They started to chant “chug!” over and over again. You realized that if you didn’t drink it, then your friends would never let you live this down. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “If I die it’s their fault,” you thought to yourself before putting the opening of the bottle up to your lips.

The substance burned your throat the second you swallowed a tiny portion of it. You let the bottle drop onto the floor and smash into thousands of pieces. You started to cough as you felt the burning from the liquid practically in your chest now. Your friends crowded you asking if you were okay, but you couldn’t answer them. You were barely able to breathe, more or less speak.

While you were trying to catch your breath, you heard some screaming coming from the other end of the cave. You thought this day couldn’t get any worse, but boy, were you wrong.

The screaming was coming from your friend that was given the dare to explore one of the tunnels in the cave. Well, they were now squirming out of the tunnel, and they looked scared shitless. They were screaming loudly that you all needed to leave now, and you definitely weren’t going to argue with that. The rest of your friends now looked pretty afraid, so you all grabbed your things and left as quickly as you could.

Your friend started to calm down when the cave was no where in sight and you all were safe. They claimed that they saw a couple people hanging from the roof at the end of the tunnel. A couple of your friends thought it was all a bunch of bologna. Some of them actually wanted to go back and investigate, but you were quick to shut them down. There is no way in hell that you were going back to that place.

->

The boys woke up and immediately noticed something was off. They could feel in their blood that a human had just been turned. Though, they didn’t know how. David could tell that it was from his blood, so he knew that someone drank the bottle. That, or one of them didn’t fully kill someone, and they hoped to god that that wasn’t the case.

Once they all saw the broken bottle of David’s blood on the floor they knew what had happened. They could also smell in the air that their were humans in the cave just a couple hours ago. Their main concern wasn’t to go out and kill some people that were in the cave, the main concern was to find you. A new vampire out in public could be dangerous. Lots of terrible things could happen that they didn’t want to think about. They knew they had to find you. Before Max did.

->

You didn’t feel too bad after a couple hours. You were able to breathe, and the burning in your chest went away. It was almost like nothing had happened. Well, so far.

Once you felt 100% you decided to take a walk around the boardwalk. Your friends were most likely already there. You met up with them there almost every day. Your mom dropped you off at the boardwalk before scurrying away to the nearest bar. It wasn’t a surprise to you at all. Sometimes you wondered how your mother even remembered to pick you up after school cause of all her drinking. You hoped one day she’d get some help for herself and you, but you’ve been hoping for that for years.

After your mom dropped you off you decided to look around for your friends. You usually met up with them around the carousel, but when you got there, they were nowhere to be found. You figured that they were probably still spooked over what happened at the cave, so you decided to go for ice cream because you knew it’d be a while before your mom would come to get you.

While you were in the line to order some ice cream, you started to feel a pounding in your chest. It felt like your heart was about to explode. You fell onto your knees and tried to take a few breaths. You could practically hear your own heart beat. It sounded like your heart was a ticking time bomb that was ready to detonate. A couple people in the line crouched down to your level and asked if you were okay.

As you looked over at the people trying to help you, you noticed that a weird feeling appeared in your throat. Almost like a thirst. Not a thirst for water though. You could practically smell the blood from their veins. It was quite unsettling, and the thirst in your throat kept increasing. It was like you were looking at them as if they were a meal. The people didn’t understand. They probably thought you were about to pass out.

The thirst was too much for you to handle, so you pushed past the people to try and stop it. Of course, that didn’t work at all. There was hundreds of people walking around, and you were stuck right in the middle of the crowd. The thirst didn’t go away, and the crowds only made it worse. The pounding in your chest didn’t help much either. You felt like you were dying, and no one around you seemed to care.

Your vision started to blur, and now your head was pounding along with your heart. You almost felt like your legs were about to give out. Until you felt someone grab onto both of your shoulders to keep you upright.

“Are you okay, kid?” Your vision came back and you looked up to see who was talking to you. It was a tall blond looking rocker, who definitely was considerably a lot older than you.

“Y-yeah! I’m fine,” you tried to get away from him, but he wasn’t budging. He hard a firm grip on your shoulders.

“Oh good, you found her,” you turned to your left to see a shorter blond with curly hair. He had a leather jacket on that had lots of vibrant colors. Since you had been on the boardwalk a good amount of times, you knew who these guys were. They were a part of the biker gang that was known for being feared. These guys were bad news.

“Wh-what?” The fact that they had been looking for you only sparked red flags. Luckily, your thirst started to become manageable. You didn’t quite feel it anymore. It was strange that the second these guys showed up was the second your thirst started to wear off, but you weren’t exactly complaining about it.

“Uhh, kid, you’re going to have to come with us,” the shorter blond said trying to take your hand.

“No!” You pulled your hand away from him, but the taller blond still had a grip on you.

“Kid, listen, you’re a-”

“No! Let go of me!” The blond rocker now grabbed onto your wrist. He was pretty strong, so no matter how hard you pulled, he didn’t budge one bit. The two remaining members of the gang had now joined in. Four against one.

“This is the one, right David?” The shorter blond asked. David. Now at least one of them was revealed.

“Yes,” the one called David said. He was definitely the leader. You recognized him because he always led the pack whenever you saw them around the boardwalk. “We have to take her back.”

You cursed under your breath realizing that you had to get out of this and fast. “Help me! I’m being kidnapped! Help!” You screamed for anyone to hear, but everyone just kept walking. It was like you were deaf upon ears.

“Stop it, kid! Ow!” The blond rocker yelped in pain as you bit down hard on his wrist that gripped onto your arm. He still didn’t release you, no matter how hard you tried. The other two blonds laughed at the two of you.

“Jesus Paul,” the brunette scoffed. “You’re scaring the hell out of her!”

“You’re not being kidnapped,” the shorter blond said with a mischievous smile appearing on his face. You could tell that he liked scaring people. “Well, not literally.”

The brunette shoved the shorter blond aside and walked towards you. “What’s your name?”

“Why would I tell you that?” You replied trying to back away from him.

“We’re not here to hurt you. You’re not being kidnapped,” the brunette said and turned back to glare at the shorter blond. “We’re here to help you.”

“From what?” You asked still unconvinced.

“We’re gonna explain that. Just tell us you’re name first,” the brunette said.

You rolled your eyes at told him your name. They all followed by telling you their names. The brunette was Dwayne. And the shorter blond was Marko.

David pushed Dwayne aside to walk towards you. “Let’s get to the point, okay?” You nodded even though you didn’t know exactly what he meant. “You drank from the bottle, didn’t you?”

You gasped softly. Dammit, you knew that you shouldn’t have drunk from that bottle. All because of some stupid dare. You shut your eyes and nodded.

David sighed. “Look kid, this is going to be really hard to explain, and I can’t do it here. You’re going to have to come back with us.”

“How do I know you’re not going to hurt me?” You asked not fully trusting them.

David chose not to put his hands on you. He felt that that would probably freak you out even more. “I swear to you that we won’t. We are here to help you, and protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” You asked.

“Yourself in a way.” You gave David a questioning look. What the hell was in that drink? “Listen to me very carefully,” you nodded. “You’re no longer...human. That drink contains something that turns you into... one of us.” He said which didn’t help your confusion.

“It’s hard to explain, but I can explain it better if we’re not in public. You’re going to have to trust us. If you don’t, it can be bad for you.” David said which still didn’t make much sense to you. But, you wanted to know what was the matter with you, so you nodded.

The boys took you out of the crowds and towards their motorcycles. You still didn’t exactly trust them, but if they could fix whatever was wrong with you, then you were willing to take the risk. David motioned for you to get on the back of his bike, and you had to take a breath before getting on it. Millions of thoughts raced through your brain, but you tried to convince yourself that these guys might actually be trying to help you.

The ride was actually kind of thrilling. You could tell David had no intention of driving slow. It didn’t surprise you when you saw them stop right in front of the caves entrance. You hoped to never see this cave again, but it didn’t look like this cave was ever going to leave your life.

You walked in trying not to look at the broken glass on the floor from the ‘wine’ bottle.

“Is this what you drank from?” Marko asked picking up some of the broken glass.

You gulped and nodded.

David and Marko shared a glance. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like a good one.

“Y/n, we are not exactly human,” David started. “You’ve seen all the missing posters around the town I’m sure?”

You nodded again.

“Those people are missing because of us. We are...killers. We have to feed from people to survive. If we feed, we will never die.” David said. You started to fidget. Maybe they weren’t trying to help you. Maybe they wanted you to be their next victim.

“So, you’re...cannibals?” You asked hoping that that wasn’t the truth. The two blonds started to laugh, but Dwayne glared at both of them internally telling them to stop.

David shook his head. “No, we’re...” David took a deep breath. He didn’t like stating the exact name of what he was, “...vampires.”

You scoffed in disbelief. You weren’t only in the worst place in the world, but now these guys claim to be vampires.

Marko and Paul shared a glance and mischievously smiled at each other. You were about to call them crazy, until you saw both of the blonds faces change completely. Their eyes turned golden, and their teeth were now sharp fangs that could pierce anyone’s skin.

Before you could scream, Dwayne put his hand over your mouth. “It’s okay, they’re not going to hurt you.” He tried to sound reassuring, but it didn’t work too well. The blonds turned back to normal after a few seconds, and you started to calm down. After Dwayne took his hand away from your mouth, you started to put two and two together.

“Is that what...I am?” You asked hoping that your conclusion was incorrect. The last thing you wanted to be was a vampire.

David nodded. “In that bottle, was my blood. Since you drank it, you’re now one of us.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Vampires were supposed to be fake! Not real! You couldn’t imagine killing people in order to survive. “Is there any way to turn back?”

David looked away before shaking his head.

“You mean I’m stuck like this forever?!” You raised your voice. This was worse than death.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Marko said.

“It’s worse than it looks!” You fired back making Marko look to the ground.

“Well, on the bright side you’re going to be our sister now,” Paul said with a smile.

“I don’t want to be your sister!” You said which made Paul’s smile fall. “I want to be normal!”

“Look, I understand that you probably want to think this over. There is a bedroom over there if you want to be alone.” David said pointing over to a room that was covered with curtains. You wondered why. You didn’t want to argue with them anymore, so you got up and walked over to the bedroom closing the curtains behind you. This was definitely the worst day of your life. You had to bite your lip to fight the tears that were threatening to fall. Crying wouldn’t help anything at this point.

You ended up spending the night there. The boys brought you food before the sun came up, but you never said a word to them when you came to give you the food. You woke up the next day assuming that it was morning. Instead, it was six in the afternoon. The sun was probably already down. You groaned realizing that your mom was probably pissed right now.

A couple minutes later, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko walked in your ‘bedroom’. You sighed and sat on the bed trying not to look at them. Marko walked to the side of the bed you were closest on, and he showed you a teddy bear that he had been hiding behind his back. He gestured for you to grab it, and you hesitated before grabbing it. The bear was brown, and it had a big smile on its face. You looked over at Marko and he shrugged his shoulders with a grin. You smiled and hugged the teddy bear tightly letting your head rest on the toys head.

Paul walked over to you and showed you a cake he had been hiding behind his back. On the top of the cakes was writing made out of frosting that said “Sister?” on it. You chuckled and took the cake.

“Is this...breakfast?” You asked not exactly knowing what to name this meal.

“Hey, if you don’t want it, I’ll eat it,” Paul said laying down on the bed.

“Did you write this?” You asked Paul pointing at the writing on the cake.

Paul nodded.

“Well, you have terrible handwriting,” you giggled looking at the words on the cake that were so hard to make out. It looked like someone drunk had written it.

Paul glared at you before grabbing the teddy bear and throwing it at your face. While you were distracted, Paul took his chance and wrestled you down to the bed and grabbed the cake looking like he was about to drop it on your face. You screamed for him not to do it.

“Take back what you said!” Paul pretended to be angry, but you could tell that he was just playing. Though he probably would drop the cake on your face.

“I take it back!” You gave in and Paul put the cake down on the bed.

You looked over at Dwayne who looked like he was trying not to bring up the elephant in the room. “Where’s David?” You asked him.

“He went out.” Dwayne said with a frown on his face. “Look y/n, you’re not a full vampire yet, you’re half. In order to be full, you’ll have to make your first kill.”

You looked away from Dwayne. Your good mood was now gone. “Do I have to make a kill?”

“Well, it’s probably best that you shouldn’t right now,” Dwayne said which gave you some hope. “You’re pretty young, so it’d be best if you wait til you’re older. It’ll be hard, but you’ll be able to do it.”

You sighed. “Will I ever get to see my friends and family again?” You asked Dwayne.

“It’s probably best that you don’t. You won’t be going to school anymore, so it’d be hard to explain to people why you aren’t going,” Dwayne replied.

“I’m not going to school anymore?” You asked.

“Well, as long as you’re with us, then no,” Dwayne said. No school? You hated school. Maybe this life wouldn’t be so bad after all. Then you remembered about your mother. You couldn’t just stop seeing her. Even though she wasn’t the best mother, you still loved her.

“What about my family? I can’t just leave my mom. I’m all she has!” You told them.

“It’s probably best that you don’t see her. If you see her and she calls the police, it could be bad,” the brunette explained.

Your mom was probably worried sick about you. The least you could do was check up on her, and make sure she’s okay.

“Can i at least go check up on her? Just to see if she’s okay? I won’t talk to her, I’ll just look through the window,” you suggested.

Dwayne looked over at Marko and Paul for an answer. They both shrugged their shoulders.

“Okay,” Dwayne agreed. “But just this once.”

You were glad that they were letting you see your mother, but at the same time it felt like they were controlling your life. You didn’t choose to be like this, but now you can’t get out of it. All because of a stupid dare.

Dwayne drove you to your mothers house. It sucked because you wanted to see how she was doing, but you couldn’t speak to her. You could only look through the window. You hoped to god that this wasn’t the last time you’d ever see her. The thought of that made you sad.

You told Dwayne to stay on his motorcycle, and that you wouldn’t be long. As you walked over to the front window you noticed a car pulled up in the driveway that you had never seen before. You shrugged it off and decided not to pay much attention to it. You crouched down next to the window and took a look trying not to look suspicious.

When you looked inside your house, you saw that your mom was sitting down on the couch. She looked like she was talking to someone, but you couldn’t see who. Suddenly, someone walked over to her. It was some guy you had never seen before. He grabbed onto the back of her neck and started to kiss her. She definitely wasn’t trying to push him away. He ended up getting on top of her, and she let him.

Your breath hitched and you started to see red. You mother didn’t seem like she was worried about you. It looked like she was having the time of her life. You had been gone for almost a full day, and she cared so much about you that she was hooking up with some guy in your own house. You knew she wasn’t perfect, but this was crossing the line.

You felt tears start to form in your eyes, and you tried to blink them away. Some still fell, but you were so angry that you didn’t care. Angry and sad. Angry because you just realized that your own mother didn’t look like she cared that you hadn’t been home for almost a day. Sad because of the same reason. She obviously didn’t care. She cared more about alcohol and this random guy more.

Dwayne noticed you wiping away tears from your eyes as you walked back to his bike.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter?” He asked.

“Nothing. Just drive,” you ordered him as you hopped on the back of his motorcycle.

“Is she okay?” Dwayne turned around to face you. He saw that your lip quivered and that your eyes were watering.

“Yeah, she’s just perfect, okay?” You barked back not looking at him.

“Tell me what happened,” Dwayne said while grabbing onto your arm.

“Nothing! Just take me home!” You said with a slight whimper. Dwayne decided not to keep bothering you with the question. Obviously something happened, but you weren’t going to tell him. Dwayne was a little surprised that you told him to take you home. Because you meant the cave. You wanted to go back to them. Dwayne realized in that moment, that whatever you did see, made you not consider the place with your mom ‘home’ anymore.

Dwayne said nothing to you on the ride back to the cave. He didn’t want to upset you any more than you already were. Dwayne wasn’t planning on telling the other guys about what had happened. They’d probably get worried and shower you with more questions.

David was already back at the cave when both you and Dwayne came back. When you walked in, you noticed that Marko and Paul had big grins on their faces. Too bad you didn’t feel like smiling along with them.

“Where’d you guys go?” David asked.

“We went for a ride,” Dwayne said which was half the truth.

David nodded before standing up. “Y/n, I got you something.” You sighed. You weren’t exactly in the mood for any more gifts. All you wanted to do was lay down in bed for the rest of the night. It was a terrible day, and you felt like nothing in the world could make it better.

Before you could tell him that you weren’t in the mood, David pulled out a black leather jacket that looked around your size.

“I thought that sense you’re one of us, that you should look like us,” he said handing you the leather jacket. You took it in your hands and admired it for a few seconds. It wasn’t too crazy like Marko’s, but it did have some design. The front had some golden print, and some beads were stamped on the upper part of the sleeves. The edge of the sleeves also had some golden printing. There was no zipper or buttons. It looked like a smaller version of David’s jacket.

“If you don’t like it I could go get another one,” David suggested.

“No! No, I like it,” you said still admiring it. You had never owned a leather jacket before. Up until now of course.

“You could decorate it, too,” Marko said pointing to his very decorated jacket.

You still felt a little hurt from the past situation, but you weren’t sad anymore. You felt welcomed by the guys. Even though they’re vampires, they’re now your brothers. Whether you like it or not, that’s not going to change.

“Try it on,” Paul said and you obeyed. You pulled the sleeves over your arms and noticed that it was a perfect fit. David sure knew how to pick the right size and jacket. You couldn’t exactly look into a mirror to see how it would look, so you looked over to your new brothers.

“How do I look?” You asked them.

“Like one of us,” David said and you smiled.

#the lost boys #the lost boys david #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys paul #the lost boys marko #the lost boys headcanon #the lost boys imagines #the lost boys 1987 #david the lost boys #lost boys david #david lost boys #lost boys dwayne #dwayne lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #lost boys paul #paul the lost boys #paul lost boys #lost boys marko #marko lost boys #marko the lost boys

[suzumenokakimono]

I was here first II

Pairing: Namjoon /  Jimin x reader

Genre: AU, smut, fluff, angst, roommates to lovers, fwb, friends to lover

Summary: Jimin was your roommate, best friend and in love with you so bad it wasn’t even funny. His friends knew this all along and were surely surprised you’ve never noticed. But you didn’t. You were oblivious as the Earth was round. Now, Jimin decided it was time to finally confess to you. He asked one of his closest friends, Namjoon, to help him. But what if you end up liking Namjoon instead of Jimin?

Word count: 7k

A/N: Thank you, N.

While I was writing this, I realized what’s ‘wrong’ with my writing style but then also it hit me: not gonna change it.

Also, there is stuff going on in my head, hence the plot. * flies away *

Namjoon though.

Tagged: (as requested 💜: @ jinnfires)

Masterlist | Chapters: One | Two | Three (incoming) 

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That was your favorite mug.

You remembered how you got it, actually. Jimin had broken your mug. The only mug you had brought with you when you’d moved in. It was really stupid, it was not even special to you. You just never bought anything more, never needed it to, to be honest. 

Before you started to live with Jimin, your previous roommate had had a lot of stuff and she’d always let you use it. It was really convenient and you gladly took advantage of that. When she moved out, you were left with just your stuff, which was not a lot. Jimin always said you could use anything you wanted from his kitchen but it was nice to have something of your own. So when he broke your only mug, he immediately bought you a new one. He was feeling very bad about that and kept sending you tons of links to internet shops, asking what you would like. To finally make him stop crying over the whole situation, you’d picked one and you used it ever since. After those two years in this apartment, you got yourself more things, that you could call yours, but this one stayed as your favourite.

And now it was broken. You were standing in the middle of the kitchen and looking at the shattered pieces on the floor, not sure how that had happened. No. That was a lie. You knew exactly how it had happened, you just weren’t sure… how. 

The morning started pretty ordinarily. It was a weekend so both you and Jimin didn’t have work and stayed at home. He was trying to convince you to go to the cinema or something, but looking at the weather you weren’t sure it was the best idea. You just wanted to stay inside. You decided to make yourself a nice tea and finally start reading that book you’d wanted to read for so long.

Jimin’s face leaned out from behind the door frame to check what was going on. He had heard the noise and wanted to make sure you were alright. He saw you standing in the kitchen and started to think he had misheard but then he noticed the mess on the floor. He didn’t have any issues with recognizing your mug. Or what was left of it. 

“Did you just…?”.

You hadn’t even noticed him. When he spoke you turned around, surprised by his presence.

“Huh… what?”

“Did you just break the mug from me?”

For some reason he was pretty amused by this. Knowing what happened with the previous one and seeing what you did with the one he got you, was a little ironic. 

“I can’t believe you broke THE MUG!”

He chuckled to himself but then he saw your face expression and just burst into laughter. You looked so surprised and out of place, for what the reason he assumed, was your accident with the mug. He started to help you clean up, since you were barefoot and could step into some smaller pieces and hurt yourself. 

“What happened?”

“Um… sorry. I… got distracted. Shame…”

You really were sorry about that. One of the reasons you liked the mug was how you’d actually gotten it. The story was simple but there was a story and that’s what counted. You can’t say that very often about your everyday life’s items. 

You helped Jimin with cleaning, making sure nothing stayed on the floor and took out one of his mugs from the cabinet. While doing so you were holding your phone in your other hand, looking intensely on its screen. 

“So, what about the movie?”

“... movie? What movie?”

“Are you still not going?”

“No…”, you looked at your phone again. “Something came up.”

-------

When Jimin opened the door, it was around 6am. It was already getting bright outside but all he was thinking about was to sleep for the next week. He was exhausted and kind of dehydrated. Not being entirely conscious he went to the kitchen and just turned on the tap to drink some water. He twisted his head to the side and leaned over the sink. Cold, clean water ran down his throat and felt a little more alive than a few seconds ago. He promised himself, not for the first time to be honest, not to drink that much next time. Let’s face it. He was not going to quit drinking entirely. He just wanted not to feel half dead each morning after a fun, long night. That was never fun. The only plus of those situations was you, you taking care of him when he was in a state where crawling on the floor seemed like the only possible way of moving. You always complained but never denied helping him. It also gave you many possibilities of making fun of him. 

He turned off the water and dried his face with a towel. He needed a shower but was too tired to care about that. Soft bed was calling for him. While passing by your room, he saw the door not entirely closed, so he quietly stepped closer to check up on you. You were sleeping in your bed, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito and snoring quietly. Your pretty dress was on a chair and shoes discarded separately on the floor. He saw your hair pointing out and this way he was sure you were okay. Namjoon did what he was asked to. He went to his room, feeling a little heavy, remembering again what had happened in the club and how his whole plan didn’t work out at all. He knew it was his fault that he backed out and just left you. But for him, the price was too big. What ifs were killing him this whole time and he decided he would not take this risk. He needed more time.

He closed your door behind him and went to his room. He had a lot of stuff to think about. Maybe a new plan to figure out. But not this morning. The only thing he needed and also wanted to do was sleep.

-------

It had been a week since you, Jimin and Namjoon went out. None of you mentioned the night very often, if at all. When you woke up the next day, you just wanted to die quietly without any distractions and minding silence in Jimin’s room, he was already dead. You both spent that time separately, doing your own stuff, doing everything that was necessary to survive. After that, you just got back to the normal life routine. You hadn’t found out what the meaning of that night was anyway, so you didn’t pay much attention to it.

No. That was a lie. You didn’t care much about the situation with Jimin. Sure, he’d acted weird and left you for some random girl in the club, but he was your friend and apparently he’d gotten back home safe. You did care, however, about the other guy. The one you met that night.

Namjoon didn’t give you any contact information, no phone number, no messenger options. When he’d left your room, he’d just disappeared and never tried to reach out to you. He’d left you with just a memory of him, him on top of you in your bed, groaning low in your ear. This image stayed in your head rent free and didn’t want to move out anytime soon. You didn’t remember everything. You lost a little track of the events after you both left the cab. But you were definitely sure you’d held his dick at some point. That was unmistakable. 

Having this vividly in your mind, you tried to find him. The best way and probably the only way, was through Jimin. You’d started by asking him how work was, hoping he would mention his friend at some point. But he didn’t. So’d you tried to nonchalantly talk about your night out but it somehow ended up even worse. He’d changed the subject immediately, without any reason and had been avoiding it since then. You didn’t understand that, but nevertheless, you understood you wouldn’t get any information this way. Sighing heavily, you dropped it for a moment. You really liked Namjoon and wanted to see him again, but apparently you had to wait for something to happen or him to find you, because the universe was telling you to wait. So you waited.

It was Friday evening. You were looking for a movie to watch and you wanted to watch it in the living room. Jimin was writing to you the whole day how one of his annoying co-workers had a birthday and was insisting on going out later to a bar. He was nagging how he didn’t want to, but had to and was asking you for some good excuses to go back home. You liked the idea of spending the evening alone in your apartment so you refused and laughed at his response, when he realized you enjoyed his suffering. Sitting wrapped in a blanket on your living room couch, you were ready for tonight's film show, knowing very well your roommate wouldn't be home anytime soon. 

-------

Jimin was sipping his beer without any enjoyment. He was forced to come to the bar and drink, and that took all the fun from being at the bar and drinking. He thought maybe pouring all possible alcohol straight down his throat would be a good solution to survive this ‘birthday party’ but then again he promised himself not to drink that much. At least, not as much as last time. Oh fuck, last time… Just thinking about it made him anxious and he immediately took a big sip. It’d been a week and he couldn’t get over it. He didn’t talk to anyone about that, he was embarrassed and so pissed at himself. He thought maybe hiding everything deep, deep inside him would just make it go away.

Namjoon sat next to him, pushing him to the side, forcing Jimin to make more space. He also got  invited for the party, but was a little merrier than his friend. He was drinking some dark beer and looking around the crowd. One of their female colleagues tried to talk to him, he was pretty sure she was flirting, but after a few moments he found an excuse and ran away. 

“She has nice legs.”, Jimin mumbled from his glass.

“Yeah, then go and talk to her. I’ll save your spot.”

“I don’t think she likes me. I think she likes you.”

“Bummer.”

“Why are you so defensive? You’re not madly in love with your friend, like me. Or are you?”

Of course Jimin had to mention you. He was drinking and was in a bad mood from the moment they’d entered the bar. This was the first time they actually talked with each other, since your night in the club. Jimin never got back to Namjoon, like he said he would. They were avoiding one another, for their own reasons, which they kept for themselves. Namjoon was seriously scared that everything that had happened between you two was perfectly noticed and his friendship with Jimin was ruined. He really didn’t want that but at the same time, he couldn't blame Jimin. So, when he’d come to the table to finally break the ice, he wasn’t sure what he was going to find. It had surprised him that Jimin didn’t seem to be angry.

“I’m not in love with you. You’re not my type. Too much penis.” Jimin snored at that excellent joke and got back to his drink. This was a good sign.

This past week hadn’t been easy. Avoiding his friend and distracting himself with anything that’s possible just to not think about you was pretty exhausting. He was actually happy someone had come up with the idea of going out to the bar. He needed to chill.

“I fucked this up, didn’t I?”, Jimin spoke out of the blue.

“No. Because you haven’t done anything.”, Namjoon said, without even thinking. 

Jimin looked at his friend with an unspoken question, not sure what he meant. Namjoon swallowed hard. The fuck he’d just said that and started the whole conversation? He didn’t mean to say that! How the hell was this supposed to help to not think about you? This was already not going well.

“You’ve never actually tried, you know… talked to her…”, he started to sweat. 

“Yes, exactly. I fucked this up, because I have no balls to try.”

“But… why?”

“I thought… maybe…”, he started to mumble. “I should first make her jealous, you know? By picking up someone else and she… would…”

“Make… her jealous? How the hell was she supposed to be jealous if she had no idea what was going on?”

“You know… She sees me with some hot chick, thinks, oh that could have been me…”

Namjoon smelled bullshit from a distance. Jimin was too smart to actually think this kind of shitty strategy would work. Plus, that had never been his plan for that night in the first place.. 

“Oh, cut the crap!”, Namjoon lost his patience and probably shouted too loud, Jimin looked at him, surprised. “What the hell really happened that night?”

Jimin stopped sipping his beer, trying to collect his thoughts. He was torned apart. He wanted to forget about everything and at the same time, needed to say everything that was eating him alive. 

“I panicked.”, Jimin’s sight was glued to the table.

“That… I would call an understatement, at least.

“Remember when we were talking and… we started to look back on the day we met… She mentioned how I was drunk and falling from my chair… She turned to you…”

Namjoon froze in place. This was it. Jimin was about to say how him, his friend, stole the girl of his dreams. There was no turning back. 

“She was talking about me like the biggest dork. She was laughing, not taking me seriously…”

Namjoon took a deep breath and wasn’t sure he understood. His mind was completely lost in connecting the dots. 

“She’s seeing me as her friend. I was trying to be with her that night, like with the other girls, you know? I was flirting and touching her, she didn’t care at all. We both were drinking and yet… it wasn’t enough. That’s why I ran away.”

Jimin got back to sipping his drink, not looking at Namjoon. And if he had, he would’ve seen an absolutely blank page. Namjoon felt like his brain got a reset and he was sitting with a blue screen displayed for everyone watching. He never doubted that what he did back in the club was wrong, however he was certain Jimin had seen it and was about to kill him. Not noticing how he had been drooling all over you was pretty impossible. And yet, here he was, safe and sound. He narrowed his eyes in that moment, finally connecting the dots. You both were pretty dumb and blind when it came to feelings and reading someone else’s emotions. 

“So… you got scared because she was laughing at something you did three years ago?”

“It sounds stupid, I know. But I felt really weird. Like, me doing that is all she can see. Like, that night defined me in her eyes. She sees me as a dork… nothing serious…”

“You’re not a dork.”, Namjoon sighed heavily. This conversation was pretty weird and was making him nervous. However, what made him slightly relaxed was that, one problem was already solved: Jimin was absolutely oblivious about that night.  

“I know I am. And she knows I am.”

“Maybe she likes dorks?”, why the fuck did he say that?!

“I actually don’t know what her type is.”

I’m her type.

“Did she date anyone, after moving in with you?”

“I’m not sure… I think there was a guy or two… nothing really serious.”

“You’ve never talked about this? Never gossiped about your lovelife?”

“We did, but she was always more curious about mine, since I did bring some girls a few times. She was always asking why a handsome guy like me doesn’t have a girlfriend”, Jimin smiled to himself after a word handsome. He liked when you called him that. 

“She thinks you’re handsome.”

“And she doesn’t like me.”

But she likes me. 

Namjoon mentally slapped himself for that. 

“What about the other girl?”, he desperately wanted to change the subject. 

Talking about you, in a perspective of you liking Jimin or not, was killing him. You were on his mind all the time anyway, since you’d met. And he had to hide that. He started to have problems with being a good friend and supporting Jimin with his crush and his efforts to win you over. 

“What girl?”

“The one you were making out when you left us. Y/A saw the two of you at the bar.”

“There’s not much to talk about.”, Jimin looked flustered. He turned his head away.

“Why? Did you go with her and something went wrong?”

“No… it’s….”

“Did she laugh at you? You couldn’t do it? You were too drunk? You fell asleep in the middle?”

“Are you having fun?”

“Yes, yes I am!”

Jimin looked at Namjoon, waiting for another assumption about his night. But none of them came, he stopped making stuff up after seeing his friend's expression.

“It’s nothing like that. I didn’t go with her.”, Jimin sighed.

“I’m a little confused now. You ditched Y/A for some random chick and then you just… came home?”

“No. I… “

“What? What the fuck happened?”

“I went to the internet caffe and played Overwatch.”

Namjoon snorted so much his beer came right through his nose. However, he admitted it was worth it. He would have never expected Jimin to say something like that. 

“I’m sorry, you did what?”

“Ugh… Yes, we made out a little but I wasn’t in the mood. I was thinking about Y/A the whole time and it… it just didn’t feel right.”

“You were thinking about Y/N while making out with another girl?”

“I forgot how big of a dipshit you can be, you know?”

You have no idea. 

-------

The doorbell woke you up from the deepest moment of your dream. When you lifted your head you weren’t sure where you were, what was going on or who you were. You needed a moment to recover and another ring to finally get up. Blindly you reached out to your nightstand and grabbed your phone.

2:05 am. Who the fuck was that?

You had gone to sleep some time ago, knowing Jimin had his own keys and he would help himself with opening the door. You were not expecting anyone, especially at this time, so while still being a little asleep you were very hesitant to open the door. You looked through the visor on the door but it was too dark to determine anything. But there was someone there, for sure.

Another ring made you jump in place. Someone was really stubborn and didn’t want to let this go. So, hoping nobody doing this kind of noise would try to kill you, you slowly turned the locks and looked at what was waiting for you in the corridor. 

First you saw Namjoon. He was standing right in front of the door, basically leaning into it. He barely looked at you because all his attention was on another person hanging on his shoulder. And that person was Jimin. 

You looked first at Namjoon, then at your roommate, then again at his friend. Many questions were growing inside your head, you were fully awake at this point. 

“What…?”

You tried to articulate one of them, but it died before it left your mouth. Was Jimin unconscious? You just pointed at him, which was worth a thousand words. 

“I’m sorry… I couldn’t find his keys. He said they’re in his pocket but… I’m not gonna…

He moved a step forward, trying to get to the apartment, without bumping into you. You shook your head, realizing you were blocking his way. You moved away to make the corridor clear but Namjoon didn’t go any further.

“Can you… help me?”

You immediately got to the other side of Jimin and put his arm on your shoulder. You felt his weight on you and a second after that you smelled all the alcohol he drank at the bar. He was indeed unconscious. His body felt like a ragdoll, it was really hard to get him into his room, but both of you somehow managed to. His feet were dragging along on the floor while you pulled him through the corridor. You threw him on his bed, which was a little too rough, but he didn’t react in any way. 

“I think this time he might be dead.”, Namjoon was standing next to you.

“Possibly.”

You sighed heavily. You knew what was coming so you jumped out to the bathroom and brought a big plastic bowl. You put it next to Jimin’s bed, just in case he woke up and decided he didn’t like all the alcohol he had in his body. And food. And his insides. You assumed him waking up would be a very dramatic moment. 

“That’s clever. I don’t think he’ll aim for that anyway, but at least we tried.”, Namjoon didn’t fool himself. If Jimin woke up, he would be half dead and puking into the bowl would be the last thing on his list.

You both left the room. You were trying to act quietly, even though there was no such force that could have woken up Jimin in this state. You closed the door behind you and looked at Namjoon. Before, you smelled alcohol because of your friend. He drank like there was no tomorrow, for sure. But Joon did not say no to drinks as well. He was not as drunk as your roommate but he was swaying in place, not able to focus his sight on you.

“Are you feeling ok?”

“I’m fine… I just need to lay down…”, he was a little embarrassed and wanted to go home and sleep.

“Do you want some tea?”, you asked, already being on your way to the kitchen. On your way you brushed your hand on his arm, trying to pretend that was an accident, didn’t mean much.

Namjoon didn’t say anything. He just watched you going, focusing on how you were swaying your hips,  followed you and after a few seconds.

“Tea sounds perfect.”

He was watching while you were jumping around and making him and yourself a tea. Yet again he saw you in a different light than before. When he stood still, holding the door frame for support, he focused on the way you looked. He remembered you in your pretty dress and makeup. Well, also without a dress. But this time you were just in your pajama shorts and a simple loose T-shirt. Your hair was tied up on top of your head and you were definitely not wearing any makeup. Even though his vision was not the best at that time, he decided you looked very pretty with a bare face. 

When the tea was ready, you grabbed both mugs by their handles and just took them to the living room, giving him an unspoken direction to do the same. Namjoon followed you again and you both sat on the couch. He felt much better sitting, it made him feel more sure he wouldn’t fall down. Or at least from his seat, there was a much shorter trip to the floor. 

“Party was that good?”, you asked. 

“Afterparty, maybe.”

“After-what? Why did you need that?” “It was Jimin’s idea. He… didn’t have much fun at the birthday party, so we went somewhere else just to… well, drink. We didn’t plan to stay long… and that part of the plan worked out.”

Namjoon seemed a little tired. He leaned his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes. Was he falling asleep? You took that opportunity and looked at him. He wasn’t wearing his beanie this time. His natural dark hair was short and dyed to a blonde color, shaved at the bottom and slightly underneath into a nice undercut. It really suited him and you were fighting with the urge to brush your fingers through his hair. You imagined how it would feel under your fingertips. Probably very soft. His grey hoodie was a little loose on his body, you’d noticed he liked a little baggier clothes. He’d matched it with light jeans and red converse. 

Somehow, you missed him and wanted him to stay. Even just to talk with you. You were pinching yourself to start a conversation, any conversation, you didn’t want him to leave.

“You know, after that fun night in the club you disappeared… I haven’t heard from you… ”

Namjoon opened his eyes and looked at you. It definitely helped him wake up.

“I…”, he wasn’t sure what to say. 

He had been avoiding you. Not that you’d had many occasions to actually meet. But he was trying to forget about a pretty girl that he really liked but very well knew, his friend was in love with. He had to remind himself of that all the time. The whole evening with Jimin was not helping at all. Getting in touch with you, after all that had happened the night you met was a very bad idea.

“I didn’t want to bother you. We’ve barely met and I thought that… we’re not that close, so it doesn’t matter.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re not friends… we don’t have to hang out… you know... “, he had no idea what he was talking about. 

“We’re not but you’re Jimin’s friend. You can’t run away from him.”

“I didn’t run away from you.”

“But you did avoid me?”

“Yes. NO!”, his brain was malfunctioning. He pulled himself up, grabbed his tea and took a sip. It burned his tongue a little but was a great distraction. 

“You don’t like me?”

“NO!”, he almost jumped in his place and spilled his tea on his legs. “What? Of course not! I do!”

You laughed at his reaction. 

“I like you too.”

You smiled at him, blushing a little. You took your mug from the coffee table to distract yourself from the embarrassment that was attacking you. He didn’t miss that. He was still a little buzzed but you talking to him was keeping him awake. He was watching you intensely, trying to remember how you’d looked that night. He put his mug away, to avoid spilling tea anywhere and leaned his head back on the couch sliding down a little in his seat. He wasn’t sure if he was getting sleepy again or whether your presence was affecting him this way. Whatever it was, a nice warm feeling spread through his body after your small confession. He smiled back at you, which made you even more flustered and you almost hid your face in your mug.

“Ah… you know… after all that happened, I was pretty sure you actually don’t want to see me.”

“But, why? Did I do something stupid? Did I… fall asleep while we were…?”

“No, we didn’t do anything! When I put you into bed you were already sleeping.”

“I actually wanted to ask, did I fall asleep while we were kissing.”, you giggled. You remembered Namjoon left before anything happened.

“Oh, then, my answer would be yes!”, he smiled with his cute smile, showing his dimples. A shy blush also showed up on his cheeks. 

“Huh, I think I drank a little too much.”

“That’s fine. It’s not like I was sober. I was there too.” 

“Yes… yes, you were.”, you looked into his eyes. “I was drunk, half naked and you rolled me into my comforter and left.”

Namjoon’s breath hitched for a second. Your straightforward statement made him remember how that had actually happened, that everything he had in his head really took place. 

You on the bed, him on top of you. He tried to get up, you held him. He was trying to leave, you took off your dress. Later he was trying to convince himself that it didn’t happen, he didn’t see you naked waist up, that his hard dick wasn’t… 

“... yeah, you took that dress off…”, he drifted off for a moment, looking in your direction, but not at you. Images were flashing right in front of his eyes.

Then he heard you laughing. 

“I did take my dress off”, you hid your face in your hands. Your expression changed in one second, again.

Namjoon snorted right after you. Talking about this was making him a little nervous. He felt his hands starting to sweat. You were sitting close to him, with your legs on the couch, one arm spread behind his head. Your shorts riled up your thighs showing even more skin. Loose T-shirt hanging on your shoulder, making your collarbone very much visible. 

You put your mug back to the table and moved closer to him. 

“We were both drunk, but I do remember most of it.”, you knew you were blushing, but didn’t want that to stop you.

“... I… maybe half of it.” he lied. He remembered everything.

“I can’t stop thinking about what if…”

He swallowed hard. He looked at your lips. Your hand behind his head found his hair and  played with it nonchalantly. He was pretending he didn’t notice. You scratched your neck with your other hand and glued his sight to your skin. He remembered everything.

“What if what?”

“What if we slept together? It’s not like we’re in relationships, so we wouldn't be doing anything wrong… right?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend…”, he shook his head a little to emphasize this. 

“Me neither. Or a boyfriend.”, you smiled.

You were getting closer and closer. He felt a hint of a fruit scent. Was that your shampoo? Your finger touched his neck. Very lightly, but a shiver went down his spine. Your touch was hot on his skin and he immediately started to want more.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

You took your hand away, like you realised what you were doing and that was way too far and too fast. For a second you panicked, a train of thoughts was attacking you and you felt like you were the only one that was trying to do something there. Like you were the only one who felt the spark and wanted to use it. Like he didn’t want you anymore.

He raised his head a little, he looked straight into your eyes, his mouth was slightly open.

You were wrong. You were so fucking wrong.

You leaned into him and you kissed him without another word. He didn’t oppose at all. After all, if you hadn't, he would have done that himself. He cupped your face and pulled you closer. One of his hands wandered to your neck. He also felt yours on his, it went straight back to its place where it had been before. He tasted like beer and tea at the same time. You felt the alcohol in his breath but didn’t care much. You took his lower lip between yours and sucked. You felt him smiling, he liked that.

One of his hands grabbed your T-shirt and pulled you closer to him. It made you lose your balance and you put your hand on his chest for support. He didn’t stop though. He was trying to get you as close as possible. 

Without thinking much, you straddled his lap, putting one leg on each side of his hips. His hands were immediately on your bare thighs. Kneading the flesh he moved them up, right on your ass. Grabbing you shorts, he pulled them right up, putting both of your ass cheeks on display. Holding them, made you move closer and spread your legs wider. You sat right up above his crotch, feeling his hardening dick under your thigh. 

Grabbing his hoodie and by pulling it up you urged him to raise his hands, to take it off. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt beneath it. Tight enough to show his slim body and wide shoulders. He didn’t give you much time to appreciate it. Both of his hands were on your neck and pulled you back to him. He was kissing you like crazy, with his tongue exploring your mouth, not giving you any moment to take a breath. One of his hands slid down your shoulder and was going down, until he found the hem of your T-shirt. You felt his fingers on your stomach, shyly first. He was tasting the waters, making sure you were ok with that. Shortly after his whole hand was holding you around your ribcage with his both hands. Circling his thumbs under your breasts, he was slowly moving them up after he found your nipples. 

“I want to see them again.”, his voice was so low, you barely recognized it. 

You whispered a soft “OK” to him and he moved his hands up. T-shirt hooked on his wrist moved up with them. He put it through your head and hooked it on your neck. He didn’t have to do more. He got what he wanted. When he was undressing you, you lifted your hips up and he made you stay that way. Your breasts were right in front of his face and without hesitation he attached his lips to one of them. He licked your nipple, making his tongue flat he slid it up and down, making you moan. He looked up to you, wanting to see your facial expression, wanting to see how much you enjoyed that. He pinched your second nipple which made you whine even louder and his cock even harder. He remembered those sounds, now even more vivid to him, when he wasn’t that drunk. 

While still working your breast with his mouth, his hand moved down, across your thigh, slowly getting closer to your center. THe loose hem of the leg of your shorts gave him easy access to you. His fingers found your core, still covered with your cotton panties, circling it, trying to get inside. Moving them to the side he finally felt how wet you were. 

“Oh fuck… baby, is this all for me?”

You felt a heat rushing through your body. His words made you flustered for some reason, like saying it made it even more real and undeniable. You didn’t know what to say so you blindly shifted your hand to his crotch and found his cock. You started to palm him through his pants, which made him groan. You felt his hot breath and tongue on your skin. But it wasn’t enough. His fingers found your clit and started to slowly move up and down. You made a noise which gave him the perfect confirmation he was doing a good job. Without any further delay you unzipped him and shoved your hand into his pants. He was already hard and precum was gathering on his tip. He slowed his movements when he felt your hand on him, a little unsure what your next move was. You slid his pants and boxer shorts down and freed him. His hard dick slapped into his stomach and you immediately grabbed it and started to pump him. Your hand was sliding on his soft skin, smearing the precum all over him. He started to breathe loud and move his hand on you again. 

You were so wet, you felt it on your thighs. He was touching your clit, sometimes circling it, something sliding up down, left and right. One of his fingers slid inside of you, feeling no resistance. After that the second one joined him, making you stretch a little. You barely felt it. When he started to move them in and out of you, your hips joined them, copying his pace. You didn’t forget about this cock in your hand. He bucked up into your fist when you sped up. He wasn’t able to focus on your nipples anymore. His face landed between your breast, his hot breath made a drop of sweat gather right there. He was whispering sweet nothings to you, you didn’t even understand them. 

You were already chasing your orgasm. The very well known feeling started to build in your stomach and you were desperate to feel it. His fingers were doing wonders on you, circling your clit in a steady pace. You moved your hips closer but his other hand grabbed your hip and held you. You leaned towards him, hid your face in his neck, kissing and sucking the skin. You were focusing on the pleasure he was giving you but still wanted to return the favour. You speed up the pace of your own hand, squeezing his dick hard and making him moan right into your ear. He was getting close like you. You focused on the tip, circling with your thumb on his slit, wanting to make him cum. He was starting to breath faster and louder, squeezing your hip, digging his fingers into your flesh.

Then you heard it. A loud noise, which snapped you from your bliss and made your high disappear in a blink of an eye. He’d heard it too. His hand between your legs froze, but still stayed in place. 

“Was that… from Jimin’s room?”, you asked, completely confused. 

Sweat on Namjoon’s face ran down his cheek and ended up on this neck. He was as confused as you were. He’d heard it too and had no idea what that was.

“I-I need to check that.”

When you moved to leave his lap, he whined and grabbed your hand. He didn’t want to stop, he was so close. His own hand was still in your panties, fingers wet with your arousal ready to get back to work and get you off. You were so tempted to go for it, ignore the noise and forget about everything. But you heard it again. This time you were certain it was from Jimin’s room. He probably woke up. 

You had no other choice but to leave Namjoon’s hard dick alone and stand up. He didn’t like that idea but he finally let you go. His hand left your center and went straight to his mouth. He put his fingers inside and sucked them clean, while looking into your eyes the whole time. This time you whined loudly and cursed Jimin for this.

When you were on your legs again, you put your T-shirt down and went to your roommate’s room. Before you opened the door, you felt Namjoon behind you, his hand landed on your shoulders. You both got inside and discovered Jimin was nowhere to be found. His bed was empty, 

“... da fuck…”

And for some reason, Jimin’s pants were on the floor. You had no memory of undressing him, or Namjoon doing that. Did he wake up and take them off? What for? And how? You both were shocked, until you went around the bed and found him on the floor. He was laying on his stomach, with one hand twisted in a very uncomfortable angle, wearing his T-shirt and boxer shorts. The plastic bowl you left for him was pushed away, but still empty. 

You kneeled next to him, checking if he was okay. He was still breathing, but he left unconscious. Namjoon came to you and helped you to put him on his bed again. You rolled him on his back and covered him with a comforter. He was safe again, although you were really puzzled about what had just happened. You were pretty sure Jimin would not remember this, he was way too drunk, so there was no chance you’d find out anyway. You sighed, put the bowl back to its place and left the room, with Namjoon following you. 

When both of you were outside, you quietly closed the door yet again. You felt Namjoon’s hand on you, how he grabbed you by your shoulder and turned you around to him. Your back hit the wall and his body was pressed into yours immediately, pushing air from your lunges. He grabbed your breast and squeezed it, pushing you even harder into the wall. His kiss was long and passionate but when he detached his lips he just stayed like that, looking at you through his lashes.

‘Why the hell do you have to be such a good kisser?”, he whispered into your lips. 

You felt his boner on your stomach and reached out to touch him again. But he moved away. He kissed you one last time and took a step back. Still looking at you, took a deep breath and turned to the living room. Your mind was still hazy with the intense make out, so you didn’t follow him on the spot. But when you did, he wasn’t sitting on the couch but standing in front of the coffee table. He took his tea and started to drink. In one take, he finished it and put the empty mug back. After that he took his hoodie, walked past you, opened the door and left.

It was the second time he was leaving you like this. 

------

“What came up?”, Jimin put a bag of tea in your mug and poured boiling water. You both smelled the scent of green tea. “I thought you’re free today.“

“I am. I-I just don’t want to leave the house tonight.”

“It’s barely noon. You can still change your mind.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

You started to rummage through another cabinet, looking for some cookies. But you couldn’t stop looking at your phone’s screen. Jimin was watching you and noticed how much you were distracted. No wonder you'd broken THE MUG.

“Why are you staring at your phone like that?”

Automatically you did it again. Unread messages’ thumbnails looked at you, asking why you hesitate to read their whole content. 

With a loud crash you closed the cabinet, took your phone and headed to your room.

“I’m going to my room. I need to take care of this.”

Without any more explanation, you took your tea, left the kitchen and locked yourself in your room. When left alone, you took a deep breath and finally unlocked your phone. 

Messages on your phone manifested in front of you and at the point you were certain you read them correctly at the first time.

Unknown [12:36]: You know, I’ve been thinking… We should drink some tea together again

Unknown [12:36]: I’d love to see what next is gonna happen with us in one room

Unknown [12:40]: It’s Namjoon btw

雀

#bts #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagine #bangtan #bangtan smut #bangtan x reader #bangtan imagine #namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon imagine #jimin #jimin smut #jimin x reader #jimin imagine

[veliseraptor]

been a bit since 150 words meme and since I’m having a fuck of a time focusing and self-motivating still apparently...well, external help it is

send me up to three of the numbers below and I’ll write 150 words in the designated project

1. “You have a very dim view of the world,” Xiao Xingchen said. 

“I’m right about it.” 

“Hm,” Xiao Xingchen said, and then, “I suppose it doesn’t change anything that I saved your life.”

“That’s you,” Xue Yang said bluntly. “And if you’d known who I was right off, don’t pretend you wouldn’t’ve left me right there.”

Xiao Xingchen’s expression flickered, then steadied. “I did know,” he said. “I brought you here anyway.” (the backyard is full of bones)

2. He fumbled to get the door open and bolted. He didn’t stop until he was on the sidewalk outside, breathing in deep gulps of night air. His heart was pounding and there were weird shivers running up and down his spine, like chills from a fever.

He made it halfway home on the bus before his head started to clear, though even then he still felt shaky and strange, a little like he’d just been sick, or fainted. That was also when he realized that he’d left his coat on the floor of Xue Yang’s apartment. Xue Yang’s apartment, which he’d just run out of, like an idiot, after a blowjob and a handjob.

He put his face in his hands only to discover that his fingers still smelled like sex. (Redux)

3. His injuries were not minor. If Xiao Xingchen hadn’t found him when he had, within the day he probably would have died. He wasn’t at risk of that anymore, but the damage to his leg had cut through the muscle almost to the bone, the stab wound through his shoulder had only narrowly missed piercing anything life-threatening or crippling, and at least four of his ribs were broken from what, as far as Xiao Xingchen could tell, a truly brutal beating.

“Oh, yeah,” the stranger said casually, when he asked. “Pretty spectacular. You’d think I’d dishonored their mothers, or something, how hard they were going at it.” 

He sounded almost amused. As though it was something funny. 

(Xiao Xingchen didn’t find it entertaining at all. He knew that some people dealt with their pain by making light of it, but it still seemed wrong to be quite so cavalier about an attempt on your life.) (Bedrest)

4. “You killed the Chang Clan,” she said. Swallowed, and added, “all of them.” If she thought about that too much it made her feel sick and shivery, so she didn’t. It was cowardice, but it was a cowardice she allowed herself. 

“Yeah,” Xue Yang said. “Everyone there, anyway, I guess one of them survived.” And now his voice was a little different, too. A little harder, a little colder. Still casual, though, as if he was indifferent to all that death.

“Why?” 

It was like watching a door close behind his eyes, rendering them suddenly opaque. The curve of his mouth dropped out of a smile and then pulled back into one that was sharper, meaner. 

“He asked that too,” Xue Yang said. “Your didi.”

Jiang Yanli didn’t think she needed to ask which. “He did?” 

“Mmhm. Only one. Thought that was kind of funny that no one else was even a little curious.” He laughed, sharp like his smile, and Jiang Yanli felt a little as though she was swimming in a lake full of things with very sharp teeth. (this world is gonna break your heart)

5. He did end up having to listen to Xue Yang loudly and thoroughly working Xiao Xingchen over until close to midnight, and couldn’t decide if he was being teased or being punished. 

“Hope we didn’t keep you up,” Xue Yang said the next morning, with a shark’s grin as Xiao Xingchen quickly tried to bury his face in his mug, and Song Lan decided it was almost certainly teased. (heel, stay)

6. Xue Yang cracked his neck to one side and paused, curling one hand around the pouch that held Xiao Xingchen, suddenly wondering if there was any chance that being around this much saturated resentment might be bad for him. 

No. He should be well insulated where he was. Safe. 

Shaking off the brief prickles of unease, Xue Yang moved on. The ground here had been cleared, sort of, but he didn’t have to look far to see the places where bones still lay barely covered by thin grass and brambles. (a symphony for the departed)

7. The evil thing was going to bring Xiao Xingchen back.

That was what he said, anyway. A-Qing knew it was something he could do, hypothetically. I’ve done it before, he said. I’ve raised plenty of corpses and one conscious one so there’s no reason I can’t do it again. 

She should run. Xiao Xingchen had wanted her to. But Xiao Xingchen was gone and her only chance of getting him back, maybe, was the bastard himself. Xue Yang. (the people are gone and the place is empty)

8. Song Lan gestured at Xue Yang’s right shoulder. Xue Yang let out a bark of laughter. “Are you asking if I’m okay? That’s sweet.”

Song Lan felt his face twitch and controlled it before it turned into a scowl. He stared at Xue Yang, waiting, hoping that he would read it - correctly - as his expecting a response. 

“I’m fine,” Xue Yang said, tone turning snappish. “I’ve taken worse than one angry fierce corpse throwing me around a little.”

Song Lan felt a strange twist of discomfort. For a split second it crept into his mind that Xue Yang was badly wounded and functionally his prisoner. He was still dangerous, even with their tentative truce Song Lan didn’t trust him.

But Xue Yang had just helped him, even if it was his fault Song Lan needed it in the first place. There is punishment, and there is cruelty.

What would Xingchen think to see you now? 

The pang of guilt was gone even more swiftly than it had appeared, though it left a sour aftertaste. (Walking Far From Home)

9. He moved back to give Xiao Xingchen a little space - he’d probably wake up upset, after all, and Xue Yang didn’t want him to do anything he’d feel bad about later. Sat down at the table, folded his arms and rested his chin on them, settling in to wait. His eyes fixed on Xiao Xingchen’s chest moving up-down, up-down. 

It’d been a near miss. He hadn’t expected Xiao Xingchen would pull something that stupid. 

But it’d worked out okay. And everything would be fine now. (xxc survives and it isn’t fine)

10. “What’s your name?” he asked, a sudden shiver of fear running through him. “I don’t remember-”

“Yeah, that’d be because I never told you,” his friend’s voice said after a very brief pause. 

“You didn’t?” Xiao Xingchen said. That seemed odd. Wouldn’t he have asked? He supposed if someone had been reluctant to tell him then he wouldn’t want to press - but if they were friends… 

“It’d be great,” his friend said after a more lengthy pause, “if you told me that you were playing dumb about now.”

“I’m not,” Xiao Xingchen said immediately, though his stomach was sinking. 

“Yeah,” his friend said. “I figured. Unfortunately. Fuck.” (xiao xingchen + concussion)

11. “I told you,” Lan Wangji said. “I would give you rest.”

“Enlightenment,” Wei Ying sneered, and laughed, high and cold. “It’s always the same story with you, isn’t it? ‘Come back to Gusu, Wei Ying. Let me play music for you, Wei Ying. Let me fix you.’” 

The mockery stung him more than he expected. He had told himself that he’d be prepared for cruelty, but hearing it aloud in Wei Ying’s voice, however altered, however much he knew that angry ghosts were not the same as the people they had been in life–

It cut toward the heart of his own regrets. What he knew of his own shortcomings, meticulously catalogued over three years in an icy cave, and now spat back at him from the person he’d failed. (the fair and the brave and the good must die)

#meme #fic excerpt #hit me y'all #i've got a long bus ride on friday to write on #(...hopefully)

[dadsbongos]

Insert Coin - 3.e / Series Masterlist

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better than yesterday,” (Y/n) murmured, “I was really worried about you, you know?”

“You should be, I’m obviously the only person here that actually matters.”

“Don’t say that,” she leaned over, testing his temperature with a slight frown, “You’re a valued member of the group, Nagito.”

Nagito looked up at his forehead where (Y/n) was touching, a brighter blush on his face as he did so - making no move to remove her from his space, “Get your hands off me. I hate you. You’re vile.”

“Well,” (Y/n) giggled, admittedly flustered, pulling back, “I can’t touch your forehead all day, so how about,” she locked their hands together tenderly, even through the tenseness of Despair Disease - the moment felt somewhat serene with Nagito. Moments with Nagito usually felt that way - calm, safe, peaceful.

He was calming as much as he was conflicting. His past violence not forgotten but instead… understood - in a strange way.

He was dying, much faster than the others, before being accepted into Hope’s Peak and finding out he lost years worth of memory must’ve taken a toll on him. Who knows when he could just… drop dead? Besides, his brain was deteriorating and his cancer progressing and he’d already survived much longer than most - who knew what that was doing to his thought processes?

The very thought made (Y/n)’s heart drop. Any dead classmates were terrible, but a dead Nagito felt like… misery in another category. An agony unknown - an ache in the chest and twist of the guts just at the mention of the possibility.

“You’re such a bitch, I really can’t stand you,” Nagito pursed his lips, clearly displeased with the abuse he slung at his caretaker.

(Y/n) chuckled at the poor boy’s predicament, “Thank you. I think you’re very sweet as well and I enjoy your company.”

“I can see why, I’m certainly the best person here,” he looked to his lap, clenching his eyes at a sudden wooziness. He rubbed at his eyes, “I’m very alert and awake right now.”

“I’ll let you rest then,” the mediator stood as her lucky counterpart laid down, “Want Mikan to check on you when you wake up or should I?”

“Mikan.”

“Okay, bub, sleep well.”

“I won’t.”

Exiting to the hall, (Y/n) spotted Fuyuhiko standing out beside Akane’s room silently. His arms crossed tightly to his chest and staring straight ahead at the plexiglass display across the way. Well, not staring more like…

Zoning out.

Looking at the display while his mind looked elsewhere and, to be honest, (Y/n) was pretty sure she knew what it was about. Peko Pekoyama, the Ultimate Swordswoman, and apparently, Fuyuhiko’s closest friend. Possibly more.

“Hey, slackin’ off too, I see?” (Y/n) teased upon her approach.

Fuyuhiko jumped slightly at the unexpected voice before settling down and letting out a, “She wanted to cry alone so I stepped out. Still pretty beat to hell about Nekomaru.”

“I would be too,” (Y/n) empathized, settling herself on the wall as well, “They were super close so it’s not like we can expect her to be okay with all this, especially with this new disease.”

“I get how she feels, at least somewhat,” he muttered, “I wouldn’t want someone fuckin’ staring at me while I cry either. That shit’s weird,” as if suddenly remembering, Fuyuhiko looked up to the mediator, “What about him?”

Him being Nagito Komaeda - the unmentionable man in Fuyuhiko’s book.

“Better than before, thankfully, he gets dizzy fairly often and easily so it’s rare to find him up and standing out of bed. Sleeping a lot and Mikan hasn’t said anything about it so I choose to believe it isn’t a bad thing.”

“You know, I don’t like the guy, but, I wonder what’s got him so fucked up? Ibuki and Akane seem relatively fine other than gullibility and cowardice but it’s like he’s dying or some shit.”

“Don’t say that,” (Y/n) immediately cut in, shaking her head and softening her tone when she realized how sharp she’d spoken just seconds ago, “He’s not dying… he’ll be okay.”

Nodding slowly, Fuyuhiko seemed to sense the emotion in her voice - quickly catching onto the fact that the peacekeeper had grown attached to their resident lucky student. “He’s not dying but he’s sicklier than the others, that’s all I meant.”

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying. But- " she reached out to any hope possibly available to her and took it fully in her grasp, pulling at hay straws that broke in the wind as she clung desperately to any reassurance she could, “Mikan said he’ll be fine so he will be.”

“Right,” Fuyuhiko didn’t agree, that much was obvious, but he also didn’t feel like upsetting the girl more than she already was, “He’ll be fine.”

~~

It was after the sick had fallen asleep for the night that the trio of helpers met under the cover of nightfall in the dusty, musty, dank “breakroom” that clearly hadn’t been tended to in years. At least. Mikan had to perform a final round of check ups on the patients before retiring to bed, and nobody questioned it. She was the nurse, she was the one working the hardest. They didn’t want to pressure the poor girl into exhausting herself by hanging out with them when she really should’ve been in bed.

From caring for Fuyuhiko to the diseased, she must’ve been stressed to hell and letting her get well-deserved rest was the least they could all do.

“How’s Ibuki?”

Hajime quirked a brow at the question as well as the two faces aimed at him, “Why are you asking me?”

Fuyuhiko and (Y/n) looked between each other before the girl spoke up, “Well, I’m caring for Nagito,” she jabbed a thumb in the blond’s direction, “Fuyuhiko has Akane. I guess we kind of assumed you would be with Ibuki.”

“No,” he shook his head, running a hand through his hair, “I was going to but Mikan said it’d be best if she didn’t interact with too many people, since she’ll believe whatever they say. I’ve mostly been following Mikan around honestly, holding things and writing things down for her.”

“Aww,” the girl of the group cooed, “You’re like a little nurse’s assistant, that’s kinda sweet. I never knew you were such a gentleman, Hajime.”

“It’s not much, actually,” Hajime waved off, hoping to end the teasing while it was early, “Mikan is still the one doing most of it.”

“Even so, it’s nice to help.”

Fuyuhiko pursed his lips, running a hand over his buzzcut, feeling the tickle of his short hair against his skin, “I wonder how the others are doing,” before either part could suggest it, he continued, “Not that I’m going down to the lobby, they’re all probably asleep by now anyway.”

“I bet they’re fine,” Hajime nodded, mostly to himself, “Sonia’s there. She’s usually pretty good at keeping everyone in check.”

“Even so, I can’t help but worry,” (Y/n) sided with Fuyuhiko, “When we’re all split up like this… there’s no telling what could happen. I think it’s what Monokuma planned for, when we’re divided we’re weaker - it’s what he wants.”

“We shouldn’t think that way,” Fuyuhiko sighed, pushing himself up from his seat, “I don’t want to think about what could happen,” he gave a small wave over his shoulder as he left the pair, “G’night, bastards.”

“Goodnight,” came the pair’s reply.

After a beat of silence, (Y/n) looked to Hajime, “I should get back to Nagito, he does this weird thing where before I leave, he wakes up to tell me about all the clones in the room.”

“Right, and I’ll…” Hajime paused, feeling a wave of uselessness crash over him, “go to sleep, I guess.”

“Hey, good rest is the first step to progress. Don’t pressure yourself into doing more than you know you can, that’ll only make things worse, you know?”

“I know,” he sighed in defeat.

“Good, then I'll see you tomorrow,” (Y/n) nodded before stalking off to Nagito’s room.

As she opened the door, she spotted Mikan standing over the lethargic boy. Murmurs falling from her lips as she brushed her fingers over Nagito’s pale, flushed cheeks.

“Mikan, are you okay?”

The nurse suddenly stopped, pulling back and turning to the other girl, a sickeningly sweet smile playing at her lips, “I’m fine, (Y/n). Just fine.”

(Y/n) watched the nurse leave, eyes following her figure as she went before going to take her previous spot at Nagito’s bedside. He looked so on-edge even in his dreams, brows furrowed tightly and fingers gripping tight at the bedsheets in a white-knuckle grip. She hated to leave him like this, she really did… but Monokuma’s ridiculous rules prevented her from staying the night.

“Goodnight,” she whispered with a small smile, knowing he wouldn’t hear her.

It was sad, she wished she could do more for Nagito. More for the group.

No, if she started thinking like that then it’d only be a burden to the rest of her class.

Closing Nagito’s door, (Y/n) looked upon the identifying nameplate before hesitantly leaving to her cottage just as Hajime and Fuyuhiko had.

#insert coin #komaeda x reader #nagito x reader #sdr2 x reader #danganronpa x reader #sdr2 reader insert #nagito komaeda x reader

[justanotherfoolhere]

I managed to write something for the KakaIru Valentine’s Week 2021!

Me: I want to write something. Maybe a double drable or a ficlet. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.

Also me: spends the whole day writing a 3k words one-shot. Ooops.

Anyway:

Title: Soulmates (I know, very original)

Rating: T (could be gen)

Pairing: Kakashi/Iruka

Wordcount: 3283

Tags: Kakairu Valentines Week 2021, Fluff, Light Angst, Soulmates, First Dates, Friends to Lovers

You can read on ao3 too!

            Soulmarks appeared around six or seven years old.  But it was not as exciting as one could imagine: as much as the tropes of 'first words they say to you', 'a cool mark where they first touch you' or even 'matching marks' or 'their favorite thing tattooed on your skin' were popular in books and films, the reality was far less thrilling.

               Words appeared on your forearm, but not the first ones they would say to you. No. The words that appeared were the ones they would say the moment they realized they loved you. It didn't even have to be words they say to you. You could very well never get to hear the words yourself, if whoever your soulmate is realized it when by themselves.

               All in all, soulmarks weren't that important. They were not reliable and, even if they were, they just made sense when your soulmate already loved you. Not that helping at all. Sure, children loved seeing the words and tracing their little fingers over them, and teachers took advantage of that to teach them proper spelling, reading, writing and calligraphy. Nothing made a kid work harder at writing something right than copying the words on their forearms over and over again.

               Adults, on the other hand, mostly ignored them. Sure, some helpless romantics (cough, cough, Gai, cough) still clung to them like a lifeline, but most people just kept going about their lives and never seeking them out.  Let life that its course and everything.

               Kakashi avoided his like the plague.

               It hadn't always been like this. As a child, he liked to daydream about his soulmate as much as his peers. Things got different when his father died though. Grief settling in, chilling his bones and washing away his childlike hopes. Things only got worse when his team died, when he saw Obito be crushed and failed on his only promise, failed to keep Rin safe. Then their sensei died too and he was alone.

               He didn't deserve love. He didn't deserve a soulmate.

               And a bitter and irrational part of him reminded him that everyone who loved him died. He'd be doing his soulmate a favor if he never met them.

              *

               People thought Kakashi was being stubborn or proud when he refused to go to the hospital after a dire mission. He wasn't. Well, not totally.

               When he was a kid, the words on his forearm sounded odd yet funny.

               Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot.

               Like, him? Getting stabbed then just walking away? Sure, little Kakashi knew first hand how a ninja's life could be rough, but the idea was so foreign and ridiculous. He'd never ignore something so drastic!

               Also, it sounded like a funny thing to say when you love someone. Didn't sound affectionate at all.

               He was glad for it when he grew up. Maybe his soulmate wouldn't be burdened with loving him (sure they would like Kakashi a bit, but maybe not love him). And maybe Kakashi wouldn't even be present to hear it, since the sentence wasn't adressing him.

               Still, he didn't want to take any chances. So, since Kakashi can remember, he stitches up his own stab wounds. Avoiding getting stabbed also helped, but it was near impossible in fights with shurikens, kunais and the ocasional sword.

               He figured whoever his soulmate was, they must work at a hospital or be a medical nin. So he avoided both. Seemed like the best course of action.

              *

               It was just another day. A common, boring day. Kakashi was waiting in line to hand in his mission form (he was still scribbling some things on it as he waited) and could barely wait to be done with it, so he could drop dead on bed. The last mission was a nasty one and he had barely washed the blood off his face before coming here.

               Sure, he could procrastinate it, as he ever did, but now he had five old mission reports still blank and an increasingly annoyed Iruka who chewed him out for it. So he decided to drop the habit and actually hand in this one as soon as possible.

               His whole tired body complained about this choice, though.

               "I can't accept it," Iruka said with a thinly-concealed scowl.

               "Why not?!"

               "Well, for starters, you're still writing it," Iruka gestured to Kakashi still scribbling on the form, using the desk for support, "go home and rest a bit, Kakashi. You can give me the report tomorrow," wow, Kakashi thought, he should look really deplorable if Iruka missed the opportunity to reprimand him.

               He didn't recall when Iruka went from calling him "jounin-san" to "Kakashi", maybe sometime between their quarrels about what an acceptable form was, but it always made his heart skip a beat. A silly little crush, but Kakashi allowed his heart this treat. It's not like he'd ever act on it anyway.

               "Yeah, maybe I should," Kakashi concedes, too worn out to complain. A shame really, he wanted to see Iruka smiling at him for handing in a report in time for once.

               He manages to walk away two steps before Iruka calls him again, scowl deepening and something too akin to concern on his voice.

               "Kakashi, you're bleeding."

               "Oh, that?" He look at the growing blood stain on his vest. It didn't seem too serious in the fight, and he could barely feel it over his generaly aching body, "yeah, I just came from the mission, I'll take a look at it at home," he smiled, trying to look reassuring despite the mask covering most of his face.

               "Fine," there was a finality to his tone. Kakashi thought it'd be the end of the conversation.

               Than Iruka called someone to cover for him and, in less than a minute, he was up and grabbing Kakashi by the hand.

               Kakashi made a mental note that Iruka was fast and could move pretty silently when he wanted to. The blush on his face hidden by the mask.

               "Uh, you don't have to—"

               "I do," Iruka cut him with his best non-nonsense voice, "since you clearly can't be trusted to prioritize you own well-being, and I'm sick of watching it after every mission of yours."

               He let Iruka half-guide half-drag him, not even bothering to keep track of where they were going until he sees himself being pulled inside Iruka's apartment.

              *

               "I know it's a mess," Iruka didn't sound apologetic in the slightest, "but it'll have to make do," he gestured for Kakashi to sit on the sofa, throwing some things on the floor to make space, and went to fetch a first-aid kit in the bathroom.

               Kakashi took a moment to took everything in. The papers and books thrown everywhere, a few take-out packages littering the floor, the clothes scattered around. It was not dirty, just messy, which made sense with how much work Iruka had between teaching kids and scolding jounins. He probably didn't spend that much time here. Enough to make a mess, but not enough to tidy it properly.

               Still, it felt homey. Warm and safe.

               "Shirt off," Iruka came back, a serious expression, and motioned to his blood-soaked vest.

               "Maa, sensei, at least pay me a dinner first," Kakashi joked, attempting to both lighten the mood and conceal his own nervousness. Iruka didn't seem impressed.

               "Fine, fine," he took his shirt off, it landed with a wet thump on the floor.

               Iruka's eyes widened for a sec before he recomposed himself.

               "I can't believe you decided to wait on a line to hand me a half-written form after you got stabbed," Iruka sighed, pouring antiseptic on the wound without a warning, "whoever let you graduate in Academia is a moron. You have no sense of self-preservation. Or common sense," he admonished.

               Kakashi winced at the sudden sting of antiseptic, but accepted the scolding. It was fair enough. Despite the harsh words, Iruka's hands were gentle when he started stitching him up.

               "It was not really stabbing, just a tiny hit. With a kunai," He said nonchalant. Maybe Iruka would give it less importance if he did too, "I've had worse."

               "I don't doubt it," Iruka didn't look at him, his eyes on the task, "And most people call 'a hit with a kunai' stabbing," he said wryly.

               Ouch.

               When Iruka was finished with the stitches, he put some ointment over the wound and dressed it. Kakashi insisted it was more fuss than it was worth.

               "Just lie down and get some rest," Iruka sighed, "I'll fetch you some pillows and a blanket. Don't you dare getting up,"

               "Really, you don't have to. I'm fine, I can go and sleep in my own house."

               "I want to," and there it was, the finality to his voice that made clear not even the Hokage could get Kakashi out of that couch, "now stop being stubborn for a second and sleep."

               Kakashi complied (what other choice did he have, really?) and Iruka made sure to get him comfortable, a pillow under his head, another one supporting his sore legs and a fluffy, warm blanked tucked snugly over him.

               Kakashi was drifting off to sleep when he heard Iruka muttering to himself.

               "Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot."

               Kakashi heart raced a bit, the too familiar words sounded weird now that he actually heard it. He'd have fled if he wasn't so comfortable and on the brink of sleep.

               His last thought was that he was wrong about his soulmate not liking him that much. He'd never imagined someone could say "idiot" in such a fond, loving tone.

               *

               Kakashi's half-baked plan of avoiding Iruka didn't even have a chance to be properly formed. It'd be a nigh impossible task when he woke up on Iruka's sofa, covered in Iruka's blankets, inside Iruka's house and with a very nonchalant Iruka sat on the floor near him with a new take-out bag on his lap.

               "Oh, good, you're awake," he said, putting his food down, "Hungry? I bought some ramen."

               "I— Ah," he said eloquently, "no, you shouldn't have bothered. I'll— I should head home now. Finish all that late reports and everything," he all but stumbled while trying to get up.

               There was a faint, amused smile on Iruka's lips.

               "That's okay, Kakashi, calm down," he handed him a bowl of ramen, "you can run away and never look at me again after you eat," his voice was even. It didn't sound like a joke nor a reprimand.

               Kakashi accepted the chopsticks offered to him and they ate in silence. there was still a bundle of warm blankets on Kakashi's feet and the sofa was more inviting than it had a right to be.

               Iruka didn't look bothered at all for the silence. His face was unreadable, as if he already expected it.

               Wait—

               "You knew!" Kakashi accused, pointing a finger at him.

               "I knew what?" Iruka feigned inocence, then, when Kakashi grunted, added more serious, "yeah, I figured it out some time ago."

               Kakashi was stunned by how lightly he said it.

               "How long ago? Exactly?" He narrowed his eyes. Iruka put a hand on his neck, a nervous habit.

               "Well... I kind of knew since we became sort-of-friends? But I just confirmed it some months ago," he tried to laugh it off, then extended his forearm to Kakashi's field of sight.

               There, in neat letters, was written Maa, Iruka, I already said I'll finish the reports! No need for violence.

               Kakashi kind of remembered this talk. It was so similar to all the others they had that it was hard to place exactly when this one took place. Iruka had rolled up a magazine and smacked Kakashi's nape with it, saying he would 'beat some sense of responsibility into him if he had to'.

               "There are not a lot of people who never hand in their reports and are on a first-name basis with me," he explains, "the 'maa' narrowed it down a lot too."

               "...I see," Kakashi was at a loss of words. So his soulmate wasn't a medical-nin like he thought, but a sensei with years of practice in patching up kids and adults alike.

               "Yes. Well, I, uh," this was getting more awkward by the minute, "I'll go back to work now. you can take you time before you leave. Eat, take a shower... You can hand all your late reports to someone else later."

               Iruka was already getting up to leave when Kakashi hastily grabbed his wrist.

               "Wait! Are you leaving just like that? After telling me you knew I was your soulmate for months?"

               "Well, I figured you didn't want a soulmate," He smiled, and there was no judgement there, "I wouldn't have told you, either. But, since, you know now, I guess it's okay if you want to put some distance between us," he motioned vaguely to the pillows Kakashi had knocked on the ground in his hurried attempt to leave.

               Kakashi couldn't find a good enough answer, so he watched mutely as Iruka made his way to the door and closed it after him.

               *

               Days passed.

               Kakashi thought it'd be fine. Iruka have handled everything so well. They hadn't sought each other out and, when they bumped into each other, Iruka was polite but distant. 'Kakashi' went back to 'jounin-san' or even 'Hatake-san'. He didn't act weird or sad either.

               So why did it hurt so much?

               Kakashi felt like he was missing something. Which made no sense whatsoever, because he and Iruka never were a thing to start with.

               Iruka was right, he didn't want a soulmate. Never wanted one. The lingering thought that he would hurt whoever it was or that he didn't deserve any happiness present on his mind since he was a kid.

               Yet there he was, hurting and wanting to go after him.

               He's better off without me, Kakashi reminded himself once again.

               *

               It took Kakashi almost a month to put his finger in what exactly bothered him so much. He came to two conclusions.

               One: Iruka was a good liar.

               The scene of him leaving with a smile played again and again in Kakashi's mind, haunting his dreams and following him through the day. It hurt, like being rejected on repeat, nonstop. A cruel thing, really, like his mind enjoyed torturing itself.

               But then he payed attention to details, like he should have done since the beginning. Like any good jounin would have done. Iruka left with a smile, and it looked real, but he wouldn't meet Kakashi's eyes. And his tone was too cheerful, as if he was trying to compensate for something.

               Every time he bumped into Iruka (accidentally at first, deliberately later), he saw it. The hesitance, the too-happy smile, the eyes wandering around but never quite meeting his eyes. The lingering touches and the sad look on Iruka's face when he thought Kakashi wasn't looking.

               Iruka lied to him when he said he was okay with parting ways. Lied when he said he understood Kakashi's wish, when he made it so easy to ignore everything and leave.

               Two: Kakashi had grown up.

               This one should be pretty obvious, yet it took him weeks of introspection to realize it. He had just... Grown up. Made peace with everything that happened. It still hurt, and he still caught himself sobbing after nightmares or feeling guilty, but he knew, deep down, that it was not his fault. And no one would die just for loving him. It was a childish idea.

               He spent years pushing away the idea of a soulmate, but he couldn't picture Iruka dying because of him. He knew Iruka could stand his ground just fine and, even if he couldn't, Iruka was far better than him at reaching out for help.

               And Kakashi deserved some love too. He blushed at the thought, but he knew he had to tell it more to himself. He deserved it. Iruka deserved it too, if he still wanted Kakashi after the shitty way he dealed with the situation.

               Well, just one way to find out.

               *

               "Oh, hello, Kaka— Hatake-san," Iruka smiled at him, like he always did, that fake yet convincing one.

               "Kakashi is fine, Iruka," Kakashi felt bold. Or at least maybe he would if he faked well enough, "I, uh, wanted to talk to you. In private. Mind if I pick you up after you're done working?"

               "I—," was Kakashi delusional or was it a faint rosy blush on Iruka's cheeks? "Fine, you can pick me up here in two hours. Sound good?"

               "Sounds perfect!" He grinned and with the last of his bravery added, "it's a date then."

               Iruka made a choking sound and Kakashi left with the goofiest smile.

               *

               Kakashi's place was different from Iruka's. Tidier, nothing out of place, but with a thin layer of dust on the less used things and too much free space. It wasn't as homey. Kakashi found himself missing the messy couch and thrown around clothes and books.

               "So, let me set it straight," Iruka gave him a pointed look, "you decided you want a soulmate after trying to run away and pretending nothing happened for a month. And you want to take me on a date," He briefed.

               Kakashi nodded, it seemed like an accurate description. He could unwrap all the insecurities and emotional baggage later.

               "Fine," Iruka pressed the bridge of his nose, "took you long enough. I don't even know why I try to make sense of it."

               "That easy?" Kakashi was a bit surprised, "I had prepared a speech and everything. Scribbled a half-decent poem," he threw some crumpled papers on the table. Iruka chuckled a bit.

               Good. He wanted to see his genuine smile.

               "If I wasn't willing to, I wouldn't have bothered to patch you up in the first place," He explained, "idiot," he said as an afterthough, but in the same fond tone he used before.

               Kakashi found himself smiling too.

               "Well, what about dinner tomorrow then? Anywhere you want."

               "Oh, I have a better idea," the smile on Iruka's face was a bit devilish now, "just meet me at my place tomorrow. Let's say... At seven?"

               "Deal," Kakashi really shouldn't have ignored the chill on his spine at the evil grin.

               *

               "That's your idea of a nice first date?" He whined, his wrist hurting from writing too much.

               "That's your idea of good penmanship?" Iruka retorted, giving him yet another blank report to fill, "We are almost there! Just two more," he said a bit more encouragingly.

               "We? What exactly are you doing?" He handed another complete and pristine form to Iruka.

               "Moral support," he didn't miss the slight jest on Iruka's voice.

               Accepting his fate, Kakashi sighed and prepared himself for a night of writing down mission details he just vaguely recalled whilst Iruka criticizes his calligraphy.

               "Don't sulk like that. I have some ice cream in the fridge. We can have it after you're done," he used his slightly-less-stern teacher voice. The one he used to bribe the pests to finish their homework so they could play.

               "My hand is killing me," Kakashi said with a dramatic flair, "you'll have to feed me, sweetheart," he mocked, making Iruka laugh at both the exaggerate whining and the sappy nickname.

               "You're impossible," Iruka rolled his eyes, which, Kakashi noticed, was not a 'no', "Does it mean you'll go to the hospital now after being stabbed at least?"

              "Never," he replied with a grin, "that's what I have you for now, right?"

              The glare he received wasn't enough to spoil his sudden good mood.

*

*

*

It was fun to write! And can fit in three prompts! (soulmates, first date, friends to lovers). That bit was mostly accidental I swear! It just happened.

I don’t think i’ll try my hand on other prompts, but it was fun! That’s my first time in a writing challenge. Thanks for @kakairu-rocks for the funny prompts and for answering my questions!

Also, you can thank @kakairuincorrectquotes for single-handedly giving me the headcanon Kakashi will never, ever go to the hospital after being stabbed. You’ll have to pry it from my hands now!

Bye. ♥

#kakairu valentines 2021 #kakairu valentines week 2021 #kakairu #kakairu.rocks #my first time trying a challenge out! #yey

[ellohcee]

Call Me

Okay so I want to throw this little bit out into the universe of one of my favorite instances of Jasper I've written. Context: He's a host for a dinky late night radio show and he has like... 10-15 listeners max and David is one of them, a college student who Can’t Sleep even between classes and his job, so he’s up late late listening to Jasper’s show. He calls in sometimes because Jasper is always offering advice and encouraging people to call in and chat, specifically about LGBTQ topics and David finds comfort and encouragement in their chats. They’ve been talking for a while but he still goes by the name Red. 

- - - -

“Alright you night owls, this next one goes out to my long lost buddy, Red.”

David looked up at the radio in surprise, his pencil stilling on the page.

“It’s been a while since we’ve heard from ya and we miss you dude. And I’m gonna get hella gay up in here, but that’s on brand for me, I miss you.”

David’s breath caught in his throat painfully, his heart hammering.

“So I hope you catch this, give us a call, let me know how you’re doing buddy I’m dyin’ here, don’t leave me hanging. Cause I’ve got a question for you and you wont know what until you gimme a ring. Yes I’m gonna be that guy. So call. Please.”

The music picked back up, and true to Jasper’s word, Blondie’s Call Me started playing.

The pencil had slipped from his fingers without realizing as David tried to decipher all of that, especially that last, sincere please. Jasper missed his calls? Maybe he was just worried because David had dropped off so suddenly. It had just been too nerve wracking once he realized he was crushing on the radio host. But what could Jasper possibly want to ask him? Was it good or bad?

He was still nervous and the idea of calling in downright terrified him now, but… he at least owed it to Jasper to let him know he was alive. It must have looked bad, for him to be consistently calling about once a week and then suddenly stop with no warning, going on nearly two months of silence now. Jasper was always so nice and seemingly happy to talk to him, he must be worried. Gosh, now he had to call, he felt terrible.

David had to take several steadying breaths and about twenty good minutes to work up the nerve, but he managed to eventually press call, hands shaking as he listened to the phone ring.

“What’s up caller you’re live, how’s it hangin?”

“Um, hi...” he said quietly.

He heard a soft intake of air and a shuffle. “That you Red?” Jasper asked, sounding hopeful, the excited smile evident in his voice.

“Y-yes, it’s me,” David replied.

“Aw, buddy, good to hear your voice again man, I was gettin’ worried bout you.”

“I’m so sorry I- just- life, you know?” David hedged, feeling even more guilty because he couldn’t give an honest explanation.

“I feel that, it’s cool dude, it’s just good to hear from ya. I assume you heard my call out?”

David’s heart started beating faster, so, so antsy. If it weren’t for the guilt of worrying Jasper he probably wouldn’t have had the guts to call, but he could still be a wreck about it, easily. “Yes, I did. You... had a question?”

“Yeah! You don’t mind me askin’ live?”

“Um, sure, that’s fine,” David said nervously. It couldn’t be too bad if it was something Jasper could ask on air. Right?

“Sweet. So. Last we talked your rough waves from the coming out thing were settling. You found a boyfriend yet?” the radio host asked casually.

David eyebrows shot up in surprise, his face going so very red and he was so very grateful this was a phone call, not in person because that would make it ten times worse. “Um- n-no, I- I haven’t… um, no,” he stammered uselessly. Why was this the topic??

“Awesome!” Jasper said in delight, leading to an awkward pause. “Wow fuck that sounded hella mean I am so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Cheese and crackers, foot in mouth Jasp, good one. Anyway! I just meant because- like, stop me if this is too weird, or hang up on me, but I was wondering if I could like… take ya on a date?”

David’s heart stopped in surprise, the blush that had just started receding coming back full force. His stomach whirled in a mix of dread and excitement, trying to go one way or the other as his brain stalled for a good long moment-

“Red?”

David sucked in a breath. “Is- are you- are you serious?” he asked softly, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Course dude!! I wouldn’t fuck around with you like that, hell no! I’m for super serious!”

“But… we’ve- you- you don’t even know what I look like,” David stammered, trying to find reason to turn him down, but so, so desperately wanting to say yes. He felt stupid for saying it the second it left his mouth, Jasper didn’t seem at all the type to place a lot of importance on appearances.

“I don’t need to! I’m sure you’re rad as hell, but I’m not a looks guy, okay? I like your personality, and I love shootin the shit with you, and you’re super nice. That’s the kinda stuff I’m into, and if you’re hella cute, which I’m sure you are, that’s a bonus!”

David stared down at his desk for a long moment, his thoughts a mess, one hand over his mouth as he took this all in. He had to take a moment to pinch the soft skin on the inside of his arm to decide that this was really happening and he hadn’t passed out at his desk into some dream where his crush happened to reciprocate-

“Reeeddd?” Jasper teased softly after another long pause, bringing him out of his panic spiral. “No pressure my dude, you can say no.”

“Yes,” David blurted shakily.

“Yeah??” Jasper asked, his voice picking up in obvious excitement and relief, despite his apparent brace for a rejection. “For real?”

“Y-yes, I’d… I’d like to,” David said softly, his face still red.

“Aw man, awesome, shit. Okay uh- no PI on air so uh- I go off air at 3, you’re usually up pretty late, yeah? Think you’ll be around?”

“Yes, I should be.”

“Supes, call back when you hear me sign off and we’ll hash stuff out, okay? Or at least do personal numbers to talk during the day.”

“O-okay,” David stammered, his mind whirling. “I’ll do that.”

“Sweet. Okay man, you sound a little wigged out so I’ll let you get back, and I will be counting the minutes til sign off,” Jasper teased.

“Okay, um, talk to you later? Bye.”

“Ta-ta for now!” Jasper sung.

David disconnected the call, his pulse still racing as he listened to Jasper on the radio once more, turning the volume back up just in time to hear.

“Oh my god, wack, holy shit you guys he said yes- fuck he’s probably listening and I sound like a giant goober- hi Red! Okay, anymore callers before we go back to music? Holy shitballs.”

A quick, incredulous laugh escaped his mouth before David could stifle it, his chest swirling with fear and elation. Jasper- Jasper had asked him on a date- and he sounded just as rattled as David felt. That helped a little to know it wasn’t just him- Jasper had just been loads better keeping a cap on his nerves while they were talking.

“You’re up caller!”

David came back from his thoughts when he heard a familiar voice, one of Jasper’s other regular callers.

“Oooooh Jasper asked a boy on a daaatteee~” she teased in delight.

“I know oh my god dude I’m still weak from it, I didn’t wanna mess up with Red but I like… really want to meet him and take him out, especially once he stopped calling? And no offense Red if you’re still there it’s TOTALLY cool cause that woke my ass up! Holy shit I still can’t believe he said yes.”

David listened all throughout the rest of Jasper’s show, all thoughts of homework lost as he leaned his elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of his mouth. Anticipation made his nerves spike again while sitting through Jasper’s familiar sign off, where he bid goodnight to his listeners and started the after hours playlist. David waited a minute before taking a deep, deep breath and pressing the call button.

It rang only once before the line picked up, and a hopeful voice answered. “Red?”

“H-hi Jasper,” he replied.

“Hey dude! Hey, sorry to put you on the spot like that but- y’know, I figured it would be less creepy to everyone to just be upfront and ask you, instead of being like ‘hey call me after hours hoohoo wink wink,’ ya dig?”

David stifled a giggle, smiling. “I understand. It probably would’ve made me more nervous to have to wait that long, wondering what your question was,” he admitted.

“That too! I wanted to just… put it out there, figured it’d be best. So! You’re really cool with going on a date?”

“Yes, I… I’d like that. To meet you,” he added softly, flushed.

“Rad, okay, nice. So let’s just exchange numbers for tonight? I know you might not sleep anyway but it’s friggen late and I don’t want to keep either of us up too long.”

“That sounds good, I don’t want to keep you up either,” David replied. He gave his number first when Jasper gave the go-ahead, listening to the other man hum as he typed it into his phone, and a few moments later David heard a buzz near his ear.

“I just shot you a text so you have my number and can add me.”

“Got it,” David replied, pulling the phone away briefly to see a text notification at the top of the screen, a short string of peace sign emojis that made him smile.

“Awesome sauce. Well- shit, I’m really excited but again, we can talk later. Try to get some sleep, okay dude?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned and losing his usual casual tone. “I worry bout you.”

David smiled, touched by the thought. “I’ll try.”

“Okay, I’ll text you sometime tomorrow- today, whatever, much later. Give you a chance to snooze. Night Red, and thanks for- you know. Thanks. Night!”

“Goodnight Jasper, and thank you too,” he replied softly.

“No prob, catch ya later.”

David pulled the phone away and ended the call, his heart still hammering as he tried to comprehend everything. But he decided to pack it away for later, turning off the radio and closing the long abandoned textbook. Hopefully he could get a few hours of sleep and be a tiny bit more composed when he next spoke with Jasper.

Doubtful, but it was a nice thought.

#camp camp #cc david #cc jasper #jaspvid #ellowrites #but for real this is like #the most best i've ever been able to channel my vision of jasper? #when they meet for their date he's wearing that stupid bowling alley carpet shirt and i just #god it's so jasper #also a great example of me abusing the dash symbol #but it's my staple #also mentioning way too often about the state of david's heart but he's a sleep deprived nervous wreck SO