#her name is avocado and I love her stupid face so much

[dyns33]

Flufftober 25 - Deadpool

Wade Wilson x reader 

           "This must be your favorite day."

           "Because you're a freak."

           "I think he understood. Unless he's stupid."

           "Haha. You guys are sooooo funny. Halloween, my favourite day, because I wear a mask all the time, and under the mask I look like a moldy avocado. Nobody never said that to me. I think someone did, to Batman, so I'll take that as a compliment."

           "You're not as handsome as Batman. With and without the mask."

           "Thank you, Yellow, you're adorable."

           "More than you, for sure."

Wade didn't know why he kept chatting with the boxes. They were never nice to him and they didn't deserve his attention.

Maybe it was because no one else wanted to talk to him. Despite his best efforts, people still ended up finding him weird, crazy, and dangerous. This was incomprehensible to Wade, who thought he was the best friend in the world.

Loyal, funny, ready to kill if asked, for money or a hug.

According to Spidey, Red, and Moon-Moon, the only heroes who agreed to spend some time with him, he didn't do it well. He was too intense and he had to stop threatening people, whether it was to protect the people he loved, or to ask the people he loved to love him back.

And all of that was when he had his mask on.

No normal person ever gave him a chance seeing his face, running off before they tried to get to know him.

It was a bit hurtful, but Wade could understand. He had already vomited and passed out after seeing himself in a mirror. At the same time.

So even if they said that to be mean, the boxes weren't wrong. His scorched pizza face could only come out on Halloween, because people thought it was a disguise then, and everyone praised him, saying he was really awful, which was so cool. Just for that day.

The other days it was just awful.

           "We could enter a contest. We would win a prize."

           "At the end, they will understand that it is not a costume and they will throw tomatoes at you while laughing, like Quasimodo."

           "Even Quasimodo is more handsome."

           "He's not with the girl at the end."

           "And Wade is single, I don't see where the problem is."

           "I want tacos !" declared Wade, who was tired of listening to them, even though he knew they were going to follow him wherever he went. They were silent only when he shot himself in the head, and never for very long.

It was nice to go out without the mask for once. He decided to put on a cap anyway, to avoid attracting too much attention. If someone asked him, he was a sexy zombie, and a famous one, but incognito, so he didn't accept photos, thank you.

On his way, he passed an ice cream shop, and eating ice cream before the tacos seemed like a good idea. It all ended up in the stomach at the end, the order didn't really matter.

It was a little cold, so there weren't many people in the shop. Some stared at him, both frightened and fascinated, smiling shyly at him when he greeted them.

It was that stupid gesture, to wave his hand to embarrass strangers, that changed his life. Well, maybe not his life, but at least his day.

No, yes, his whole life.

Wade's hand passed very close to the girl who was patiently waiting her turn behind him, touching her hair, and they both jumped at the same time.

The poor innocent backed off, while he immediately apologized, explaining that he hadn't done it on purpose, and that she had no reason to be afraid or disgusted, he wasn't sick or contagious, just ugly.

           "Well, I guess there's reason to be disgusted, I have a special face."

           "Oh. No, sorry, I was surprised, I was thinking about the ice cream I was going to choose, I thought something was falling on me, like an insect."

           "If I was an insect, I would be a dung beetle. Often screwed up, but very useful for the whole world."

The boxes told him he was ridiculous, but that made the young girl laugh. They then told him that she was making fun of him, while she added that he was funny, with a charming smile.

           "My name is Y/N." she said, holding out her hand, as if she wanted him to shake it. He couldn't do that, she was way too pretty for him to touch.

           "Wade Winston Wilson. Triple W. My dad was an alcoholic, he wanted to call me Georges, but eventually he gave the dog that name, and he loved him more than me."

           "I hope that's not true."

           "The name story isn't. Shall I buy you ice cream?  To make up for almost slapping you. Really sorry, I'll never do that. I'll cut my hand off rather than hit a woman. I've fought women before, but they were bad guys, I mean bad girls, and I think it's pretty feminist of me not to discriminate, but I won't hit a helpless woman who didn't do anything wrong. I'm actually hired to hunt down guys who do this, and sometimes I even do it for free."

This made Y/N laugh again, and Wade considered that she hadn't understood that he was serious.

Not to scare her away, he didn't insist. She had accepted that he pay for her ice cream, if in exchange he agreed to stay a little with her to discuss.

           "I thought you wanted tacos." White reminded him.

           "But now he wants Y/N."

           "She's too good for him. Just like Esmeralda with Quasimodo."

           "She's much prettier than Esmeralda."

           "What ?" Y/N asked looking at him in surprise.

           "Nothing, I... I'm talking to myself, I was thinking of something else. So, not dressed up for Halloween yet ?"

           "No, not yet. I'm not sure I'm going out tonight, the streets aren't safe, and I have a date."

Wade did his best to hide his disappointment, so very badly. This made the young woman laugh again.

           "I mean, I have a date with my sofa, my television, a blanket and some chocolate."

           "I think we have a date with the same person tonight. It's terrible, they're cheating on us, we should get revenge by going out together !"

           "Haha, yes, why not."

He had said that as a joke, really. It was one of the only non-serious things he had said since the moment he saw her sweet face and his heart almost stopped beating at so much beauty, and now Y/N had just accepted a go on a date with him.

           "No, she's joking too."

           "Yes she didn't understand that we were really ugly."

           "I'm really ugly." repeated Wade, pointing his fork at his face. "It's not a mask, I look like it all year round. And I'm really hired to punch bad guys, or worse."

           "I know. You're Deadpool. You sometimes work with Spiderman and other heroes, I've seen you on the news."

           "... And it's okay ?"

           "Yes." simply replied the angel who was eating her ice cream in front of him.

White yelled at him that they were probably dead again and dreaming while he was regenerating. Yellow whispered to him that it was a cruel joke, or that she was a Hydra spy who wanted to capture him to study his cells. Wade watched the rainbows and butterflies floating in the air, hearts in his eyes.

Obviously, Y/N didn't see the little hearts, taking his silence for a rejection.

           "If I was too quick, I'm sorry, I... You're nice, and funny, and I had a great time with you. But if you're not interested, or you already have someone, or...'

           "No ! I'm having a great time too. It's much better than tacos ! I wanted to eat tacos before stopping here."

           "Really ? We... We could go have some together?  Then I don't know. We'll see. Do you have a number ?"

Convinced that she wouldn't call him, he gave her his personal number. The one he had given to his pals of the Team Red of the Moon, and that was it, because all the other people he knew didn't deserve to know this number, with its brilliant voicemail where he imitated Ryan Reynolds, only knowing his professional phone, where he was making farts noises.

Except that Y/N immediately sent him a message, while they were still together.

           "Here. That way we can schedule another date."

           "Another date ?"

           "Yeah... I mean, unless we don't consider today to be a date. Sorry, we'll schedule a first date."

           "I don't know if White and Yellow are right, but I don't care."

           "What ?"

           "Nothing. Shall we go and eat tacos ?"

Leaving way too much money for the waitress, Wade hopped happily alongside Y/N who was still smiling like he didn't look like an idiot with a ravaged face, and Wade thought to himself that Halloween was maybe actually his favourite day. And that eating ice cream before the meal was a great idea !

#deadpool #deadpool imagine #deadpool x reader #wade wilson #wade wilson x reader #wade wilson imagine #flufftober 2022

[czenzo]

Consequences

[ao3]

summary: After Lucy wakes up one morning to find a dark red lovebite blooming on her neck, she frantically looks for a way to cover it up – and eventually drags Lockwood into helping, too. After all, he is the one who left it there.

words: 2335 rating: T

note: I fell SO in love with the netflix show then got so overwhelmed with lockwood content that writers block snuck up on me, but I have defeated it at last!! huzzah enjoy these kids being stupid and foolish and deeply in love

Lucy stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Her eye bags were slightly less pronounced than usual, which was a nice change. Only a few spots dotted the skin of her face – a small one on her chin, one on the side of her nose – but they were fairly calm and bound to fade soon. If she squinted and covered one eye they almost passed as freckles.

Her lips were alarmingly chapped, thanks to the hours upon hours spent in freezing cold haunted locations with little to no motivation to bother moisturising them; Holly had picked up a habit of commenting on it, and every time, Lucy responded by peeling off a bit of the flaking skin. It was always effective in cutting the conversation short.

Her jawline was soft as usual, thanks to the round face and thicker-set build inherited from her mother, but she’d grown to not mind it so much. After all, her appearance was never a hindrance to her work, so it had never mattered.

Aside from the blooming dark red bruise on her neck.

That was sure to stir up some commotion.

“Talk about unprofessional,” was the first thing out of the skull’s mouth when she flipped its lever that morning. Still half-asleep and brain somewhat foggy, she hadn’t registered his words and simply opted to ignore them as she padded over to the bathroom. She’d been at 35 Portland Row for so long that her morning routine was all muscle memory: haul herself out of bed, drag her body a few feet across the room before stepping to the right to avoid that oddly squeaky floorboard, then to the left to miss that nail haphazardly sticking out, then enter her bathroom, shiver as her feet hit the cold tiled floor, and grimace as her eyes fall onto the bright red hickey on her reflection’s neck.

Hold on.

Shit.

A strange, strangled noise escaped the back of her throat. The skull must have heard it, because he let out a cackle and called out, “Don’t tell me you’ve only just realised. He must’ve been sucking on your neck like his life depended on it!”

“Oh, shit,” she hissed, trying to tune out the skull’s taunting. She lasted less than a minute before stomping back out of the bathroom and flicking the skull jar’s lever with more ferocity than she ever had, before returning to the mirror to stare slack-jawed at her neck some more.

Her makeup collection started and stopped with mascara, and she hadn’t the foggiest of where to even start finding a product to cover the hickey – no, lovebite – no, god, how she hated all of its names. If only it was a bit lower, she could’ve hidden it with a thick turtleneck, but she knew just from looking at it that it still would have peered out over the top.

She desperately rummaged through the back of her wardrobe anyway, and heaved a sigh of relief upon finding something that would cover the offensive red splotch for the short term.

By the time she finally emerged from her room and followed the smell of toast into the kitchen, most of Lockwood & Co. were already there, either busying themselves making breakfast or, in George’s case, already in the middle of scoffing it.

“Morning,” Lucy said as she entered, making a beeline for the kettle to make herself a hard-earned cuppa. Holly paused from slicing a healthy-looking thing (it might’ve been an avocado, but Lucy didn’t care enough to look closely at it) and stared at her.

“Are you a bit chilly, Luce?” George said, lowering the last slice of half-eaten toast back to his plate.

“Hm?” Lucy replied, scooping up some sugar.

“I mean – I’m glad you liked my Christmas present, but you’re aware it’s July, yeah?”

Lucy paused, hand halfway to the kettle’s handle. “We live in England.”

“Climate change renders that a poor defence, really. I swear every other week’s a heatwave.”

“What’s this about heatwaves?” Lockwood said as he entered, newspaper in one hand and a mug in the other.

“Lucy’s wearing a scarf in the middle of summer,” Holly oh-so-politely explained.

Lockwood’s gaze darted to the scarf in question.

Then to Lucy’s eyes. And very, very briefly – for such a small fraction of a second Lucy almost wondered if she’d imagined it – down to her lips.

Then back down to the scarf.

“An… interesting fashion choice,” he said slowly.

“Indeed,” Lucy replied matter-of-factly, finishing making her tea and taking a long, scalding sip.

The room was silent for a long, excruciating moment, until reality suddenly restarted and Holly resumed chopping, George resumed chomping, and Lockwood snapped himself out of his trance to turn on his heel and head towards his favourite armchair to catch up on the news.

Slowly but surely, the rest of them followed, migrating into the living room and making themselves at home on the sofas in wait of an informal morning briefing. Holly was fully dressed and ready to go for the day, but the rest of them still lounged in their pyjamas while lazily sipping their tea, not quite yet ready to begin their working day.

“Okay,” Lockwood said after skimming through the newspaper. “Our priority tonight is to close off that case with Mr McShane… Holly, if you could give him a ring and look into why on earth he decided to not show up and give us the keys so we could get to work last night, that would be great – I can trust you to make it sound polite and professional. Maybe we should consider some kind of no-show fee… it could help us recover faster from that recent bulk order from Sunrise. Or is that too harsh? I don’t know. Something to think about later.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy spotted Holly jotting it down on a notebook she’d seemingly produced out of thin air. Lockwood continued his briefing; a client was due later that afternoon, George was to get a head start on the background research, and Lucy was to join him to visit a different client at their home in a couple of hours.

“We’re a bit busier than usual,” George mused from his deep, sunken-in spot on the couch.

“That McShane fellow knocked us off our schedule. We have a bit of catching up to do, but it’s doable.”

“I suppose we’d better get started then,” Holly said, closing her notebook. Lockwood solemnly nodded. Still, it was another fifteen minutes until they were all able to haul themselves back onto their feet, and another twenty for everyone to get dressed and make themselves look presentable.

Lucy spent most of that time checking her mirror. Each time she moved to look into it, part of her hoped and prayed the mark would have somehow magically begun to fade, though deep down she knew she was only setting herself up for disappointment.

The scarf was itchy and garish; realistically, she knew it couldn’t stay, but her limited wardrobe left her with – well, not a single other option.

She’d pulled on a jumper, skirt, and tights by the time there came a soft knocking at her door. In the seconds that followed came an intense internal debate as to whether the scarf was to stay on, or if she could get away with only facing whoever it was at a specific angle.

A voice softly called from the other side. “Luce?”

Lockwood.

The scarf was promptly thrown across the room. Lucy opened the door, and before she could even give him a scalding look, the sheepish grimace on his face said he knew what was going on already. Slowly, quietly, he shuffled inside, and took his time in closing the door behind him.

“So…” he said, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “No more scarf?”

“I don’t know what to do, Lockwood. You did this, you should be paying the consequences – not me!”

He followed the sharp point of her finger, and the second his eyes fell on the deep red blotch on her neck he let out a whistle, long and slow. “It’s starting to go purple.”

“Thank you for that observation.”

“Perhaps Holly has–”

“I’m not letting Holly catch wind of this,” Lucy sighed. “Besides, our skin tones don’t match in the slightest. Her makeup would make it more obvious.”

“Oh– er, yeah. That’s true. What about–”

“Don’t even think about suggesting asking George. He’d never let us forget about this.”

Lockwood’s gaze drifted across the room and onto where the scarf had fallen, draped half on the bed, half on the floor. “Scarf it is, then.”

Lucy looked at the scarf witheringly. Before she could turn back around to face Lockwood, she felt a pair of hands settle gently at her waist.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her ear. “I got carried away, I didn’t think it through. It won’t happen again.”

Lucy sighed and replied with as much nonchalance as she could muster, “I never said I wanted that.”

“Hm?”

“It can happen again,” she said slowly, “as long as I have a reasonable way of covering the aftermath.”

“Oh,” Lockwood said. And then, a few moments later, “Oh.”

He backed away, his hands left her waist, and before Lucy could register the loss of his warm breath against the shell of her ear, he’d gone, leaving the door to swing shut behind him.

Lucy frowned. She turned to the skull jar, wondering why he hadn’t been incessantly ridiculing her throughout the whole fiasco, until she remembered she’d flicked its lever in a fit of rage earlier that morning. It was probably for the best that it stayed that way for the time being.

“Okay,” Lockwood said as he backed into the room, turning to reveal his arms full of medical supplies – plasters of varying shades, bandages, cleaning alcohol, the same supplies he’d uncovered after she’d slashed her wrist at Kensal Green – which he unceremoniously dumped onto her unmade bed. “We’ll just make it look like a minor injury. We were practising rapier techniques and I accidentally nicked your neck with my blade. That sounds reasonable, right?”

She sat on the edge of her bed, watching him rummage through the small pile. “I’d never let you nick my neck.”

“Well, you certainly let me do something else to it.”

For that, he received a swift whack to the back of his head. “Shut up and sort out my rapier wound.”

Lockwood tucked her hair behind her ear, gave one last dramatic wince at the mark on her neck, then fell quiet with concentration as he carefully placed a plaster over it. He took far longer than was necessary, but Lucy found she couldn’t complain. It tickled as he smoothed out the adhesive with his fingertips, and once he was satisfied with his work, his hands glided up to tenderly cup the sides of her face.

“Thank you,” Lucy murmured, feeling a smile creep onto her lips.

“Told you. I’m a fully qualified doctor. No wound is too much for me to handle.”

“Codswallop,” she scoffed. “This one scared you.”

He smirked, amused. “Only very briefly, before my fantastic intellect kicked in.”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Maybe,” Lucy said, lips no more than an inch away from his. The air between them was warm and smelt faintly of Lockwood’s cologne. “Maybe I do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Shut up,” she said breathlessly, closing the gap between them. The pile of plasters and bandages were left forgotten beside them as they became wrapped up in one another, hands roaming and mouths gasping for air between kisses. Lucy was sure they could have stayed there for hours if it weren’t for George shouting from downstairs.

“Lockwood!” his muffled voice called.

Lockwood took a moment to catch his breath. His forehead still pressed against Lucy’s as he called back, “What?”

“Can you come here? I need to check something with you before I head to the archives!”

“Is it urgent?”

“Er–” George paused. “It pertains to ghosts, which can be pretty fucking lethal, so, yes!”

“Be there in a tick,” Lockwood replied. It took considerable effort to untangle himself from Lucy and, once he’d hauled himself off the bed and onto his feet, to then smooth out the creases that now tarnished his outfit.

George shouted up to them one last time, “Bring Lucy, too!”

***                           

It hadn’t been that urgent. Just a minor query from an unremarkable case that he wanted to clear up before leaving because, well – he was George. And George found joy in leaving no question unanswered, no stone unturned.

Next to a bad drawing of a Rawbones, he’d jotted down a to-do list for himself on the thinking cloth. He contemplated his scribblings for the millionth time, and then peered up at Lucy over the rim of his glasses. “No more scarf, then?”

“No.”

“Shame. You were about to kick off a new fashion trend.”

Holly entered the kitchen. She’d been busy cleaning the living room, if the three apple cores she held at arm's length before throwing in the bin were anything to go by. “I thought it looked quite quaint.”

Lucy gave her a look. “You don’t need to lie, Hol.”

Lockwood rested a hand on her shoulder and lit up the room with his grin. “Lucy was only hesitant to admit I bested her during our rapier practice last night. I do feel quite bad for catching her neck with my blade, though.”

Holly and George exchanged looks, and for an uncomfortably quiet moment, Lucy feared they’d seen right through the cover story.

“Don’t feel bad,” George eventually said. “She’d be ecstatic if she managed to do that to you.”

Holly nodded in agreement, and Lockwood turned to Lucy with an almost wounded look. “Would you?”

“Of course. Better watch your back the next time we practice. Might get my revenge.”

end note: now with a Revenge sequel!

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co fic #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #locklyle #czenzo.fic

[velvyx]

Spotted

#day gecko #geckoblr #her name is avocado and I love her stupid face so much #reptiblr #gold dust day gecko

[daydreamingleclerc]

the man on your right (0.3) / mason mount

not my gif, but put that tongue to use in my mouth next time daddy

sorry this part is so long! i got writers block half way through and i didn’t like anything i wrote but it’s here! i’m working like 20 hours alone this weekend so the next update will be sometime over the next week. thank you so much for all of the love on this story i’m glad you’re enjoying it 💜

*

ladies, i found out which one is sitting next to me at dinner, you typed, fingers working faster than your brain. because he’s already sat next to me

oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, william typed. and??

what number does he wear? zach asked, only to receive no reply. y/n, seriously what number does he wear?! once again, you hadn’t found the time to reply thanks to being roped into a debate between some of the boys over whether avocado really should go in the prawn cocktail. y/n/n, we are running on precious time here, what number does he wear?

how the fuck am i supposed to know that? you replied, debating what to say next. his name’s mason if that’s any consolation, he’s pretty cute and seems to be popular with these guys

okay, william typed back. is he your type?

stupid question, you shot back. he’s brunette, of course he’s my type

right we’ll be here if things go tits up, zach replied. aaliyah’s good at playing matchmaker, don’t shut yourself off, get to know him because he sounds sexy. love you <3

*

“there’s no way you’re twenty two.”

mason hacked and sawed away at his steak beside you as you chatted over the music, a look of disbelief on your face as you struggled to comprehend that he was only six months older than you. he laughed, and looked at you; the contrast of the way you cut your food delicately compared to the way he knifed his steak an ironic trick of fate that they would put one of the messiest eaters next to one of the cleanest. the waiters came around and switched your glasses, removing your empty cocktail glass and replacing it with a freshly made cocktail that smelled sweet like raspberries.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing,” he replied, smiling up at the waiter when his glass was replaced, a fresh beer replacing the empty one. you shook your head and finished your mouthful, admiring the fact that the two of you had been placed in your own little world.

“no, it’s not bad!” you insisted, “it’s just nice to meet someone my age who isn’t a total knob.”

he shrugged his shoulders and fought to hold back a chuckle as he poured the rest of his beer into the glass in front of him. you looked around the table, seeing faces you hadn’t been introduced to properly yet — knowing their names solely because mason or aaliyah would tell you, or seeing the men you’d met at the bar chatting with the women beside them who could only be described as their gorgeous, unmistakable wives or girlfriends. “you’re twenty two, too?”

“only just,” you shot him a cheeky grin which he reciprocated. mason continued to hack at his steak and you wondered how his arms didn’t get ached or cramped, but watching his muscles flex underneath the champagne shirt really was something to behold, so you kept your mouth shut. aaliyah nudged you and you turned to face her, seeing the familiar haze in her eyes that told you she was on the verge of having one too many glasses of wine, but you let it slide.

“he’s cute, right?”

“he’s...” you shrugged your shoulders, and giggled when ben spun round to listen to your reaction with raised eyebrows. you glanced around at mason, who was half in conversation with one of the boys across the table as he chomped down on his steak. ben wiggled his eyebrows and aaliyah poked at your upper arm. you laughed and shrugged her off.

“he’s nice, okay? really nice.”

*

the main restaurant was much busier when you left the function room, the majority of you all having to be ushered down the stairs and towards the exit by bodyguards, who made the situation much more intimidating and serious than it needed to be. part of you wasn’t surprised at the amount of people chanting at the boys as they came down the stairs, you knew they were famous and being footballers for a club that was situated in london, they were bound sure to find hundreds of people who expressed love for them. then again, part of you was surprised, the part of you that didn’t see any of them as footballers but just as aaliyah’s and ben’s friends, normal people with normal lives who were just celebrating a friends birthday.

“that’s why they like you so much,” aaliyah assured as the two of you stepped outside first, waiting for the boys who had been roped into pictures with the owner in the foyer. a bodyguard loitered around the women to keep you all from prying paparazzi, their camera’s flashing occasionally when they caught a glimpse of one of the boys through the door. “you don’t treat them like footballers, or the number on the back of their shirt, you treat them like real people.”

“that’s why ben loves you so much,” you noted, rubbing your hands up and down your arms, not enjoying the late november chill. “because you treat him like ben and not... ben.”

kai’s girlfriend, sophia, came over to chat to the pair of you along with another woman called leah, who you remembered as being the woman sat next to tammy on the other end of the table. paparazzi snapped pictures of the four of you, recognising aaliyah, sophia and leah from their significant other’s instagram accounts, while you tried desperately to keep your face out of view as much as possible so you were recognised as little as possible by friends and family, or even worse for you — your students.

that conversation could come at a later date.

if it weren’t for the paparazzi shouting and screaming, and the obnoxious flashing of cameras, you wouldn’t have noticed that the boys even left the restaurant. ben made a beeline directly for aaliyah, and the two decided to lead away onto the next venue, with thirty something of you trailing behind them making lighthearted conversation. you squeezed in a pack among reece, reuben, christian, callum and their plus ones, walking quietly and absorbing their conversation. mason found you from around the outskirts and squeezed between his teammates, walking alongside you, but keeping within the bubble you’d surrounded yourselves in.

“this is what you guys have to put up with every time you leave the house?”

mason and reece nodded, an irritated look on both of their faces. reece’s girlfriend sent you a sympathetic smile, knowing all too well the feeling that came with being followed by cameras when you simply just wanted to have fun. “it really isn’t the best way to live your life,” reece muttered, and you watched as he gripped his girlfriends hand tighter. mason scoffed, his facial expression dropping significantly at the sight of the camera’s, and you couldn’t help but feel empathetic for the group of them. a gust of wind blew around the bubble and your arms came out in goosebumps, which left you cursing under your breath at the fact you were stupid enough to come out in november without a jacket.

“does it ever get easier?” you asked him, looking up at his tall frame as you picked up pace in order to stay amongst the bubble of safety where the cameras couldn’t see you. he knitted his eyebrows together, albeit with a soft look on his face when he turned to look at you. “living like this, the camera’s, the newspapers, thousands of adoring fans calling out your name across the street?” the pair of you laughed at the last question, when as if on cue people started chanting out names from across the street. a bodyguard walked alongside the six of you that threatened to lose your way when the front eight crossed the road.

“uh, parts of it do, but parts like this just piss me off,” he admitted, shoving a hand into his jeans pocket as the two of you walked. a smile came onto his face, the one he had when you met a few hours prior, “especially when i’m trying to impress a pretty woman like yourself.”

you scoffed, turning your face away to try and hide the blush that protruded your cheeks, but it was unsuccessful. he jabbed at your shoulder, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in a moment of basking in his compliment proudly. ben and aaliyah stoped outside tropicana beach, a place you’d been to with her, zach and will many times in the last year of living in london, and your face lit up when she wiggled her fingers in your direction.

*

“so, you’ve been single how long?” mason asked, the alcohol in his system giving him much more of a confidence boost than in the hours prior, sliding into aaliyah’s spot beside you once she’d left for the dance floor. a blush crept onto your cheeks for the second time that evening, and christian laughed from the other end of the table, mumbling something about mason at least needing to buy you a drink before he made moves. mason flipped his friend off and turned back to face you, tapping your feet along to the beat as you sipped at your raspberry vodka lemonade — a drink you were renowned for drinking at tropicana beach.

“you know how that sounded, right?” you attempted to stifle a laugh but it was unsuccessful, and the brunette beside you buried his head in his hand in embarrassment. you placed a hand on his back to reassure him you didn’t mind the forward nature of his words, knowing it was only said with good intentions. “i’ve been single about six months, you?”

“almost eight,” he shrugged. “months, not years.”

the pair of you shared a chuckle, and silence fell among the pair of you as you looked out to the dance floor and watched the bodies twisting amongst one another to the r’n’b song the DJ had just started to play. it didn’t come as a shock to see ben and aaliyah in the corner with their lips locked, a familiar sight among the regulars they ventured out with. “why did you break up with him?” mason asked, lulling you out of your daydream. you chuckled, and mason found himself staring at your plump, glossy lips.

“for a reason i like to call the charles and diana effect,” you turned to face him, a soft smile on your face, but were met with confusion on his end. “we were together six years, but for the last four he was hooking up with his best friends girlfriend and ended up getting her pregnant. they’re together now, actually, baby and everything.”

“that must’ve been awful, i’m so sorry.” mason’s face dropped and he scooted closer, his leg brushing against yours as he fell infatuated by your words.

“it’s okay, i’d rather be shot of him anyway, turns out he wasn’t a very nice person.”

he had so many questions about the whole ordeal, he felt like it was straight out of an episode of love island, or one of those stupid, addictive television shows that have so much drama people feel enamoured to find out more, but then again, he felt enamoured by you before he knew about this story, it just added to his want to get to know you.

“what about you?”

“liv and i broke up because we didn’t see one another much, things just got too complicated and confusing with work. we’re still friends, and there’s no bad blood but there’s just no love there anymore,” he placed his empty glass down beside yours on the table and shifted slightly. “it’s uh, not as dramatic as your story, unfortunately.”

“oh god no, i prefer yours,” you admitted, and when you looked back up at him you found a schoolboy grin plastered on his face.

“what?”

he shrugged his shoulders and itched at the back of his neck, you could see the forms of a sentence on the tip of his tongue. his eyes scanned along the dance floor where most of the party was, dancing amongst one another in close proximity and drinking shots in rather elusive manners that had been bought by reuben. “mason, if you want me to dance with you all you’ve gotta do is ask,” you smirked, nudging him with your elbow. he laughed, and stood up, holding out his hand for you to take.

“care to dance?” he asked, his voice loud over the beat of the music. you smiled.

“i’d love to.”

#mason mount #mason mount imagine #mason mount fluff #mason mount blurb #mason mount smut #money mase #mason #mount #mm19 #football blurb #this chapter brought me so much joy #mason is such a shy boy i’m 🥺🥺🥺 #sorry it was so long #i hope you enjoyed besties <3 #❤ i love him ❤

[isimpoveryou]

hey, i loved your last cody fic! i was wondering if you could do another where they meet at the louis vuitton fashion week (or any other big event) and they hit it off. eventually getting into a relationship but they keep it a secret for like a year or two and it accidentally comes out to the public that they’re dating. fc; bella hadid or doja cat?

met gala

cody fern x reader

face claim: bella hadid

authors note: Can i just say how much i love this request. like you really put every thing in my head and made me write this while i was doing my school work. so im sorry if this is really short. also for reminder if you want me to do any of your request pls dont forget to add which face claim you want since some of you would forgot about it. im gonna stop here so enjoy todays update.

warning: english is my second language

tw: curse words lmaoo

request are open

liked by yourinstagram, cherry_y/n, and 12,628,808 others

y/n_updates so some of you had been asking abt what dress did y/n wear. so y/n l/n was wearing black moschino gown for this year met gala. look how gorgeous she looks 🤩🤩

view all 16,772 comments

y/nfan17 she can literally walk on me and i will still say thank you

y/nfan90 LITERALLY NAME ONE ICONIC PPL IN MET GALA THAT DRESS GOOD

codyfan78 cody fern

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y/nfan90 @codyfan78 beside him...all of us know how iconic he is

codyfan78 @y/nfan90 .....you have a point

yourinstagram 💖💖

liked by codyfern, codyfernc, and 12,709,889 others

codyfernupdates all of you had been dm-ing me abt cody's met gala outfit so cody was wearing maison margiela. ANYWAY- he rocks this look.

view all 16,679 comments

codyfan78 i swear sometime i question my sexuality bc of him

codyfan12 THIS LOOK IS MY FAV

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y/nfam90 dont mind me im just looking at him (respectfully)

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codyfan78 NO BUT DONT LIE Y/N AND CODY LOOKS SO HOT TOGETHER

y/nfan90 THEY CAN LITERALLY JUST SLAP ME AND IM THANKFUL.

codyfern 😉

liked by codyfern, emmaroberts, and 2,679,092 others

yourinstagram meet new best friend @codyfern

view all 15,098 comments

y/nfan12 OH MY GOD

codyfan89 two hottest ppl met.....im gonna question everything more

emmaroberts i introduce them together, say thank you emma

codyfern thank you emma 🙄

yourinstagram thank you emma 🙄

y/nfan90 THANK YOU EMMA

codyfan78 THANK YOU EMMA

liked by yourinstagram, yourbff, and 890,728 others

codyfern we are to hot for you to handle @yourinstagram

view all 8,728 others

codyfan12 *heavy breathing*

codyfan99 gotta go bi- i mean bye

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codyfern45 ^^*chokes*

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yourfriendsinstagram not you stealing my best friend 😃

codyfern @yourinstagram better make her my friend first before shes my gf then Mrs Fern

yourfriendsinstagram @codyfern you smooth son of bitch

yourinstagram @codyfern just ask me then 🙈

liked by codyfern, yourinstagram and 14,729,080 others

yourfriendsinstagram not the staranger to friends to lovers trope 😩😩😩 @codyfern @yourinstagram

view all 56,880 comments

y/nfan90 WHATTT

y/nfan90 @codyfan78 BESTIE LOOK BITCH

codyfan78 *chokes on water*

codyfan711 did you get their permission to post this??

yourfriendsinstagram GUYS stop asking me this and yes i did asked their permission

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y/nfan88 we have been exposed

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yourinstagram @codyfan12 I DID 💀 and i showed it to him

codyfern @yourinstagram its quite funny to be honest

liked by yourinstagram, taissafarmiga, and 999,909 others

codyfern i have such a gorgeous.......view

view all 19,790 comments

y/nfan90 HAHAHA CALLED IT

codyfan78 AAAAAAAAAAAAA *bi panic*

taissafarmiga fuck cody just date me instead

yourinstagram yeaaaa mrs y/n farmiga has a nice ring into it rather that mrs y/n fern

codyfern my day has come where y/n would leave me

codyfan19 name one iconic couple beside cody and y/n......cody and y/n

yourinstagram i also like my view......since there was a hot a girl behind you

codyfern i love you too 🙄

yourinstagram i love you more 😩🤩🤤💍😜💖

liked by codyfern, kendalljenner, and 12,809,780 others

yourinstagram "babe take a picture of me with this giant avocado* alright stupid 😜💖

view all 89,788 comments

y/nfan90 MY HEART CANT TAKE PLS SOMEONE CALL 991

yourinstagram *calling 991*

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#cody fern x reader #cody fern #cody fern imagine #fake instagram #social media au #instagram au #bella hadid #american horror story #michael landon #xavier plymptom

[sylvies-chen]

Chenford + Going to the grocery store/running mundane errands together

Lucy's used to getting groceries her own.

When she was in college, she did it on her own. When she lived with Jackson, she did the same. It's become second nature for her over the years-- and really, it's not such a bad thing. She doesn't mind being alone at times.

So when Tim offers to go grocery shopping with her, it surprises her.

They've only been living together for a month. Tim's big surprise for their one-year anniversary had been to take the plunge and ask her to move in. Lucy had happily accepted, the only condition, of course, being that they find a place of their own. Not Tim moving in with her and kicking Jackson, not her moving into Tim's place, but the two of them finding a place of their own to make proper memories. A proper life. Tim loved the idea which is why now, two months later, they've found the perfect place and just finished unpacking all of their things. The move had been pretty seamless, although she admits sometimes she misses Jackson (and Jackson misses her too based on the number of times he drops by their place). What she misses right now, however, is having a full fridge. They'd quickly realized that they'd forgotten to bring food items with the fridge. All they have now is boxed macaroni, canned tuna, and other non-perishables. Lucy had been prepared to go to the store herself, but Tim leapt up off the couch and offered to go with her as soon as she'd grabbed her keys to leave. He seemed almost... excited. The small, hopeful grin on his face when he'd asked to tag along was a grin she'd learned was only and specially reserved for her. It was enough to make this surprise a pleasant one, and the idea of him being there suddenly seemed not only nice but highly encouraged. Necessary.

They stroll around the aisles now, looking for fresh fruits and vegetables to put in their kart. "Do we need onions?"

"Sure," he replies to her casually, his eyes scanning the aisle on both sides for food. "We can cook them with some steaks or something for dinner tonight."

"Good thinking," she nods, clicking her tongue as she eyes the avocados. "But sometime once we get settled in and stock up on food, I'm going to make you my mom's famous Xiao long bao recipe. I know you're a creature of habit but I promise you'll like it!"

"Is there meat in it?"

"Yes," she assures him with an amused eyeroll. She's come to habituate herself with Tim's comedic level of disdain for LA's notorious-- as Tim puts it, "vegan epidemic". He's grilled and barbecued for her countless times because of it.

"Ok, then you have yourself a deal," he nods, proceeding to press a kiss to her cheek before they continue down the aisle. She smiles, victorious, and then starts feeling the ripeness of the avocados as Tim eyes the small packages on the stand next to them.

"Hey, how do you pronounce the name of these things again? Ah-kai?" He tries pronouncing it phonetically but completely butchers it. Lucy can't help but snort with laughter, watching Tim Bradford stumble over pronouncing the name off of a simple package of acai berries.

"Ah--sigh-eee," she corrects him while chuckling. "They're acai berries."

"Huh. And they're only... six bucks, jesus," he gawks, tossing them back on the shelf where he found them. "Why is a stupid berry so expensive?"

"It's like a super food or something. They're good for you," she explains. Her attention moves from the avocados back to Tim and the shelf of acai berries, grabbing a pack and tossing them in the kart. "Here, you can put them in your smoothies before you go running in the mornings."

He gives her a strange look, somewhere between surprise and affection. All Lucy can do is give a small shrug and ask what that look is about. "What?"

"Nothing," he dismisses, the same wide grin etched across his face as his eyes softly pierce into hers. "I just like this whole living together thing."

"Oh really? I figured you might be getting sick of me by now," she replies teasingly. "You know as well as I do that you hate change, Officer Bradford."

"I do not hate change," he mumbles in protest, completely unconvincing. "I just didn't have anyone worth changing for, that's all."

Ok, so that was pretty damn convincing. Lucy eyes him in awe, unsure of what to say. The implication that even after being married, after dating Rachel, after having countless other partners and years of experience and roadblocks before she and Tim had found each other, that she's the one he felt was worth growing for? That's something so wonderful it keeps her from finding proper words to say. "Really?"

"Really," he affirms. "I mean, why else did you think I asked to come shopping with you?"

"You wanted to see the discount on jumbo shrimp?" She guesses playfully.

He gives her a pointed look before lightly rolling his eyes. "Because I love you," he says simply. "And when you love someone, proximity is a good thing."

Lucy gives a sharp inhale. Of all of the various "I love you"s they've uttered to each other over the years-- screamed at each other passionately, whispered to each other in bed while tangled in sheets, casually reminded each other before hopping into separate patrol cars at work-- it's a phrase that still manages to catch Lucy by surprise. She smiles once she regains her composure though, pushing the kart away so she can close the space between them and wrap an arm around his shoulders to pull him in.

The kiss she gives him is quick but deep and firm, her lips capturing as much of his as they can before pulling away. "I love you too," she replies softly.

Shopping together isn't so bad, she learns after that. There's a lovable domesticity to it, a promise of a future together insinuated within the strands of this tiny activity. It's life they can build where, Lucy realizes, she'll never have to shop alone again unless she wants to. It's this life she's been looking for, for so long. And goddamn, if she doesn't love this life they've built together.

#abby writes #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #prompt requests #fanfic #fanfic prompts

[shyvioletcat]

Could we get a Rowans POV for that scene in chapter 14 where Aelin shows him her bump but they're interupted??

Very short insight to Rowan's reaction. Thanks for sending this in!

Here’s the link to the chapter

It Takes Two Masterlist

~~~~~

One thing lacking in the apartment was a dishwasher, meaning their dishes were washed by hand. The agreement before… everything, was you used it you washed it. But Rowan had taken up doing just about all of the dishes since his offer to help out. He didn’t mind that much really, he could see how much Aelin was struggling with the basic functionings of day to day life. A few extra plates and cups were nothing to him.

Rowan had just pulled off the rubber gloves and flicked a clean tea towel over his shoulder when he heard Aelin rush out from her room, saying his name a little breathlessly. He turned around to face her, his brain trying to figure out why she was so out of breath. Was something wrong? Did she need his help?

But all he saw was her standing there, wearing a dress that he noticed was unzipped up her side. There was a soft blush on her cheeks and there was a moment of hesitation where Rowan was about to ask what was wrong. But then she gave him a smile, there was something slightly nervous about it, but it lit up her face prettily all the same.

“I just…” she said, that smile inching wider, “I need to show someone.”

Rowan wasn’t following, so he just watched as she turned to the side then smoothed her hand over her stomach highlighting the small curve of her there. Something in his chest flipped at the sight of that little bump, a thrill of excitement and awe running through him. It was hard to believe what he was seeing. It was like he had felt when seeing that grey and blurry image at the hospital. More emotions passed through him now that he didn't really understand or was brave enough to acknowledge. Despite all his confusion, a small smile tugged at his lips.

“It’s really there,” Rowan said softly.

It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all he really could think of saying. Of course the baby was there. Aelin’s struggles were more than enough proof of it’s existence. Stupid answer or not, Aelin nodded with a renewed vibrancy about her he hadn’t seen in a while.

Neither of them said anything and the awkwardness was getting tangible when there was a knock on the door. Emrys must have arrived to pick Aelin up. Rowan was glad she was getting out of the apartment

“Can you get that?” Aelin asked. “I have to find something else to wear.”

She was gone before Rowan could answer, so he just dropped the tea towel onto the counter and did as she asked.

~~~~~

Tags:

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#I think this makes sense? #fingers crossed

[infernwetrust]

In His Office [Michael Langdon x Fem Reader]

Summary: A recent change in your shift allows for you to have lunch with Michael at his brand new dealership.

Warnings: SMUT, SMUT, SMUT. Swearing. I think that’s about it.

WC: 2.5k

A/N: This idea came to me recently today lol. We all know Michael Langdon isn’t a stranger to a little office sex. I imagined this one with F&R Michael. Thank you for reading! -Juno

Michael walked around his dealership, hands clasped behind his back as he silently studied his employees at work. Not wanting Michael to always stress over his job as the anti-Christ, you convinced him to pursue something else that he was interested in. Why not start a business, he had thought. He decided that he would own a decent sized car lot, divided into 3 sections; luxury, middle-class, and pre-owned vehicles. The business took off well as he constantly won awards throughout the year whether it be for most sales or outstanding customer service.

He could feel the eyes burning into him as he walked passed, from employees and customers alike. He knew he was attractive. He knew that some of his workers wanted to screw him, but he paid their nasty thoughts no mind. He dressed in all black as usual. A black button up shirt that hugged his figure perfectly, tight black jeans, sporting the Michael Kors belt you had gotten him for his birthday, and his favorite pair of black dress shoes to go with it. He never went anywhere without wearing the platinum chain, which proudly displayed his last name, around his neck. That was also a gift from you.

His hands shifted behind his back and his thumb brushed against his wedding band, causing him smile a little bit as he finished walking the floor, returning to his office and taking a seat at his desk. He looked down at the wedding band, reminding himself of the passionate encounter that the two of you had shared a few nights ago.

"Michael..." you whispered against his lips as he lay comfortably between your legs.

"Hmm, my love?" he questioned, his blue eyes meeting yours, his lips not moving an inch away from yours.

"I want you to wear your ring while you make love to me. I want to see it. I want to be reminded of your commitment to me." He smiled against your lips because funny enough, it was something he always thought of too. Normally he would take it off to avoid it flying off his finger due to any sudden hand movements while the two of you got lost in each other.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

"I have your weekly sales report, Mr. Langdon." his lovely Ms. Mead said, walking into his office and gently placing the folder on his desk. He smiled warmly at her, taking a bite of his now cold bagel before moving the folder closer to him. It was only right that he made her head of the financials. She was so good with numbers and always had Michael's files correctly placed together.

"Now you know you don't have to call me that." he said to her. "Michael, Mike, even son, works just fine for me."

"I know." she said. "But we're in your place of business, my dear. I will always address you with respect."

"You're too good to me, you know that?" All she could do was smile. "Took care of me when no one else would, never left my side, always provided for me. I won't ever be able to thank you enough." She was going to say something else when Michael's front desk receptionist walked into his office, his shirt drenched in coffee.

"Jeremy what the fuck happened to you?"Michael questioned, furrowing his eyebrows as one of his first impression's of his establishment was now completely a mess. "You can't fucking greet people like that. What type of business do you think I'm running here?"

"There's a woman, in the lobby." he began, out of breath. "She keeps demanding that I direct you to her office and that she's your wife. I think she's crazy, but I tried letting her know that you're a very busy man and that she'd have to call in advance to meet with you, but she wouldn't take no for an answer." A smile crept its way across Michael's face as he snapped his fingers, restoring Jeremy's outfit back to its original state. Yup. That was you.

"Yeah, that sounds like my wife." Michael said, grinning alongside Ms. Mead. "Perhaps you should of listened to her the first time."

"But sir, I was just trying to-,"

"Ah ah. I've heard enough. Walk her back here and make sure you get nothing else thrown on you for the rest of the day or your fired. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir." Jeremy said lowly, turning to exit Michael's office and get you.

"These fucking new hires, huh?" Michael questioned, looking at Ms. Mead.

"You let Jeff and Mutt do the hiring when you really should pass that job along to Gallant. He would make sure the right people were working here."

"That he would. That he would..." Michael agreed, rubbing underneath his chin. And then you walked into the room. With a recent shift change, you now got off at 2PM, which means you were able to meet Michael for his lunches that he took at 2:30. He stared at you, smiling devilishly, running his fingers across his bottom lip.

"You're lucky I don't fire you my fucking self." you said to Jeremy as he escorted you in.

"My apologies, Mrs. Langdon." he said, with his head low.

"Yeah, whatever. You can get out now." He wasted no time, quickly leaving the room, accidentally bumping into the side of the door, causing the 3 of you to giggle. "Ugh, Michael, don't tell me you're still chewing on that bagel I sent you to work with." You walked over to his desk, engulfing Ms. Mead into a tight hug, which she gladly returned before planting a kiss on your cheek.

"I'll leave you two, to it." she said, giving Michael a nod before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her.

"Why so bossy today?" Michael questioned, sitting up in his chair and resting his hands on his desk, admiring your unique figure.

"Between work today and your stupid front desk agent, I'm just ready to eat lunch with you and for you to come home."

"It was that bad today?"

"If I could throw my computer out of the window with no consequences, I would." Michael chuckled, grabbing his bag of Panera Bread. You knew his favorite. Turkey Bacon Bravo, with avocado, extra, extra, avocado. Cheddar Broccoli soup and a Coke.

"You and me both, my Queen." Michael grabbed a remote, the one that control the shades in his office. He lowered them, half way, just so that no one walking by would be able to peak in at the two of you. "Staying with me until I get off at 5 or do you just want to take my car and go home and then come back for me?”

"You know I am. I've missed you terribly today."

"Is that why my front desk boy ended up covered in coffee?" The two of you looked at each other with a grin. "A temper just like mine. Mrs. Langdon, I love it, just as much as I love you."

"I love you too." you responded. "My temper is how I keep things in order."

"Mmmm." Michael hummed. "Tell me about it."

After lunch, Michael returned to his duties, going over his sales reports, moving things where they needed to go, and sending out emails and reminders. You loved watching him work. You loved how fast his fingers moved a crossed the keys and how his gaze never broke away from the task at hand. You were mainly focused on his outfit choice for today. You had no idea he would be leaving the house in an outfit that pointed out ALL of his features. Though he was soft, you could still see the full outline of his length through his jeans when he sat down. His chest, outlined against his shirt perfectly, you could just make out his nipples. The size of Michael's thighs drove you insane, that you couldn't help but come over in the chair you were sitting in and start rubbing them.

His focus still didn't break and while you knew he preferred to stay focused on his work, today it didn't seem like he cared. He allowed you to rub his thigh, his breathing slightly increasing as he typed up a inventory report. When he paused for a moment, wanting to crack his knuckles, you took the opportunity to spin his chair around so that it was facing you. The both of you immediately made eye contact, but no words were spoken. You could read his face and he could read yours. You were both on on the same page. He grabbed another remote, this time the stereo remote, turning it on, leaving the music at a reasonable volume.

Your hands were already fumbling with his belt as you got it unclasped. You quickly unbuttoned his jeans, Michael kicking off his shoes and moving them to the side. You pulled them down, bringing his boxers down with his, revealing his semi-hard cock. And all you did was touch him. You knew how much Michael craved you, both intimately and non-intimately. He was weak underneath your touch most of the time. You got on your knees in front of him, hands on his thighs as you slowly took him into your mouth. He let out a Godly sigh, leaning his head back as you got to work on him.

"Ssssh." you said, popping him out of your mouth. "It seems to be a busy day for you. You don't want your customers to know what's going on behind your office doors do you?"

"And what if I do?" Michael questioned, his cock twitching from missing your mouth.

"Well let's pretend you don't. No noises. Can you do that for me, daddy?" Michael's jaw clenched at the name and he bit his lip slightly. Silent Michael was sight to see. While extremely audible Michael was one of your favorites, nothing beat looking up at him and watching as he expressed his pleasure with his face and body.

You took him back into your mouth, slowly bobbing your head up and down on his length. Michael's jaw dropped. He desperately wanted to moan. He wanted you to know how good you were making him feel, but he kept it quiet. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, never taking his eyes off you. He didn't bother to take it off, his chest and torso for the most part exposed, his chain landing perfectly in the middle of chest. You licked up and down the sides of his shaft, using your hand to stroke circles around his spit glazed tip. The sound of the wetness drove the both of you crazy. Your own arousal soaked through your panties.

Putting him back in your mouth, you sucked on just his tip, using both of your hands to stroke the rest of his length. Looking up at him, he looked so beautiful. He was breathing heavily as he peered back down at you, running his hand through his hair, his hips starting to thrust upwards in your hand to try and match your pace. His foot found its way between your legs and using his big toe, he slowly rubbed it across your clit, causing you to moan lowly around him, the vibrations ripping through him.

You were sucking faster now, moving your hands faster. He gripped both sides of his office chair, before deciding to let them go, wanting his hands wrapped up in your hair instead. You moved your hands, knowing what he was wanting to do. Welcoming it. And you loved watching him do it too. His thrusts in your mouth started off slow and gently, before they became rough and fast. You looked up at Michael again, who was now breathing so rapidly you thought that maybe he could be hyperventilating. You could see him mouthing the word fuck over and over and over.

He stood up abruptly, pulling you up with him before smashing his lips onto yours, immediately sliding his tongue into your mouth, the two of you fighting for dominance. He was quick to rid you of your clothes before pulling his shirt all the way off. With a quick wave of his hand, everything that was now on his desk, was on his office sofa, neatly stacked so that he could return to it lately. He picked you up, setting you down on his desk.

"Now can you do the same for me?" he asked, quickly sliding into you, catching you off guard. Sensing your impending loud moan he quickly put a hand over your mouth. "No noises yes? Or I'll stop and we'll have to finish this at home." You nodded against his hand and he slowly moved in and out of you at a rhythmic pace. You pulled him by the back of his neck, closer to you, putting your lips directly against his ear. His hands roamed all over you, squeezing your breasts, playing with your nipples as he gradually increased the pace at which he fucked you. Your hands travelled up and down his back when suddenly he grabbed them, pinning them above your head.

You swore the desk was inching farther and farther away from the area it resided in as he now pounded into you relentlessly and you could help but let out a cry of pleasure, or at least you tried to, but Michael knew you all to well. He used his powers to keep you quiet, your mouth wanting to make noise, but nothing but breaths and pants coming out.

"Poor, girl." Michael said between breaths. "Dishing out challenges you can't even do yourself. Now look, I have to use my powers to keep your mouth shut. Pathetic. You enjoy being my little office toy?" You nodded vigorously. Not only had your shift change allowed you to have lunch with Michael, but it was just the fact that you were now able to spend the rest of his work filled day with him, sex or no sex.

"That's what I thought." he continued, his pounding becoming sloppier and sloppier as he neared his climax, you not following too far behind. When he let your hands go, they immediately found their way to his hair, giving it a sharp tug to which he inhaled sharply to stop himself from cursing. You grabbed him by his throat, pulling him back down towards you as you neared your orgasm, foreheads pressed against each other with nothing but pure love and lust in the both of your eyes.

You let go first, squirming violently against Michael, who sloppily kissed you following his own release shortly after, breathing and panting loudly in each other's mouths. You both rode out your orgasms until the pleasure was completely gone.

"This shift change is going to be so much fun." Michael said as he rested his face in your neck.

"So much fun, Mr. Langdon. So much fun." you said back.

Taglist: @jimmason @angelicmichael @whatcodysaid @theneverendinghunger

#cody fern #american horror story #cody fern imagine #ahs #ahs apocalypse #michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon smut #michael langdon x reader

[gamer-logic]

Since my state, Georgia, is having the annual Peaches to Beaches event which is two days of statewide yard sales, I thought it would be interesting to show how America, the states, and any other countries wanting to participate both 1p and 2p would be during this event. So here you go!

Georgia is happily selling fresh produce like boiled peanuts and Vidalia onions and peach-based deserts. Her homemade peach cobbler and ice cream are to die for!

Antonio (Spain) also sells many fresh tomatoes, olives, and other vegetables. He doesn't understand why no one wants his Olive Juice though.

Hawaii and Alaska make a killing selling lemonade at their stand with a free complimentary handmade flower crown with every purchase. While using their sheer cuteness to attract everyone including one of those sweet biker gangs. It's really surreal to see a huge gang of buff, tattooed, tough-looking guys in leather wearing flower crowns and drinking lemonade. Allen's also there to supervise and ward of creep. Also, to provide people more 'incentive' to buy their lemonade.

Texas breaks out the Texas BBQ and is in a Barbecuing turf war with Jett (Australia). They draw huge crowds for the five-alarm chili as well and hold a competition who can eat the most without burning out their tongues and/or passing out.

Florida sells some of the weirdest stuff you'll ever see. "Want a full-scale model of a gator made entirely out of bottle caps? Only ten bucks! Want a portrait of Florida Man painted with orange juice? 15 bucks!"

Nevada also tries to sell weird and sketchy stuff to scam everyone. "This piece is the genuine article folks! One napkin gently used by Elvis Presley himself! Just 500 bucks! Also, gets into a haggling war with Lars (Netherlands). Somewhere Alfred's dad instincts go off and he reminds himself to ground Nevada.

California, Oregon, and Washington collaborate and California sells anything vegan or made with avocadoes and the autographs of Hollywood stars, Oregon sells his old tye-dyed shirts and records, they also made him sell his old groovy hippy bus from the sixties he'd never got rid of no one knew they had. Oregon can be a bit of a hoarder, so they had to tie him to a chair and gag him because he wouldn't surrender the bus without a fight. Washington also tries to sell and drink cups of coffee, but in the hot Southern heat, this doesn't end well.

Louisiana sells anything Cajun-style from frog legs to fresh gumbo, to beignets. Also has a full collection of Mardi Gras masks and shrunken voodoo heads on sale for two bucks a pop.

Gilbert (Prussia) gets tricked by Nevada and gets a ton of stupid things he doesn't need. Ludwig (Germany) tries unsuccessfully to keep him on a metaphorical leash.

Ludwig always checks the quality of things he sees and buys dog toys and supplies for Blackie, Berlitz, and Astor. Later, he actually buys a kiddie leash for Gilbert.

All the while Lutz (2p! Germany) is asleep in a lawn chair with his hat on his face after drinking like six cold beers from this really good booth. All the while, Klaus (2p! Prussia) finds an antique Teutonic Knights flag from a vendor whose family was from Germany.

Vash (Switzerland) buys antique guns from Alabama and Roderich (Austria) also checks out some of Tennessee's guitars. He's horrified upon seeing Alabama's banjo and washboard.

Mathew (Canada) and Emma (Belgium) combine their powers and tag team to sell the best pancakes and waffles on earth with genuine Canadian maple syrup.

New York sells tons of baseball memorabilia and collectibles. Allen, trying to save his bad-boy image, tries to be discreet when buying some while taking Hawaii and Alaska around to get something with their lemonade money. James also gets some hockey memorabilia with Michigan and Minnesota who also got snow cones.

Alaska and Hawaii see a giant deluxe dollhouse but are almost in tears when they don't have enough money. But they end up getting it for free because no one can resist their weaponized puppy dog eyes. Also, no one can resist a growling Allen. Using the leftover money, they buy cute little rainbow umbrella hats for everyone and have Allen wear one who begrudgingly accepts it.

James, walking by with an armful hockey gear and flannel shirts, bursts out laughing when he sees this. In revenge, Allen forces him to wear one too and help him carry the dollhouse, much to Hawaii and Alaska's delight! "I said go my way puck head!" "No, it's my way, you vegan loving hoser!" A passing Francis (France)' is in stylish horror when they also make him and a nonchalant Luis (2p! France), holding a case of vintage wines, wear them too. Hawaii and Alaska go around giving umbrella hats to everyone including a sleeping Lutz they pass by.

Loving (Romano) practically has to supervise Feliciano (Italy) and keep him from buying anything too stupid on impulse or get scammed. They still end up with stacks upon stacks of cookbooks, kitchen wear, and a Mona Lisa made entirely out of Macaroni. They also get umbrella hats.

Flavio (2p! Romano) browses through clothing racks to get ideas for his vintage line. Also checks out the handmade fabrics like quilts. "Such craftsmanship! This pattern is so unique and chic! I simply must have it! What's your price Bella?" The nice old woman selling the quilt just smiles, "Oh just about five dollars young man." "Perfect!" Flavio hands the quilts off to Andreas (2p! Spain) who's practically buried underneath the fabric. Luciano (2p! Italy) facepalms while holding a new knife set in its case. "Oooh! Look at those adorable hats I just have to have one." Cue three more umbrella hats and a humiliated Luciano. "Just kill me now..."

Katyusha (Ukraine), Elizaveta (Hungary), Lillie (Liechtenstein), Natalya, (Belarus), Katya( 2p! Ukraine) and Anastasia (2p! Belarus), and Michelle (Seychelles) explore with armfuls of clothes, new ribbons, and a gun case for Switzerland (Lillie), cast iron frying pans (Elizaveta, watch out Prussia!), farm tools (Katyusha), Jewelry and unmentionables (Katya), dresses (Anastasia), an assortment of switchblades (Natalya), and one of those singing fish on a plague (Michelle). It's definitely an interesting group.

Kiku (Japan) and Kuro (2p! Japan) find a nerd booth selling comics, manga, and Japanese weapons like katanas. Kuro test swings a blade and tries to slice the table so hard it breaks the blade, "Hmmm, not sharp enough for me, got anything else?" He throws it on the pile of broken blades he's already tested. Kiku stockpiles on limited-edition manga and he and the vendor end up getting into a huge, heated by Kiku standards, debate on who's waifu is best. Further down, Alfred reads every Marvel/DC comic while keeping an ear out on every state's location. He checks on Texas via his glasses and notices he's beating Australia in the chili contest. "That's my boy!"

Wisconsin wearing a cheese head sells anything cheese-based. He's got cheddar, goat cheese, string cheese, cheese spray, gorgonzola, grilled cheese, cheese curds, Mac n' Cheese, cheese sculptures of all world monuments, you name it he's got it! He also starts a war with Iowa's corn dishes and Idaho's potato dishes. They eventually end up flinging cheese, potatoes, and corn after they start dissing each other's foods. "Take this cheese brain!" "Nice aim, I-da-ho!" "I told you not to call me that!" "I'm gonna go children of the corn on y'all's behinds!" Poor Nebraska is stuck in the middle.

Alfred (America) hears the commotion and using his parent radar, immediately knows who it is and reminds himself to ground Iowa, Wisconsin, and Idaho later along with Nevada who, though still grounded for sure, makes him feel a little proud of since he managed to out haggle Netherlands.

New Mexico and Arizona also sell Native American handicrafts along with things like dreamcatchers and giant inflatable aliens. While Delaware, being the boring stick in the mud that he is, walks by with a framed and complete U.S. quarter collection from a vendor.

Kansas sells out of every sunflower she had courtesy of Ivan (Russia). Ivan and her the team up to buy out every sunflower seed from here to kingdom come. Viktor (2p! Russia) buys all the vodka he can find and a new shovel while Xiao (2p! China) tries giving people tattoos for 10 bucks a pop.

He tries to convince Yao (China) to get a hello kitty one to match the giant plushie he's holding, with the encouragement of Leon (Hong Kong) and Yong Soo (South Korea) who all collectively agree he needs to quit being such a grandpa. They also like calling him an antique-like the items on sale. " Aiyah! I'm not that old, aru!" "Yeah, you are Sensei." "Don't deny it! Da Ze!" Respect your elders!" "Tattoos originated in Korea da ze!" He totally is that old.

Oliver (2p! England) holds a bake sale and has people lined up for blocks to get some. Arthur (England), after having his scones shut down after it poisoned some unlucky squirrels, fries selling authentic magical items like unicorn hair or pixie dust. Everyone thinks he's a little crazy but he did sell a good bit of old magic books he needed to get out of his house, after making sure no one could actually use them of course.

The Nordics also went perusing for antique and handmade furniture when Mathias (Denmark) spots two full sets of Viking costumes and tries to get Lukas (Norway) to try them on with him. Lukas wasn't amused.

Berwald (Sweden) and Tino (Finland) also find a great handmade table to get after inspecting the workmanship and a full Lego set for Peter (Sealand), now if only Mathias would stop squealing like a little kid at the full piece lego death star. Emil (Iceland) keeps thinking he's the mature one until he spots a mini top hat and cane for Mr. Puffin.

In the end, everyone ends up wearing umbrella hats courtesy of Hawaii and Alaska, loving all the strange things they bought or counting the profits they made. Alfred (America) is proud of his kids and visits everyone one of their stands. He ends up looking pretty funny with an umbrella hat (HW, AK), a washboard, (AL),a picture of Florida Man, (FL), a balloon alien (NM, AZ), a tye dye shirt (CA, WA, OR), hockey stick shaped glasses (MN, MI), a giant stack of comics with a replica Thor hammer and Captain America shield on his back, all in a shopping cart (NV), and a giant turkey leg in his hand (Tx). Unsurprisingly, it was a tie between Oliver, Texas, and Australia for who earned the most with their food. Georgia just smiled as this was another great year for her state and people!

#Hetalia #2p hetalia #hetalia headcannons #hetalia states #hws states #aph america #aph england #aph france #aph italy #aph russia #aph nordics #aph prussia #aph switzerland #aph romano #aph germany #aph liechtenstein #aph austria #aph nethlands #aph canada #aph china #aph japan #aph south korea #aph ukraine #aph belarus #aph hungary #aph australia #aph belgium #aph hong kong #aph spain #aph georgia

[hyeliq]

#eunjing

INTRODUCTION ::

# hello, i am nct dream’s beauty & soul, eunjing !

KOREAN NAME ::

# lee eunjing

BIRTH NAME ::

# lee jingyi

NICKNAMES ::

# yiye

# eunnie

# leeun; combination of her last name + korean name

# puppy; clingy toward others, her friends gave her this name since she was in middle school.

STAGE NAME ::

# eunjing

BIRTH DATE ::

# february 01, 1999

AGE ::

# 21 ( kor. ) + 20 ( int. )

ZODIAC SIGN ::

# aquarius

BIRTH PLACE ::

# beijing , china

NATIONALITY ::

# chinese

ETHNICITY ::

# chinese

HEIGHT ::

# 161 cm

WEIGHT ::

# 46 kg

FAMILY ::

# mother | hui fen

# father | lee chang

# brother | hui bai

# brother | lee jian

#brother | lee han

# sister | wang mei

BACKGROUND ::

# eunjing was born in beijing , china as the youngest & final last child of her family. her father was a welder while her mom was a college professor. when eunjing was six, her father got a better job in Korean, so they packed everything up and moved there. when she was 9, her parents got a divorce and her father moved away. her mother decided to stay in Korea and become a professor there, until 3 months later eunjing got really sick. she was told she had a weak immune system and couldn’t fight out diseases that well. while she was in the hospital, she started getting into music. she also became a fan of wsjn and wanted to be an idol as well. her father committed suicide when she still in the hospital. when she was 11, after she got well & received medicine, her mom enrolled her in piano lessons. once she got turned 14, she started singing as well. after seeing AOA live, eunjing decided she wanted to become an idol. she auditioned for a lot of companies, and was accepted into sm & jellyfish. she trained in sm for two years, before leaving. and jellyfish for a year, she then left and joined co-company rei & hybe.

PERSONALITY ::

# childish

in the friend group eunjing could be described as one of the mood maker of the group

# optimism

eunjing likes to keep a positive mindset and is best at encouraging his friends.

# impulsive

eunjing was never the one to think through her decisions, she would just run straight towards them. whenever she wants to do something, she does it, even at the expense of others. usually her members have to hold her back from doing something stupid.

# flirty

eunjing loves to remind the people she’s close to how much she loves and cares for them, and how they’re appreciated. most of the time, they just brush it off, but she knows they secretly like it.

# emotional

no matter how old she is, eunjing never fails to get emotional over anything. when she was younger, she used to hate getting yelled at. she would start sobbing and her parents would have to yell at her more. now that she’s older, she overthinks things, and gets emotional. it doesn’t take much for her to start crying.

LIKES ::

# bread  

# her members

# cats

# strawberry milk

# spring

# playing the piano

# her family

# writing

DISLIKES ::

# coffee  

# frogs

# cherries

# birds

# bad weather

# the dark

# bees

# liars

# avocados

TRIVIA ::

# she has one tattoo; on her finger it’s a heart

# she is one of the most flexible members

# eunjing is still sadden at her father’s death

# loves to post on the group’s accounts

# she can play softball

# she doesn’t necessarily like sweets, but it’s fans gift them; then she will eat them.

# her role model is taeyeon & ariana grande

# she wants to start a mukbang (eating) channel

# eunjing’s self motto is “if you want the beautiful rainbow, you gotta put up with the sad rain.”

HOBBIES ::

# playing games

# writing

# eating

HABITS ::

# holding another member’s hand when she’s nervous

# winking when she makes eye contact

# sleeping in a balled position

LANGUAGES ::

# chinese | 100% korean | 88%

POSITIONS ::

# main rapper

# lead dancer

# sub vocals

# maknae

SKILL SET :: 49/60

# vocals 7.5/10

# rap 9.2/10

# dance 8.4/10

# charisma 7.8/10

# stage presence 9.0/10

# song writing 7.1/10

FACE CLAIM ::

fromis9’s nakyung

BACKUP FACE CLAIM ::

hae yoon + cherry bullet

IDOL FRIENDS ::

# yoa + ohmygirl

# taehyun + txt

# jungkook & jimin + bts

# joy + rv

FANDOM NAME IDEAS ::

# pretty jiji

MESSAGE TO THE MEMBERS ::

# hi ! please take care of yourselves & remember to take breaks ! I’ll cook something good for you !

MESSAGE TO FANS ::

# thank you for supporting us & me ! I wish you all good health & keep supporting us !

#reiivere #fake kpop idol #kpop oc #kpop oc company #kpop oc idol #idol oc #oc kpop #kpop oc girls #reiivere gg #fake kpop company #fake kpop group #seventeen addition #seventeen female addition #female addition #leeeunjing

[passivenovember]

@coffeeandchemicals (aka the sweetest angel bb) asked:  For the drabbles, 55 or 60 or 72 with harringrove! Please and thank you!! 💙

55. “Our first date is a picnic. On a beach..under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?

Paper Angels.

The things is. Steve’s always had a sixth sense when it comes to falling in love. Can smell that shit from a mile away, the reeking infatuation that turns his already liquified brain into something like sludge. Mashed potatoes with too much milk, or something. 

And it used to be that Robin would point it out in that usual way of hers, before Steve became a pro at monitoring his own downfall. Pick your tongue up off the floor, dingus. 

And it used to be that Steve would take it like. A basketball to the back of the head, the realization that he was bleeding out in an open field for fucking whoever. Nancy Wheeler or Mark Lewinski or Brittani Clark. Robin could always sense it when Steve’s feelings started leaking out of his ears, but.

Billy Hargrove was something else entirely.

Neither of them saw it coming. The pushes and snarky comments that morphed into butterflies and concealed smiles under the light of the full moon, it was like.

Crossing a deserted road only to be fuckin’. T-boned by a cyclist who doesn’t have their lights on, or something. 

One day they were enemies. Avoiding each other like the plague--Billy actually gagged when Steve passed by him at parties. Called him Steve “Sloppy Seconds” Harrington, and. Yeah. The feeling was fuckin’ mutual, alright?

Because Hargrove always wore too much cologne and Steve had the sneaking suspicion, after that night at the Byers’ when contact sports took on a whole new meaning with the sound of ceramic against his skull, that Billy perfumed his dick.

Sometimes guys did that, he’d heard. And if Steve had to bet, like, cold hard cash on it, Billy Hargrove was definitely one of those guys. And not that Steve really. Thought about it much or anything but kissing Billy was probably like licking the inside of an ash tray. 

Just the thought of made him gag.

So, yeah. The feeling was mutual. The queasiness in Steve’s tummy was, like, disgust or something. Every time he saw that curly top above a sea of drunk high schoolers, he would start sweating a shit.

Bullets. Like he was going to face the electric chair, and. Steve had never thought for even a second that that feeling was mutual. 

That Billy would be anxious to see him. Would escape the moment he heard Steve rounding the corner into whatever lame party was on the ducat this week, so. When they eventually became friends. Best Friends, close as a couple of girls, it felt like Steve had solved the most difficult puzzle in the universe. 

They were shitfaced. Drunk enough to forget ceramic plates and nervous feelings, and Billy had tried to high-five him. Steve, on his way out for a smoke. Passed by with a little, well if it isn’t the leftover turkey, and. It would’ve been cool, but. They missed. 

By a lot. Two guys who never sat on the bench during a game, they. Fuckin’ couldn’t land a high five from less than a foot away and that was it. Billy’s walls crumbled around them like so much graham cracker dust, and. 

His eyes were pretty. Had they always been that pretty? Steve couldn’t remember but then Billy was leaning in, cheeks pink from laughter and whispering, You ain’t half bad, Harrington, into the shell of Steve’s ear. 

Like it was a secret only the two of them could remedy, and. Billy pulled away. Winked, waggled his stupid, ridiculous tongue, and. When he passed by he smelled like summer rain. Black pepper and grapefruit.

Steve closed his eyes and felt the love leaking from his ears.

Shit.

--

After that it was like surviving a forest fire. Billy would show up at Steve’s just before midnight with a six pack of Budweiser and a half smoked joint. On bad day’s he acted like coming to Steve’s house was a chore, like. Steve was holding him at gunpoint, preaching about commitments like Steve had even asked for his company in the first place, and.

On those nights it almost wasn’t worth it. The feeling of being close to Billy, it was. Hard to talk to him. 

And it wasn’t like falling slowly. Through syrup or stacks of blankets, like his usual style, it was like. 

Getting in the car and driving way, into the night, with no map and no funds and no clue of what the end would look like. Steve fell hard and fast and slammed into the ground until he was one with the molten earth, on the good nights, too. When Billy grinned and cracked jokes and fuckin’. Winked. 

So. The good outweighed the bad. For months, for millennia, it seemed. Until Steve couldn’t remember a time when midnight didn’t signal the arrival of love. And he would take it, anything, everything, for just a peak at the person he knew was hidden under all that hairspray and chiseled skin, so.

When Billy showed up one night with his car packed full of shit, Steve grabbed his coat without a word.

What are you doin’, Harrington.

I’m coming with you.

No you aren’t, that’s not. Look. I just came to say goodbye, so.

Not that easy to get rid of. 

Billy tried to fight him, tried to. Hold him off, or something. Like any force in the fucking universe would be strong enough to keep them apart. 

Steve made a face.

And Billy knew what that face meant so he cleaned out the passenger side of the Camaro. Stupid shit like lamps and folded quilts, shuffling it all to the back seat where there was clearly enough space. 

It was almost like. He had known what Steve would do. 

It was like he’d been preparing to say no, baby. I don’t have enough room, see? I’m saddled with more than I can take already, and I just--

Almost like he was hoping Steve would insist, anyway, and.

“Go pack a bag, pretty boy.”

Steve would follow him anywhere.

--

Billy came alive in California. The bad nights stopped existing out in the open air, they hid instead. Under the blanket of nightfall, under the sling of Steve’s arm. They paid extra for a two bedroom apartment on the beach, because.

I’m not expecting you to. Sleep in my bed, Steve.

Right. They were still pretending. 

The second bedroom sat collecting dust. Steve emptied his trash bag of essentials into the dresser in Billy’s room, because. The love was constantly ruining his shirts, these days. 

Steve bled blue and gold. Blatantly. Because he never felt it before, this. Feeling. Like the sand is being washed from his skin. Like he’s curling up in bed after a long day of hard work.

Billy makes him feel that way, so.

Steve can’t hide it. And he doesn’t try to. Not when they watch cartoons together on the couch, not when Billy sucks a hole into his neck under their blanket in their bed and asks, we goin’ steady? Like it’s even a fucking question, or something, but.

Steve realizes they went backwards. Won the game before actually learning the rules. 

Do you wanna go on a date with me? He asks one morning. It’s raining, so Billy isn’t surfing and Steve isn’t sketching out on the porch, and. 

It seems as good a time as any.

Billy has milk running down his chin when he looks up, eyes so blue and wide like he never expected it to fucking happen. Isn’t this a date?

What?

Right now, Billy says through a mouthful of Lucky Charms. We’re eating. Alone. Making eyes at each other over our meal--

Steve snorts. This isn’t a date.

And Billy’s face, fucking. Falls. He rinses his plate in the sink and kinda, doesn’t turn back around. Steve doesn’t know how he fucked it up already. 

Bills?

What’s a date look like then? And that. Makes Steve laugh. 

You’ve been on, like. So many dates, baby. 

Not with you. Billy says flatly. When he turns around again his cheeks are pink. Not from laughter, but. From something else. I never went on any dates with you, so. How would I identify one in a crowd.

And Steve knows. Instantly, knows he’s not going to get out of this one. 

Perfect first date shit, alright, I can. I can do that.  He leans back in the hideous avocado green chair Billy picked out and. Sucks on his bottom lip. We have the day free. Because, um. It’s the off season. Right after labor day and, uh. The shop’s getting ready to shift into winter. 

Billy grins. So in your perfect scenario we’re broke?

Listen, asshole wouldja just--

Alright, baby. Billy sits in the chair across from him and looks, fucking. So pretty in Avocado Green. I’m listening. 

So Steve tells him. Their perfect date begins and ends with ease, it’s as simple as breathing. The way it’s always been for them. Natural. Steve packs a basket with a goddamn. Charcuterie board and like, fresh fruit and shit. The sun sets and Steve gets down on one knee and--

Our first date is a picnic. On a beach..under the stars? Billy doesn’t look even a little bit like laughing, not. Not when his nose goes all bunchy. Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?

Steve isn’t really in the mood for jokes. 

He covers his face with his hands, because. They went backwards. Never even put labels on it, or second guessed anything because Steve won the lottery. That night when the high fives went up in smoke, he. 

Got everything he ever wanted.

Billy tugs at his wrists. Yanks and soothes and rearranges Steve’s skin until they’re chest to chest against avocado green. His eyes are teary. Fuck.

I didn’t mean to make you cry, baby. Steve says. ‘S a bad idea anyhow, too much pressure. You mean a lot and I fuckin’. Made you cry. Tears were never a part of the deal.

Billy lets Steve wipe his cheeks and then he’s smiling. 

Not grinning or smirking or teasing, but. Happy. We could make this a date.

Steve shrugs. Yeah, I guess we could.

Pack some sandwiches, sit on the patio. Billy winks. Just like all those nights when neither boy could give their emotions a name. Take away some of the pressure. 

I kinda dig the pressure, though.

Were you really gonna get down on one knee? Billy whispers. At the end of our first date? You know the statistics on divorce are--

Against his will, Steve’s chucking. 

And on the first date? Billy tuts, cheeks pink again. You know I don’t put out for any ol’ pair of brown eyes, Harrington. I wait until at least the fourth date.

It’s been five years. 

So marry me. Billy says. On Tuesday or something, we can. Go to the beach or whatever. Elope. 

And. 

Just like that night. With the Camaro stuffed to the brim, and Billy gripping his fingers like a lifeline in a storm, Steve has no choice. He never did, because. Yeah.

He kisses Billy, each cheek, both eyelids, before carrying him to their bedroom and wonders. If they’ll ever start at the beginning.

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #again #this ran away with me #I hope it reads alright #domestic fluff #california #running away together #first dates

[anxiousstark]

S1 02.2 | Heart Monitor

MASTERLIST

Stiles Stilinski x Reader! Half-sibling!Mccall

Word count: 1350

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, blood, swearing (always).

A/N: This chapter is kind of short and doesn’t have too much excitment. But this is a slow-burn story, and it will slowly lead to Y/N’s life and what is happening to her. Next week I will do a DOUBLE UPDATE!

"Do you have your keys?" Stiles asked Scott. It seemed like he had a plan to help him repress his anger. I simply followed them,+ because Stiles claimed that I was going to assist them. "Perfect. Hold 'em up like so. Now, whatever happens, just think about Allison." He glanced at me. "Oh, between, Allison is your bro-...Scott's girlfriend." He turned back to the enraged boy after beaming at me. "Try to find her voice like you did at the game. Got it?"

Stiles let a puff of air come out of his mouth as he was pretty anxious. He grasped my wrist, forcing me to walk next to him. "What are you doing?" I whispered, but he shushed me. He took his keys out, slicing the side of a truck that was parked. "Oh my god, Stiles what the fuck are you doing?" I murmured while clenching my hand over the arm that was softly holding my wrist. But he shushed me again, walking away from the truck while pulling me with him.

"Hey, hey, hey, dude! What do you think you're doing to that truck, bro?" Stiles yelled at Scott, a group of guys spun around, walking towards McCall. Great, they were the owners of the truck.

Scott stood there, and the only thing he thought was to hide his keys behind his back. One of the guys went even closer to him, connecting his fist with Scott's face.

I gasped and hid my head behind Stiles' arm. "Ow! My God. Wow." His hand left my wrist, slipping into my hand and grabbing it. Scott was getting beat and of course, his heart was going even faster. But a couple of seconds later, he was able to control it, and Stiles smiled at me victoriously.

Mr. Harris got Stiles, Scott, and me into detention. This was only my first day, which made me feel like I would get into a lot of trouble with these two. Both of them got sentimental during detention and fixed whatever had happened between their friendship. I stupidly smiled while admiring the loyalty between both.

After detention, Stiles drove Scott to a vet clinic. I got to know that he was working there to get some extra money, and after dropping him off, he dropped me off at the McCall household.

When I went inside, I noticed that everything was quite silent, and went I went to grab something to drink, I saw a little note on the fridge where Melissa was letting us know that she had to work late that night.

"That woman works a lot," I murmured while drinking ice-cold water. I grabbed my backpack, going up the stairs to go to my bedroom, letting it fall on the floor and taking my jacket off. I threw myself on the bed, the exhaustion took over my body. In seconds, I fell asleep.

And again, when I woke up, it seemed like I was going to be in trouble because of the same two boys. They made me go with them to school, at night. Of course, Scott said that I didn't have to go, and I agreed with him for the first time. But Stiles replied that I was new to Beacon Hills, I seemed like a cool girl, and that Scott should give me an opportunity and get to know me.

"What are we doing here?" I interrupted their conversation while getting out of the car.

"Just don't ask," Scott replied without glancing at me. He is so nice. A car pulled over next to us. "Where's my boss?" He asked while a broad guy was getting out of a car.

He was towering us, well-built, and to be honest, he was hot. Beautiful dark hair on top of his head and appealing eyes. "He's in the back."

Stiles and Scott moved to the back of the smoking hot man's car. I followed them while my eyes were still on the strange guy. But when I eventually gazed at the back of the car, I faced a black man with tape over his mouth. "What the fuck is this?" I stared at the three of them. "Sir, oh my god. Are you okay?"

"You will understand later," Stiles answered. 

"I told you we shouldn't have brought her." Scott murmured back at his friend.

"I asked him to bring her." The stranger was studying me. I unconsciously touched my hair, trying to fix it. Was my hair looking good? My dear step-brother looked between the stranger, whose name seemed to be Derek, and me. "She needs to be here." He replied without giving more knowledge. We were all confused.

I walked with both boys into the school.

"Okay, one question. What are you gonna do if the Alpha doesn't show up?" Stiles asked. I peered at him utterly confused, and he waved it off like 'you aren't going to understand anyway. At least not right now.'

"I don't know."

"And what are you gonna do if he does show up?"

"I don't know."

"Good plan." He sneeringly answered.

They started talking about howls, wolves, and packs. Was this some type of game? Like D&D?

Scott breathed profoundly as he got closer to the microphone. Stiles and I almost fell to the floor when Scott tried to howl at the microphone. "Oh my god, we should have recorded that." I clutched onto Stiles, he was wiping the tears that were running down his cheeks from laughing so much.

Scott glared at us, but we could see the redness on his cheeks. "Stop laughing! Well, what did it sound like to you?"

"Like a cat being choked to death, Scott." He was able to speak while still laughing. Scott pouted a little, and for the first time, I felt sorry for laughing at him. "Hey, hey. Listen to me. You're calling the Alpha. All right? Be a man. Be a werewolf, not a teen wolf. Be a werewolf. Do it." He massaged Scott's shoulders.

A teen wolf? This must be some type of game, for sure. Scott howled. This time he didn't sound like a cat dying. He sounded like a wolf, and my mind tried to comprehend what the fuck was going on.

When we went outside, Derek was pretty mad. "I'm gonna kill both of you. What the hell was that? What are you trying to do, attract the entire state to the school?" He pointed at Scott. At least, he didn't want to kill me. He looked like he could break your neck with his own hands.

"Sorry. I didn't know it would be that loud." He seemed satisfied with what he had done. Was this part of a stupid prank or something? "Yeah, it was loud." Stiles nodded, and then his voice was high-pitched. "And it was AWESOME!"

"Shut up!" He took a step closer to Stiles, and for some reason, I put my hand out and shoved Stiles behind me. I could feel him looking at me from behind. I avoided his gaze.

"Don't be such a sour wolf."

"Okay." I decided to talk. "Can someone tell me what is going on? Is this some type of game? Like...I don't know. A roleplay or something?"

Scott rolled his eyes, pointing at the car. "What'd you do with him?"

"What? I didn't do anything." He turned around to look at the direction of his car. The door was open, and Scott's boss wasn't there anymore. Was he also part of this crazy game?

Then, Derek started to spit blood, he was elevated in the air by something. When I focused my gaze I saw a big beast. Okay, this wasn't a hoax anymore, right?

"W-what?" Both boys grabbed my hands and started running inside the school. They told me to step back while they held the doors closed. Stiles told me to sit on the floor so whatever THAT was wouldn't see me in the window. "What is going on?" I whispered. Searching for an answer in a pair of hazel eyes. "What the fuck is going on?"

.

.

TAGLIST: @og-baby-ob14 - @savemypostcards - @cas-loves-pizza - @used-avocado - @mvrylee - @bilesxbilinskixlahey - @honeydoll-stark - @arieltheworldisamess - @softpeteparker - @kit-kat-katie99​ - @thatsuperherosidekick - @bexbetterxthanxwords - @big-galaxy-chaos​ - @littlemiss-forgotten - @enchantedcruelsummer - @coldfreakeggsexpert - @merla123 - @sammypotato67​ - @weirdowithnobeardo - @maggiesblogsblog​ - @itskindyl​ - @bobo-bush - @moongoddesskiana​ - @multifandxm353​​ -

People in black means it doesn’t let me tag them.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilisnki rewrite #stiles stilisnki fic #stiles stilisnki angst #stiles stilisnki fluff #allison argent #stiles stilinski rewrite #lydia martin #jackson whittemore #mccall #mccall!reader #Reader!mccall #scott mccall #tw #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf rewrite #teen wolf imagines #dylan o'brien imagines #dylan o'brien scenarios #dylan o'brian imagine #dylan o'brien #stiles stilisnki fanfic #stiles stilinski x reader #fics #stiles stilinski x y/n #stiles stilisnki x you #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles x reader #teen wolf stiles

[ceilingfan5]

Taakitz with "It hurts" and "Take my hand"?

tw blood, injury

“I always forget how warm blood is,” Taako says, by way of announcing that he is bleeding and needs help. His tone is so casual, even as it’s strained by pain, and it takes Kravitz a second to process before alarm overtakes him. 

“You’re bleeding?”

"A little." Taako raises his hand and the kitchen towel he has wrapped around it casually, despite the growing stain that makes Kravitz’s internal organs plummet like slutty, gluttonous rocks on the fast track to Hell. "It's, it's," he stutters a little, his lackadaisical attitude slipping a little on the banana peel of stark reality and freshly waxed floor of Kravitz’s horrified expression. "It's probably fine. Probably." 

"Taako…" Kravitz scrambles up from the couch and across the room. "Taako, be honest." 

"Okay, maybe, uh, maybe-" 

"Be honest." 

Taako’s guard drops and his face crashes. 

"It hurts," he says, plainly as he can manage, and he tears up a little. 

"Ohh, Taako…" Kravitz wraps his arms around him and presses a kiss to his temple, as much a reassurance for himself as for Taako. "I'll get my keys." 

The emergency room is busy. It's a weekend, and the signs of good-times-until-they-weren't are all around. One guy literally has an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. A pregnant woman wearing a bathrobe and mismatched shoes is squeezing her spouse's hand so tightly they can hear the bones crunching from across the room. Grill accidents. Fireworks. And shit keeps on coming in.

Taako has gone from casual to honest to very, very pale, and it makes Kravitz sick just to look at his uncertain face. He looks so out of place here, and Kravitz remembers things Taako had skirted around telling him, things about hospitals, and hospital bills, and injuries he had sustained from his life on the road. He honestly looks like he’s going to throw up, and unable to just pull Taako onto his lap and hold him right here in public, Kravitz is desperate for any way he can make this a little easier. 

"Take my hand," he whispers. Taako looks at him, a little blank in the eyes, and nods quietly. He almost offers the wrong hand, but Kravitz takes his good one and gives it a tight squeeze, ignoring the stickiness. He doesn't want to think about too much. 

"Thanks," Taako whispers back, and he rests his head against Kravitz's shoulder until his name is called. 

He needs stitches, and Kravitz holds his hand for that too. Taako doesn't really break down until he's home and taken the meds Kravitz picked up from the pharmacy, and they just crawl in bed so Kravitz can hold him. He'll clean up the mess in the kitchen later. 

"You didn't even get dinner," Taako mumbles, sniffly and weak. 

"I didn't want guacamole that bad anyway." 

"Stupid fucking avocado… Stupid fucking me…" 

"Hey," Kravitz says softly, rubbing Taako’s back. "Don't. It was an accident. It could have happened to anybody. Even a chef as good as you." 

Taako makes a muffled noise against Kravitz’s chest. 

"It hurts." 

"I know, love. I'm sorry." 

"You’re too fucking good to me." 

"Everybody deserves somebody who would drive them to the ER, Taako. I'm just sorry you spent so long without one." And then, because Taako is very quiet, Kravitz adds, "I love you. I love every bit of you. I'd fight an avocado for you any day."

"Piece of shit wasn't even that ripe." 

"I could probably take it, then." 

"You're so weird." 

"I love you too." 

#taz #taakitz #tazb #the adventure zone #the adventure zone balance #fan5fics #blood #injury #thinking abt how the way i phrased it implies they were just going to eat guac for dinner #dig in honey :)

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, here is a rec list of bottom Louis fics where Louis and/or Harry use drugs during the course of the fic. If you support our rec lists and want them to continue being made, please reblog this post and spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Lips Are Like The Galaxy’s Edge | Mature | 2365 words

Harry licks over Louis’ hole slowly, deliberately, and his tongue is like velvet and Louis’ skin is burning at every junction where Harry touches him and it’s all so good he thinks he might cry. He licks a few more times, moaning softly like he’s relishing the taste of Louis and that’s just, well, fuck.

2) Can You Feel The Fever | Explicit | 5113 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.

Tour has Harry exhausted. Luckily exactly what he needs is waiting for him in his Sacramento dressing room.

3) Read You Like A Book | Explicit | 8089 words

Louis realises Harry can read his mind. He’ll do anything to make Harry admit it. Set during the North American leg of the WWA tour.

4) Put You On Repeat, Play You Everywhere I Go | Explicit | 8290 words

Harry is a college radio show host and Louis is a contemporary dancer attending said college. After a drunk hook-up, naturally a whole bunch of pining, dedicated love songs and make-out sessions on dance studio floors ensue.

5) Keep It Sweet In Your Memory | Explicit | 17039 words

'How'd it go?' Harry pushes them into Niall's room and shuts the door behind him, so Georgia doesn't overhear.

'It was good. We just caught up, mostly... I may have done something a little stupid, though.'

And Niall's eyebrows are in his hairline at that.

'I mean. Okay, so I invited Louis out on Saturday.'

'Saturday? Your--'

'Yes, my bachelor party...' and then Harry has to explain himself, 'I just felt guilty. I think. He was like. Telling me he wanted to hook up.'

'He WHAT!?'

'No. I mean, not with me. Like. He wants to go out and meet people.'

'He'll hate that. He's too much of a romantic.'

'Yeah, well. Whatever his name was messed him up a little, it would seem.'

6) Never Understood What Love Was Really Like (But I Felt It For The First Time Looking In Your Eyes) | Not Rated | 18431 words

The one where Louis meets Harry at 14 and things don’t quite go as planned.

7) Ain’t My Fault | Explicit | 18690 words

Note: This fic has mentions of BH.

AU. Liam posts an ad on the wrong section of Craigslist, Louis is pretty sure they’re gonna get murdered as a result, and Harry’s missing an avocado.

8) Kiwi | Not Rated | 24110 words

AU. Harry plays on Saturday nights at The Motley. Louis bartends on Saturday nights at The Motley.

It’s a thing.

9) Honey, Make This Easy | Explicit | 25483 words

AU; Harry’s sister recently passed away, leaving him with temporary custody of her daughter. Needing help, he hires Louis as a nanny and the boy turns out to be help in more ways than he expected.

10) Can’t Fool Me | Explicit | 30162 words

AU where Louis hates fraternities and would never be into a frat boy. And one of these things is definitely not a lie.

11) Captain Jack | Explicit | 31752 words

Note: Please take note of the tags and warnings on this fic before reading

Louis has been searching for something and Harry is there to give it to him. Drugs, sex, disappointment, and the tangled web they’ve woven that keeps them trapped in the same cycle.

12) Can I Make It Any More Obvious? | Explicit | 35560 words

AU where Louis does ballet and Harry is the epitome of everything Louis’ friends want him to stay away from.

13) Bluebird | Explicit | 39024 words

The 2,789 miles between New York and Los Angeles is a long way to go alone.

14) Another Hazy May | Mature | 41042 words

Louis is a terrible poet and Harry lives in the now and they have six weeks to fall in love but, really, it only takes six seconds. bookshop meets military meets summer romance AU ft. Marlboros, the backstreet boys, and underrated literary devices.

15) Looking Through You | Explicit | 41905 words

Just as Louis and Liam were starting out in the music industry, writing and producing for up and coming artists, a fateful meeting with new pop singer Harry Styles changes everything. Four years later, just as Harry is set to embark on his next world tour, a drunken confession causes a rift between once inseparable friends. As Harry tries to make sense of his feelings for Louis, he begins writing his next album to express them as it may be the only way to break through the walls that Louis has built between them.

16) Tangled Up In You | Explicit | 45152 words

Harry blinks once. And blinks again. And says, his voice dangerous: “Niall, did you get me a mail-order bride?”

Because what the actual fuck. It kind of looks like Niall’s just purchased a person. For Harry.

Niall blinks back at him for a few moments, before throwing his head back and howling with laughter. Harry throws a pillow at him. Hard. “No, what the fuck, Harry.”

“A prostitute then?” Harry also doesn't want a prostitute.

“Of course not!”

“A stripper?”

“No!”

Damn, he’s running out of ideas. He settles for launching another pillow at Niall’s head. Niall bats it away easily, still laughing. “Stop!”

“What did you get me, then?!” Niall must hear the tinge of hysteria in his voice, because he’s pulling himself together, trying to stop himself from laughing.

There’s still a big grin on his face, though, when he says, “I got you a professional cuddler.”

A professional…what. “What?”

17) Apples Always Fall (As I Do For You) | Mature | 54609 words | Sequel

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Louis is staying at his Aunt's farm in a small town in Minnesota for four months. To deal with the boredom that sets in a week into his stay, he starts working at the local apple orchard, owned by twenty six year old Harry Styles.

Louis quickly finds himself falling in love with the orchard, and he finds a family in Harry's friends Niall, Liam, and Zayn.

He also starts to fall in love with Harry.

Falling in love with him turns out to be the easy part.

18) Into The Midnight Sun | Explicit | 63525 words

It’s 1983, Harry embarks on his first world tour and Louis is a budding actor in LA. Life spent apart isn’t easily adjustable, but somehow they make it work.

19) Like Real People Do | Explicit | 64175 words

Louis didn’t ask for a lot of things. He didn’t ask for his entire family to die in a car crash that may or may not have been his fault. He didn’t ask to get powers out of that accident, either, powers that eventually led him into a two-year relationship with a man who was far more than met the eye. But one night, he chose to ask for a replacement to a broken camera from someone he hadn’t spoken to in a year and a half. He did ask for that. And that kind of led to everything else.

20) Liberté | Mature | 64603 words

AU. 1647. “Pretending you don’t have a heart is not the best way to not get it broken. It’s just the easiest.”

21) Pinkies Never Lie | Explicit | 83615 words | Sequel

AU in which Louis hates his job and loves Harry, Harry just wants a distraction, everyone else wants them to get their shit together, and Louis learns the hard way that new beginnings are only possible when something ends.

22) Baby Heaven’s In Your Eyes | Explicit | 120875 words

They couldn’t be more different if they tried. Louis Tomlinson is 17 years old and in his last year of the most prestigious private school in Doncaster. If there’s one thing that completely annoys him, it’s that there is a poor community college right across the street.

Harry Styles is 19 years old, and (once again) in his last year of college. He goes to community college in Doncaster. He never shows up to classes and if he actually bothers to, he’s either high or drunk; sometimes both. His skin is littered with tattoos and if there’s one thing he absolutely hates, it’s the snobby students attending the private school right across from his.

23) Saving Symphony Hall | Mature | 124766 words

Note: This is a sequel to this fic. This fic has been locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

“I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”

“Oh christ, that’s the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”

“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.

“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”

“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.

“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”

“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

24) I Only Ever Want You | Explicit | 180079 words

Note: This fic is the sequel to this fic.

Louis & Harry and Liam & Zayn begin to have sex in front of each other and a lot of kink-discovery results from that.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

#bottom louis #top harry #drug use #drug tw #larry #fic recs #blp #blp fic recs

[yellowocaballero]

Continuation of Human Relations (Oh My God, They Were Roommates)

This is a 16k story that’s a bit too short for AO3 but a bit too long for Tumblr that acts as a continuation of my Archivist!Sasha and Immortal!Jon fic Human Relations. I recommend that you read that before this. This story takes place between S2 and S3, and is about Sasha and Georgie’s roommate adventures. I’m uncertain if I’ll continue this and post it on AO3, post it on AO3 as it is, or what, but for the time being I’ll at least post it here. 

Serious content warnings for discussion of abusive friendships, gaslighting, discussion of 19th century racism, implied transphobia, and discussion of police brutality. Nothing more serious than what we saw in Human Relations, but it does have a much more explicit investigation of Jon and Elias’ relationship. Rest under the cut. Happy Birthday, @magickko. 

EDIT: HAHA READMORE DIDN’T WORK, YIKES. 

Sasha dreams, every night.

Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time. 

A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap. 

A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.

When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again. 

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom. 

Sasha dreams, every night.

Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time. 

A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap. 

A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.

When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again. 

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom. 

Georgie Barker wasn’t a mystery, and she’d be the first to tell you.

Of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, honey! I always love having Jonah owe me a favor. Don’t worry about the cops and the law, nobody will ever find you here. Seriously, the entire department’s in my pocket. It’s no hassle having you here, it’s a big flat! It’s been years since I’ve had a roommate, this’ll be fun!

The one thing she hadn’t understood was Sasha begging her not to let Jon in to see her. He knows exactly where you are, Georgie pointed out. He knows you’re not actually a murderer, Georgie said. He might be able to help explain some of what’s going on, Georgie hinted. Jon would respect my wishes, but if Jonah really wants him to talk to you, he’ll definitely do it...

“Please,” Sasha had croaked, the uncomfortable morning after she had stumbled into Georgie’s flat. The Admiral wove around her legs, purring up a storm, and Georgie was munching on avocado toast and sipping pomegranate juice. “I just - I just need some space.”

“Why?” Georgie asked obliviously. That was something that Sasha was rapidly learning about Georgie - she didn’t hold back with impolite questions, or her opinion. She seemed to be regarding Sasha’s life as her own personal Youtuber Drama, which Sasha really didn’t know how she felt about. Her life wasn’t a spectacle, but she guessed even the warfare and tragedy of ants were of obscure and strange interest to humanity. “He’s feeling, like, totally bad about framing you for murder. I can tell he super wants to apologize to you about everything.”

Martin’s words echoed through her mind, from what felt like a decade ago: Jon had ruined Martin’s life, but to him it was as simple as a momentary inconvenience. “I don’t want his apology,” Sasha croaked. “I want not to be on the run from the police. I want to go back to my flat. Unless he’s going to make me human again I don’t want any stupid apologies. They’re useless.”

“Hm. Well, you’re free to stay here as long as you need to, of course.” Georgie sipped at her tea. They were sitting around the breakfast table, Sasha desolately shoving eggs into her mouth as Georgie drank her tea that Sasha was reasonably sure was spiked with brandy. Rich people were literally never sober. “It’ll be so much fun, like a sleepover. We can do each other’s nails and talk about boys!”

“My boyfriend thought I was a monster for the past month and now thinks I’m a murderer,” Sasha said flatly. 

“Oh, I see.” Georgie tapped her lips thoughtfully. “We have to get you laid, huh?”

“I am literally on the run from the cops.”

“That’s very sexy to some people,” Georgie assured her. 

After that, Georgie waved goodbye and swanned out of the house, either going to her studio to work on her podcast or doing some work for her real estate empire or writing a best-selling book or schmoozing with celebrities or attending parties at exclusive nightclubs or working part-time as a bartender just for gossip or devouring souls. Just from Sasha’s one day at Georgie’s flat, she knew that she did all of these things and then some. It was a stunning contrast to Jon’s laziness, or Elias (Jonah’s) single-mindedness. 

Maybe you lost the energy to be so productive after your two hundredth year. Sasha didn’t fucking know. Hopefully she would never know. Or maybe Jon just appeared to be lazy, and every moment that he was complaining about being bored he was secretly manipulating world leaders. Maybe Jonah’s dedication to spreadsheets and dress code was a front, and he was secretly pulling the puppet strings of her entire life…

In the empty spaces of Georgie’s spacious flat, it was easy to be paranoid. Sasha lay on her luxurious couch, hands folded across her chest like a corpse, trying not to think of anything, thinking of everything. Thinking of Tim: of his smile, of his scowl, of his cold looks given to someone he had thought was a stranger. Thinking of Martin: his warm smile, his sharp looks. 

She struggled to think of other friends, other family members who gave her comfort, but drew up a blank. Her parent’s faces were blurred after ten years of no contact, not so much forgotten as repressed, and her baby siblings were likely unrecognizable to her now. Almost as unrecognizable as she was to them, probably. Tim, her boyfriend who hated her, and Martin, her subordinate who she had almost never had a conversation with that wasn’t about work or Jon...that was it. All the friends she had in the world. She was sleeping in the guest room of a podcast host/Grim Reaper whom she had met once, and that was all she had.

Loneliness was Sasha’s constant companion. In a crowd, in her family, in the world - no matter how many people she had been surrounded by, she had always been alone. She had never had anybody in the world to rely on besides herself, and for the first time in a long time she was achingly aware of it. Nobody who loved her was going to help her. She was alone now.

After an hour of lying on the couch and crying, Sasha desolately watched Netflix cooking shows on Georgie’s gigantic flat-screen TV, trying very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all. She only moved to pet Georgie’s silky long-haired cat whose name she had already forgotten, and even he left quickly once she lost the energy to give him attention.

That was how Georgie found Sasha when she came home: lying on the couch, still dressed in borrowed silk pyjamas, watching idiots on television fuck up cakes. Georgie’s arms were laden with shopping bags, with names of exclusive London boutiques sprawled along the side, her deep black pits of eyes hidden by designer sunglasses. She burst through the door happily, her cat running up to her and winding through her laps as he purred, and easily kicked off her red pumps. She stopped in the doorway of the living room, looking strangely excited. 

“Sorry I’m back to late! Utterly bogged up at work, there was a plane crash and I was processing corpses for hours. I had to do some serious retail therapy just to deal with the tedium - darling, have you moved?”

Sasha grunted. 

“You look like Mikey Crew threw you off the Shard,” Georgie said sympathetically. “Utterly disastrous. Don’t worry, Aunt Georgie’s here to make you feel better.” She lifted her bag triumphantly. “I bought you new outfits!”

Sasha eyed her warily. 

“You get no say in this,” Georgie said kindly. “Chop chop, we’re doing face masks too.”

That’s how, somehow, Sasha found herself playing an unwilling dress-up doll for the Grim Reaper. Georgie had taken Sasha’s casual mention that she had no clothing besides her work pantsuit to heart, and had hit up her favorite boutiques for ‘cute outfits that accentuated her figure and made her eyes pop!’. Or something. Sasha wasn’t much one for fashion. 

As it turned out, Georgie Barker had a walk-in closet. Because of course she did. 

The looks ranged from Sasha’s usual, as Georgie put it, ‘sexy librarian’ look, to ballgowns, to tennis outfits, to moddish, to vintage, to wintery. It was February, the seasons lingering in British chill, and according to Georgie the perfect solution to this was a mink coat that was probably worth a month’s rent on her flat. 

Strangely, all of the outfits fit perfectly - and Sasha knew that her measurements were difficult to find. Georgie took it in stride, clapping enthusiastically each time and suggesting accessories and how to mix and match the outfits. 

She would have thought that she was too dead inside to actually enjoy it, but so far as distractions went it actually worked pretty well. Georgie chatted about everything but their actual problems, and Sasha had absolutely no input or choice in what Georgie decided to dress her in, and by the time they had transitioned from nail painting to watching Legally Blonde and eating ice cream from the carton Sasha was actually feeling a little relaxed. 

“The musical’s better,” Georgie informed Sasha imperiously as Sasha dug around in her carton for chunks of cookie dough. Georgie was clutching a glass of wine in one hand, while Sasha was contenting herself with ice cream. Best not to drink when she was this sad. “Reese is such a doll, though. Allergic to shellfish, poor dear, but I told her not to let Leo pick the restaurant.”

“What I’m wondering,” Sasha said carefully, teeth cracking into the frozen chunk of cookie dough, “is that half the time when I see you, you’re dressed like a 2008 goth in jeans and t-shirts.”

“Oh, honey,” Georgie said pityingly, patting her hand. “I used to spend two hours getting dressed each morning. I’m never doing that to myself again. You, however, clearly have never had nice clothing in your life. It’s written all over your face. People’ll walk all over you if you always look like you’re straight from a charity shop. We gotta buy you some self-confidence.”

“Thanks. I think.” On screen, Elle flourished and achieved her dreams. Sasha tried not to feel jealous. “It’s not really as if I had a lot of girly sleepovers as a kid…”

“Word,” Georgie said sympathetically. She patted Sasha’s hand again. “Jon was the same way, you know. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to renovate that boy’s wardrobe. He has no idea how to dress to impress.”

“Do we have to talk about Jon right now,” Sasha groused. “He’s the last person I want to think about.”

“He means well,” Georgie soothed, as Elle Woods proudly proclaimed on television how she, yes, she, was a strong independent woman - who didn’t need a man! “It’s not his fault he’s stupid. He’s just so helpless on his own, you know, he needs girls like you and me to make sure he’s not wasting a decade fixating on obscure Bolivian religious practices or whatever.”

“Helpless? He’s a two hundred year old man.” Sasha spitefully grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table, pouring it into a spare glass and drinking it quickly. It probably cost thousands of pounds, but it just tasted like wine to her. “It’s not my job to make sure his little feelings aren’t hurt.”

“Of course not,” Georgie said, but Sasha had the sense she was being calmed instead of listened to. “But Jon’s...you know.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Georgie made an interpretive hand gesture. Sasha stared at her blankly. 

“...I still don’t.”

Georgie sighed. “He’s delicate. Jonah babies him, honestly.” She patted Sasha’s hand for the third time, making her skin crawl. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him see you until you’re ready to forgive him. Every woman has the right to some time to herself after a guy fucks her over. You two’ll patch things up, right as rain.”

There was nothing Sasha wanted to say to that, nothing she wanted to think about, and she kept drinking her wine and watching the movie, out of lack of any other options.

That night, she drunkenly tipped into bed, so blasted that she slid immediately into sleep and did not dream. It was the first relief she’d had in what felt like a very long time. 

It wasn’t Sasha’s job to fix Jonathan Sims. 

It really, really wasn’t. It wasn’t her job to make him feel better, or forgive him, or save him from himself. If Martin wanted to waste his time and energy doing that, then god fucking speed, but Sasha had other priorities. She had been profoundly fucked over and had her trust abused by three different men lately, and she wasn’t going to be the one to patch things up.

Two of them she had no desire to patch things up with at all. Two of them she’d be perfectly happy if she never saw again. The last one...Sasha didn’t know what she felt. But that was nothing new. 

That being said, as Sasha chewed her way through hangover medication and an acai bowl the next morning, Georgie’s inane chattering about tricking some celebrity or another into taking her to Hungary for authentic Hungarian food didn’t register nearly as loudly in Sasha’s mind as her words about Jonah and Jon. 

Jonah babies Jon. That was what she had said. It...it was accurate, right? It had to be. Georgie had known Jonah and Jon for a hundred years, and Sasha had barely heard one authentic conversation between them. She’d known them for a year, and known Jonah’s true nature for maybe a few days. There was no way Sasha understood their relationship better than Georgie did. It just didn’t make sense. 

Finally, she put her spoon down, cutting Georgie off in the middle of her ramble about the majesty of Hungarian food made by genuine Hungarian grandma hands. “What did you mean, ‘Jonah babies Jon’?”

Georgie blinked at her, clearly barely remembering the conversation, before recognition dawned. Then she shrugged, sipping her protein smoothie. Which may or may not be spiked. It seemed as if her solution to hangovers was to just not stop being drunk. “Oh, you know how those two are. Jon swans around the world doing whatever he wants, Jonah holds the fort down at home. That’s why Jon’s fun, you know.” She sighed nostalgically. “Romantic cruises to the Bahamas for two months, we tear up the Bahaman government and start a minor military coup, then we take a tour of the beaches. You haven’t lived until you’ve dug your toes into Bahaman sand.” 

That was something Georgie said frequently: you haven’t lived until you’ve done X, Y, or Z. It seemed as if Georgie was very intent on living, and very intent on defining it in discretionary ways. To Sasha, living was simply the act of not being dead, but Georgie was almost fanatical about experiencing life. 

“If he’s so much fun, then why did you break up?” Sasha asked, before she realized what she said. “I mean, it’s really none of my business, feel free not to answer that -”

But Georgie just laughed lightly. “That’s just how Jon and I work. We spend a few weeks together in bliss, and then we go our separate ways for six months or a year or whatever. Work’s always taking us different places, and seeing each other all day would make us hate each other. Some people work best when they’re not in each other’s pocket.” She took a long drag of the smoothie before speaking again. “Besides, he’ll always be second in my life to having fun. And I’ll always be second in his life to Jonah. It’s just how we work. It works for us!”

It seemed to. Last Sasha checked, Georgie and Jon seemed to be very amicable despite being exes. Lackadaisical, on-and-off, passionate yet going years without seeing each other - it was a relationship uniquely in the providence of workaholic immortals. 

It wasn’t until Georgie had already waved goodbye, making Sasha promise not to spend all day on the couch again, that she realized that Georgie hadn’t quite answered her question. 

An image flashed through Sasha’s mind - Jon’s face, as he dared to disagree with Jonah, and was utterly ground into the dust for it. 

There was something more to this. Something that wasn’t obvious on the surface, something that was so well hidden maybe nobody even knew it was going on. Or maybe it was deeper than that, more insidious: maybe whatever was going on was so well-known and pervasive that it simply wasn’t spoken about. Not polite, not the kind of thing you say about your friends, not normal. Not in polite company. Not vocalized. Utterly taken for granted. 

Sasha walked into the guest room, pulling out her phone from her bag and staring at its blank screen. Holding her breath, she hesitantly turned it on, staring at it blankly as it slowly booted up. 

She shouldn’t be turning it on. She was perfectly aware of how, given a warrant, the police could track cell phone location, texts sent and received, everything. She could do it herself. The crushing weight of surveillance, the fear of being found and seen and rooted out, settled over her shoulders like an old, familiar friend. A comforting blanket to wrap herself up in at night: where, even if the fear was terrible and awful, at least it was familiar. 

You could get used to anything, Sasha thought. Any behavior, any fears, any horrors or tragedies - anything could become normal, given enough time. A year. A hundred years. After two hundred years, maybe you wouldn’t even recognize it as happening at all.

Like a flood, the text messages poured in. Notifications chimed in a cacophony, as text after text after text popped up on her phone. Missed calls. Emails popped up, notifications from the doorbell camera, reminders from her fucking Duolingo...

Dizzily, Sasha scrolled through the texts. Lots from Tim, as expected, and a few from Martin, as expected. Some texts from her mother, which - which wasn’t expected. At all. Sasha hadn’t even known that she knew her number. 

Sasha’s brain stuttered over the Spanish, having been years since she spoke it. Her brain also stuttered over the gratuitous misgendering, which was also blissfully novel yet just as uncomfortable and upsetting as ever. Translated, it was a slightly accusatory question about why the police had been calling them about her whereabouts. What had she done? Had she gotten in trouble?

No matter what you did, the text read, God will forgive you. Just call them back. 

Sasha stared at the texts, brain buzzing. She felt sick. Forgive her? They’d forgive her? They thought she’d done it? They thought she was capable of -

Horribly, awfully, tears pricked at her eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you never really grew accustomed to pain, even if it was felt a thousand times. Maybe some pain you never acclimated to, never scarred over or calloused. Maybe sometimes the more you were hurt, the worse it hurt. The pain her parents gave her - how they cut off contact, the misgendering, the coldness - hurt just as badly at thirty six as it had at twenty six, at twenty, at fifteen, at nine. It had always hurt. 

So stupid. Sasha deleted the text messages. She didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t a child. She was thirty six goddamn years old, that was way too old to still care about your parents. To still need them.

She clicked on Martin’s texts next. The first one had a timestamp before the murder, the rest afterwards.

Martin: where are you?? I found Tim (he tried to kill me w/an axe but we’re ok now) and were trying to get out of here. I explained everything to him. We’ll meet you in the archives. 

Martin: Police are looking for you. I know you didn’t do it so call me back. Tim’s worried. Jon doesn’t seem that worried...

Martin: Shouldn’t text you anymore. Please be safe & careful. 

Jesus. Jesus, she had been terrible to Martin. She was a rotten friend. Sasha hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to get him a gift basket. Five. He was a freak, but he was her freak. Maybe. 

Finally, almost holding her breath, she pressed on Tim’s messages. There were a lot of them - more than was safe, Sasha distantly registered. The first five were from the same time Martin had sent the second text. She guessed it was right after the police finished talking to them. He had called her slightly before - likely when they found the body - but there were also two texts from two am last night. 

Tim: pick up your phone

Tim: pick up your phone are you okay im so sorry

Tim: baby please please pick up

Tim: we need to talk & im sorry & i hope ur safe

Tim: dont text me back 

Then two texts from two am:

Tim: to warn you im drunk but im sorry (AND DRUNK) but in my defense im a shitty boyfriend. If you want to break up its fine but id like to make it work but i get if you cant because cops i guess. Bitch tonner wont stop bothering me make her stoppp

Tim: I love you and I wish that was enough. 

Sasha rubbed at her eyes, exhausted. She wished it was enough too. She knew it wasn’t. Strongly, like burning, Sasha wished so desperately that she had never met Jonathan Sims. Maybe, in that world, things were okay. She and Tim were happy. 

She scrolled through the rest of the notifications. Strangely, she even had two texts from Melanie. 

Melanie: Hey, I heard what’s going on. I know you couldn’t have done it. A LOT of cops are bothering me - Hussein and Tonner have called like five times. I think you know them? For legal purposes I’ll say that you should turn yourself in or whatever. 

Melanie: oh and Martin said to tell you that Mr. Bouchard’s been asking me a lot of questions about what im doing and my job situation - dunno y tho

That….probably wasn’t good. 

No texts from Jon. She wouldn’t know what to do if he had. She doubted he knew her number, or how to work a phone. The last thing she could deal with emotionally right now was an apology. She didn’t know what to do about Tonner or Hussein or Melanie. Those were all problems she couldn’t fix right now. 

Really, there was only one problem she could fix right now. She walked over to the door to the balcony, carefully stepping out onto the 20th story balcony. She carefully ejected her SIM card, snapped it in half, looked underneath her to make sure there were no passerby in the exclusive London neighborhood, and forced her fingers to release from the phone so she could watch it fall twenty stories onto the concrete. 

She imagined a smash, a crack, but it didn’t make any sound at all. Sasha forced herself to step back inside, leaving the past behind her. 

There was a lot Sasha had to force herself to do that day. Georgie owned a few laptops, but she hadn’t given Sasha permission to use any of them yet, and she didn’t want to intrude. Despite Sasha’s own...reservations about her personality, she really was being incredibly kind by letting her stay and trying to cheer her up. She did, however, have a great deal of antique books, and Sasha eagerly cracked open the first edition copies of fiction novels from the 19th century. Was that a first edition Pride & Prejudice? Oh, score!

She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat. Food tasted like ash in her mouth, but that always happened whenever she was upset. She forced herself to take a shower, impossibly intimidated by Georgie’s small army of hair care and hygiene products, and even cautiously let herself take a bubble bath with a bath bomb. It was...weirdly luxurious, but maybe not surprisingly. Georgie’s bathroom was like the Queen’s, and you could practically swim in the bathtub. It was intimidating and weird and uncomfortable, but Sasha forced herself to appreciate it. How many people got to take a shower in a stall with five different showerheads?

Halfway through the day the housekeeper came in, terrifying Sasha deeply, and she retreated to her guest bedroom to let the woman work. She inspected her newly painted toenails glumly, halfway through Pride & Prejudice, forcing herself not to think about how Jon could have been a background character in the novel. Wasn’t he in his twenties in this time period? Wasn’t that when he and Jonah Magnus had -

Sasha drank more wine, and put on another cooking program. She hadn’t watched telly all day, so technically she could tell Georgie that. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anything productive to do. No work, which sucked when she was a workaholic. No computer to waste time on. No friends she could talk to without the police investigating her. She couldn’t go outside, again due to the aforementioned cop situation. Her life was her work, and her bosses had just framed her for murder. 

Somewhat buzzed, Sasha stole several pieces of intricate stationary and wrote down everything Leitner had told her before he was murdered. It wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted, yet far more than she knew what to do with. Halfway through her notes deteriorated into a bizarre sort of mind map, lists of cases connected together and obscure monsters and figures pointing to each other. Salasea and his endless array of dangerous trinkets, mysterious yet lonely ship captains, Michael and his gently twisting deceit, Gerry Keay and his bizarre heroism, Leitner and his ruinous imprints, Agnes and her desolate fate, and the oft-mentioned yet barely understood man, whose name was whispered by shadowy figures entrenched in  the supernatural world, Jonathan Sims…

Did he know? How often his shadow stained her statements? Did he care? Did he know how thoroughly he had ruined her life? 

She scoured her memory for hints, writing down everything she could remember of his cameos in random statements. Of Leitner’s testimony, the immortal figure who so easily attained what Leitner and Mary Keay had spent their entire lives grasping for. Was there a hint to his true nature, his true allegiance? 

In the corners of the cute stationary, Sasha doodled a small eye. She stared at it, and couldn’t help but fight the notion that it was staring back. 

She scratched it out, feeling paranoid, not feeling paranoid enough. 

A few hours later, Georgie came home, and Sasha fought the pathetically hopeful trepidation. When she heard the front door rattle she left her room, intending on welcoming Georgie back and proving that she hadn’t been watching telly all day, but she stopped short in the hallway when she heard the loud sound of voices. Specifically, the loud sound of Georgie’s still slightly unfamiliar voice, and the quieter tones of a voice that was far too familiar to her.  

“ - if you’ll just let me talk to her, she’ll understand.”

“And she said that she’s not seeing you,” Georgie said firmly. Sasha held her breath, pressing herself up against the hallway wall. Next to her was a doorway that led to the living room, that led to a foyer. If she craned her head she could just barely see Georgie standing in the foyer, arguing with a figure holding a leather briefcase that made Sasha’s heart leap into her throat. “You really did screw her over, you know.”

“I know,” Jonathan Sims whined. “I want to apologize. It’s not my fault. Jonah got pushy again, you know how he is.”

“Ugh, tell me about it.” Georgie scoffed. “Did something happen between you two? Sasha was asking all sorts of weird questions.”

“Just Jonah being his usual insufferable self,” Jon said, so carelessly and casually that if Sasha hadn’t known better she would have believed him. “It probably alarmed her, seeing how that man really is. I’m sure she’s feeling very overwhelmed right now.”

“She really is, the poor dear,” Georgie said sympathetically. Sasha’s hands clenched into fists. “But you aren’t getting past this foyer, honey. I’m sure she’ll want to be friends again once Jonah gets the cops off her case.”

“Martin’s giving me a hard time,” Jon sulked. “Says this is all my fault that the dreadful little wolf girl is sniffing around. It’s not my fault. If my Archivist just let me explain, she’d see that it’s not my fault.”

“That Blackwood boy’s always giving you a hard time,” Georgie sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s overly moralistic and doesn’t know how to have fun. You spend too much time with him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Georgina Barker,” Jon teased. He stepped forward a little closer, and although Sasah couldn’t see his face she had the feeling he was smiling. “It’s a bad look on you.”

“Idiot,” Georgie said fondly, “everything’s a good look on me.” She stretched up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Ditch him and come party with me, darling, I’ll show you a wonderful time. Maybe after all of this nonsense blows over.”

“Judging from what I can make out of Jonah’s monologuing, we ought to get our parties in while we still can,” Jon said glumly. He opened his briefcase, passing a manila folder to Georgie. “Give her these. She’ll be getting hungry. Tell her that the top one is from work, and the second is from me.” He hesitated for a second. “You really think she’ll forgive me?”

“If it’s not your fault, then why do you need to be forgiven?”

Jon was silent for a long minute. Finally, he said, “I’ll talk to you later, Georgie. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie said easily, casually, as if she had said it a thousand times, a million times. “Take care of yourself.”

She stood in the foyer after he left, arms folded, one delicately manicured finger tapping against her arm. She eventually turned around, poking her head into the living room. 

“You can come out, darling, I don’t bite.”

Sasha guiltily stepped into the living room, crossing her arms defensively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

But Georgie just rolled her eyes. “Please. My best friends are Jonathan Sims and Jonah Magnus.” She looked thoughtful for a second. “Well. My oldest friends. Anyway, if you’re in the same house as one of those Beholding types you aren’t getting a private conversation. I’m super used to it.” She held out the manila folder, and Sasha cautiously stepped forward and took it from her. 

“Beholding types?” 

“Oh, you know, you and your lot,” Georgie said dismissively. “Can’t do anything about that annoying little megalomania the Eye gives you. Have fun with lunch, I have to freshen up. It takes ages to get the scent of Jon’s musty old books off me.”

But Sasha was already tuning her out, because in the manilla envelope there were two Statements. They thrummed under her fingers, charged with energy and power and fear, and Sasha could feel herself gripping them. The first one was a classic Magnus Institute Statement, just like she would have read at work, but the second was what looked like a photocopy of a piece of paper. Judging from the ornate script, it was old, and when Sasha’s eyes wandered to the date her eyes widened. July 21st, 1823. 

She looked up, already frantically searching for a tape recorder, and immediately saw one sitting on the coffee table. She didn’t think twice about it, already sitting on the plush white couch and setting the papers out. Which one first - oh man, they were both so exciting - her fingers drifted to the one Jon gave her, and she picked it up. That one, then. 

Sasha James pressed play on the tape deck, feeling a familiar thrill go through her at the gentle whirring. She cleared her throat. 

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a letter sent by Barnabas Bennet to Jonah Magnus. Statement begins.”

And, as Sasha’s blood ran cold, she began to read. 

My dearest Jonah,

I hope you are well. It was an absolute pleasure to vacation at your estate this summer. I’ve never had such interesting conversations with a like-minded individual, and since returning to my own estate I have been sorely missing your company. You have introduced a great deal of brightness and acute interest to my life, and without you the luminescence of Heaven does not thrill me. How I wish you were around to thrill me again!

Do not concern yourself - I have maintained my studies. The library you loaned me is of great interest, and I have been spending many a quiet night bent over one of your occult tomes. I have never felt so enlightened. A world is opening up before us, Jonah, one of richness and wonder, and for the first time in many years I find myself excited to rise each morning. I thank our Heavenly Father each day that I was so fortunate as to cross your path. You must remind me to discuss with you the report by Smirke in detail - fascinating! Theoretical, of course, all theoretical - but the concept of classifying the devils that so bewitch man into fourteen unique taxonomies fascinates me. We must discuss it. 

Jonah, I trust that this letter reaches you in private, and that you shall not betray my confidence by discussing it with anyone. I have a private grievance I wish to address with you. It is regarding your boy, the one kept so close in your confidence and trust. 

I would never hasten to question any of your decisions, for I trust they are made with great deliberation and forethought. But I must question why you keep that boy so close to you. His air is strange and fey. While summering at your estate, I would frequently see him awake at late hours, pouring over some tome or report or another (I would swear that he reads better than I!). I know he’s somewhat of a project of yours, bringing him into Christianity and your charity, which will surely be rewarded etc etc, but I cannot shake my strange trepidation. 

If I were to be quite honest, my fear of him. 

He always asks questions. Disturbing and distressing questions. And when I deign to answer them, he acts as if he truly understands. Moreover, that he understands more than me - that he possesses some secret knowledge that only he has obtained. I catch him listening at doorways and around corners frequently, and no matter how many times I box him about the ears for it he will not cease. You encourage it, allowing this behavior. Even after I reported to you the pagan rituals which I am confident he is performing, you brush me off. You two are strangely close. I’m simply concerned for you, Jonah. Please heed my advice: that boy is trouble. I fear that he will bring you into trouble also. Do not allow this paganism to steer you away from the light of our heavenly Father. I understand that the occult is of great interest to all of us, discovering the secrets of the world and its many mysteries, but it is only an academic interest. I would never go so far as to partake of these devilish rituals myself, and you ought to dissuade yourself of such a notion also. Do not allow that John to lead you astray. 

I wish you most well. I am encountering some trouble of my own - debts and such - but do not concern yourself with them. The situation is well-handled. I hope to write to you again soon.

Yours, faithfully,

Barnabas

...supplemental.

Jon. Why did you show me this?

Is this your definition of vulnerability? Of honesty? What, are you trying to justify your decisions to me? I get it, it’s disgusting. These people were disgusting to you. I can’t know how you feel, but I think I - my parents -

What I mean is, I can’t understand. I can’t imagine how hard this must have been. I understand how Jonah was the only one to… ‘get’ you or whatever. How he was the only person to see how brilliant you are, how much you have to give. 

But, Jon - I don’t think Jonah thought any better of you than Barnabas did. He was just better at hiding it. I don’t know, I didn’t know him and I still don’t know him - but you get that the way he talked to you back then wasn’t right, right? You get that it was fucked up, right?

I don’t know. I don’t think you get that. I don’t think anybody does. Georgie’s too close to it, too used to you and Jonah’s ‘quirks’ or whatever. I...don’t know anything Martin thinks, but I feel as if you’d be pretty invested in keeping this from him. But I’m close enough to you to see it, and I’m far enough away from this that I understand. Something’s really fucked up about this situation. I’m worried I’m the only person who sees it. I hate being that person, the person who Sees it all, who knows it all, but is powerless to do anything about it. You understand, right? You understand how much this is hurting me?

I’m not sure you do. If you’re showing me this, trying to show me how hard you had it, how misunderstood you were, just so I forgive you...I don’t. And it’s manipulative, so cut it out. I’m not sure if you’re consciously doing that, I really don’t think you’re emotionally intelligent enough.

But you aren’t dumb, Jon. I know it’s a defence mechanism or whatever to pretend that you are, to act childish, but you aren’t. 

Ugh, listen to me. I sound like Martin. Disgusting. I don’t give a shit about this, I’m not your therapist. But you keep on making your problems my problems, and I’m not tolerating that. We’ll talk when I’m not fucking wanted for murder for something you were complicit in. 

Get your act together. I don’t forgive you. Statement fucking ends. 

As if Sasha’s life wasn’t hard enough, Georgie wanted to go dancing. 

“I am literally wanted by the police.”

“The nightclub’s so dark, nobody’ll even see your face,” Georgie promised. 

“Shouldn’t I be spending my time working on my conspiracy theory board?”

“Honey, no offence, that thing is so tacky.”

“I hate clubbing.”

“You’ll like the way I do it!”

“I really don’t want to -”

“Tough nuts.”

So, of course, that’s how Sasha ended up shoved into a tight dress, heels, and makeup, pushed into a taxi, and quickly deposited in front of a warehouse looking building. There was a long line out the door, of women with straightened hair dressed somehow identically, yet way worse, than Sasha, all looking very cold. Georgie looped her arm through Sasha’s, white teeth flashing as she grinned widely, and escorted them both straight through the doors and past security. 

She, it seemed, was a known quantity. Sasha, who had spent the last year working in a mill to feed evil psychic vampires and the ten years before that locked in academia, which was basically the same thing, was not a known quantity to any nightclub. She had not been clubbing since uni, which was approximately five lifetimes ago.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Sasha said into Georgie’s ear as they transitioned from the furiously cold February air into the swelteringly hot club. It was dim and smoky, the noise overwhelmingly grating at her ears. After so long in a quiet office, in a silent flat, she could barely handle it. 

Georgie said something to her. 

“What?” Sasha yelled. “Georgie, I don’t want to be here!”

Georgie frowned at her, and unlinked their arms so she could reach up on her tiptoes and clasp Sasha on the shoulders. “You have been accused of murder! You just split with your boyfriend because of clown trauma! You haven’t had fun in years! You deserve this, queen!”

You know...maybe she did. 

Georgie pressed a drink into her hands, mysteriously procured from somewhere, and without thinking too hard about it Sasha downed it in one gulp. Georgie whooped, clapping her on the back, and directed her towards the bar. She flashed her platinum credit card at the bartender, and suddenly Sasha was MVP of the night. 

You know, Sasha thought dizzily as she was given a toxic blue drink and pushed onto the dance floor, maybe she did deserve this. Didn’t she deserve to have fun? After the way things ended with Tim, couldn’t she just act like a normal girl and go clubbing with her friends to dance away the pain? She was almost forty, way too old for this, but maybe she could forget for a little bit. She had never had the opportunity as a teenager, not even as a young adult. Couldn’t she do this, before she died?

Maybe women closer to forty than thirty dealt with this with - with book clubs, with sisterhood, whatever. Maybe women closer to forty than thirty were married, had kids of their own. But Sasha was just Sasha, stuck in a literal dead-end job, going nowhere good, and this was all she would ever have. 

Maybe Georgie was right. Why not live, before she died? Everybody on earth died - everybody, that is, except for a small group of people who were willing to sell their soul for the privilege.  At least maybe this way she could have whatever joy she could fit into her life before all opportunity was lost, and she was lost. 

A man sidled up to her, asking for a dance, and she evaded him. But then there was another one, and another one, and Sasha found herself fleeing back to the bar and ordering another drink. Too soon. Way too soon. She found herself digging in her borrowed purse, searching for her phone, wanting to call Tim or talk to him or ask him if they really were broken up so she could have rebound sex with random dudes in bars, but the purse was empty of both a phone and a wallet. That’s right - she had destroyed it. Because the cops were after her. 

Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, a man sat down at a barstool. He said something to the bartender and leaned towards her, mouth spilling something obscured by the crush and heat and sound of the club. He seemed to be asking if he could buy her a drink. Sasha shook her head dizzily, confused and lost. Then he leaned in closer, and Sasha could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“Are you sure? I’d like to dance with you!”

Sasha shook her head no again, frantically. 

“Aw, come on -”

Then, as if by magic, Georgie was at her elbow. Unintimidating, not more than one hundred and seventy centimeters, with teased hair and sharp black lipstick and eyeliner, she raised an eyebrow at the guy. But there must have been something in her eyes, or a lack of something, because the guy rapidly slipped off the barstool and melted into the crowd, leaving the drink the bartender slid onto the counter behind. 

As if she had planned it, Georgie easily stole the drink and knocked it back. She tugged Sasha down, yelling into her ear. “Come with me, darling, let’s check out where the real party is.”

Without taking no for an answer, Georgie grabbed Sasha’s hand and tugged her through the outskirts of the crowd, ducking and weaving between small clusters of people and women dancing the night away. Sasha’s vision swam, details and faces lost in the endless ripple of flashing lights and sound, until all she felt was Georgie’s cool hand in hers, and it wasn’t until they emerged from the choppy sea of people into a small hallway off the main room that she felt like she could breathe. Sasha’s head swam with movement and smoke, and she was barely cognizant that they were in a hallway for a bathroom or something. 

But Georgie walked confidently past the bathrooms, into what appeared to be a storage closet. She confidently opened it, halting at the door frame to glance backwards at Sasha. A smile quirked at her bow lips. 

“You coming?”

Sasha, slightly intoxicated though she was, couldn’t fight the skepticism. “This is where the real party is? A supply closet?”

“Oh, my dear Archivist,” Georgie said, smirking slightly. “The world is full of far more delights than you could understand. Follow me, and stay close.”

Then Georgie stepped forward, disappearing into the closet, and as little as Sasha wanted to step inside more dubiously supernatural hallways she wanted to be left alone in this club even less, and she ducked after Georgie into the unknown. 

The unknown, as it turned out, was another club. 

Or, more accurately, a pub. It was a nice pub too, all smoky yellow lights and burnished wood booths. The booths were upholstered in soft and cushy looking brown leather, and the sound where nowhere above a quiet murmur. It didn’t seem to be abandoned, the shadows at some booths deeper than others, but for the life of her Sasha couldn’t puzzle out the faces or figures of anybody at these shadowy corners. There was a single bartender, wiping a grimy glass over and over. He nodded at Georgie when he walked in, and Sasha was forced to wonder how many dubiously physical supernatural bars and hang-outs existed in random back rooms of mundane stores. Were these things just everywhere? Or were there only a few, and so long as you had the right key any door could be an entrance? It was just Sasha’s intuition, but she felt as if it was the latter. 

What would, could Georgie open up for her? What power, what majesty? What world of power and control could Jon give her, that Jon was trying to hard to give her that she kept refusing? Nobody was telling her the cost. Nobody was letting her make a decision. She was being swept up in the wake of giants, and Sasha was just trying to keep her head above water. 

Georgie was still walking confidently down the aisles, and Sasha stumbled trying to keep up. Finally, she came to a stop in a back corner, utterly secluded with a booth that stretched the entire corner, large enough for seven or more people. Georgie turned to Sasha, smiling broadly, and Sasha tried not to feel intimidated. 

“Honey, these are my friends. Girls, this is my new roommate, Sasha James!”

With a flourish, she made a little tah-dah motion, and the smoky yellow lamp above the table flickered on. 

The table was crowded with women, or women appearing people. Absolutely none of them were familiar. No - in the corner, there was one person who was familiar. Michael, blonde hair hurting her eyes in curly ringlets, hands in his coat pockets. He smiled crookedly at her, jarring her adrift. 

“Uh,” Sasha said, confused. Who were these people? “Hello?”

A short East Asian woman in a white tank top and black jeans scowled from where she was slouching in her seat. “One of those Beholding patsies? Please, Georgie, they’re so insufferable.”

“I like this one,” Georgie said cheerfully. She slid into an empty seat, and Sasha cautiously sat next to her. “Play nice, everyone.”

“You’re such a grouch, Jude,” a woman said, leaning forward and looking interestedly at Sasha. Her eyes were dark and big, her head cocked, giving her an almost insectoid air. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person finally, Archivist. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re really making waves in our little community.”

“Patsy Archivist,” a tall and burly white woman with cascading brown hair said shortly, taking long gulps of a pint. “What’s impressive about that?”

“I’m impressed with anyone who puts up with Sims and Magnus long enough,” the insectish woman said. “No offence, Georgie.”

“Oh, they’re insufferable,” Georgie said cheerfully. “Have you heard how those two like to socialize? They go to galas. With those awful little Fairchilds and Lukases and whatever. It’s just tragic.”

“Word,” the insect woman said, raising her glass. The rim seemed to be coated in cobwebs, making Sasha feel vaguely ill. “Much rather have a pint at a nice little pub with friends. But we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Annabelle Cane. I’m sure you’ve heard of me in all those little stories you like.”

Anabelle Cane. Sasha swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“A proxy Archivist she may be,” Michael said serenely, “but perhaps our most successful yet. She’s already coming along so much further than Gertrude ever did.” He winked bizarrely at Sasha. “Michael, but you already know that. They and them, if you please.”

Oh. Sasha blinked at them. “Thanks for...saving my life back there. And Tim’s and Martin’s.”

“My pleasure,” Michael said affably. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Always nice to have the Eye owe me a favor.”

“They’re just mad they didn’t get to kill Gertrude,” the brunette said evenly. “Julia Montauk. You should know me too, I think. Is it true you killed someone?”

“I definitely didn’t,” Sasha said heatedly. “It was a set-up.”

“Relax, we’re all killers here,” the woman in a tank top said. She scowled at Sasha. “Jude Perry. What the fuck do those old money ponces think they’re doing, installing another patsy Archivist this late in the game? I would have thought that they learned their lesson after that bitch Gertrude.”

“Archivists are quite slow learners,” a woman piped up. She sat in the corner, strangely oddly. Her skin was shiny and strange in the dim light, almost plasticish, and her dark eyes hadn’t moved from Sasha’s face since she walked in. “Nikola. A pleasure, Archivist.”

“Are you guys all…” Sasha trailed off uncomfortably. “You know?”

“Serial killers?” Julia Mauntauk asked flatly. 

“Inhuman monstrosities of plastic and flesh?” Nikola inquired. 

“Daughters of fear entities that control our every action?” Annabelle said. 

“Embodiments of unknown concepts made sentient, forced into a shape that cannot suit them, locked in flesh and fractal prisons, always screaming in endless turmoil, unable to understand the horrors of the concepts of ourselves, always searching for the sweet release of death that can never quite be obtained, because that which does not live can never die?” Michael said serenely. 

“Assholes?” Jude Perry said flatly. 

“The sexiest Avatars around?” Georgie asked. 

How did Sasha’s life devolve to this point. 

“...yeah,” Sasha said. “Hey, where can I get more drinks?”

Unsurprisingly enough, the drinks came very fast. Service was excellent when you hung out with eldritch women, Sasha supposed. 

The conversion flew thick and fast after that. In Sasha’s experience, joining a new group of established friends meant being ignored for favor of pre-existing dynamics. It was always uncomfortable, and no small part of why she just didn’t join new groups. Tim had never had that problem - he had a loud and persistent personality, the kind that made you pay attention to him. He dominated any room he entered, by force if necessary. It always seemed exhausting to Sasha, but Tim didn’t really seem to have anymore real friends than she did lately. His personality was like an ocean, overwhelming and everywhere, but when his mood turned sour it was just as intense. Gulfs of pleasure, intense pain - it seemed exhausting, to feel so deeply. God knows Sasha didn’t. 

But today, in this group, she seemed to be novel. Maybe new fear avatars were a rare enough thing, or at least ones with Georgie’s seal of approval. They aimed a barrage of questions at her, and Sasha did her best to keep up with each one.

How did Sasha know Georgie? Mostly through a mutual enemy. Oh, fuckin’ Sims, right - you guys friends? No, I hate him. You guys fucking? Ew. Right, right, Sims is a giant prude - actually I heard that he doesn’t really - no, Jon decided a while back he doesn’t do that, and we all respect his decision - ew, though, nobody wants to imagine that. So why are you two friends? We’re roommates, mostly, I’m kinda on the run from the cops. Who’d you kill? Nobody. Who’d that old fucker Bouchard kill? Jurgen Leitner, mostly. 

“Cheers to that!” Julia said abruptly, raising her glass. “Hate that fucker.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Annabelle said, downing her own drink and what seemed like an improbable quantity of spiders. She leaned over the table to where Sasha had hastily been stuffed in, beetle-black eyes gleaming. “But really. What are you doing here?”

“As I said,” Sasha said uncomfortably, “I got framed for murder -”

But Annabelle just waved her hand. “No, no, we know that. I’m asking what are you doing here? With people like us, in a place like us? You’re just a sexy librarian. Your highest goal in life was owning your own cottage house one day. How’d you get wrapped up in the tangled web of our world?”

Sasha’s mouth ran dry, her head spinning in a way that didn’t really seem to have anything to do with the alcohol. How had she ended up like this? Who was to blame?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Sasha said dizzily. “He -”

“Didn’t know you Beholding types were in the process of lying to yourselves,” Annabelle said, casually yet brutally. “No, really.”

Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said, “I guess I just asked all the wrong questions.”

It was a pretty way of dressing up the real answer: that Sasha didn’t know. 

Maybe her thoughts were obvious, because Georgie cooed sympathetically and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Cheer up, honey, it’s not so bad. Not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s just your own rotten luck.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude called, lifting her glass. “I love my fucking life. It’s hookers, coke, and blow from here to Scotland. The life of a woman with power’s a thousand times better than the life of a woman without, James.”

“What is with you people and hedonism,” Sasha muttered. 

“Why not?” Nikola asked, tilting her head strangely. “Life’s so short when it’s this long. It’s just bread and circuses, Archivist. We all need...entertainment.”

“Humans are always trying to make sense of it all,” Michael said arily. They were digging their fingers into the table, scoring long grooves in it. “When you know there’s no meaning, no purpose, then everything else just...falls away.”

Sasha didn’t know if she believed that, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she said, “What about those Avatars like Magnus or Raynor? They seem really...driven.”

Georgie giggled, light and airy, and leaned in. “That’s because they don’t know.”

She shouldn’t even ask. She shouldn’t - “Know what?”

Georgie smiled, sharp and wicked. “That there’s no point.”

And that was all she would say on that for the night: conversation after that devolved into parties, restaurants, drugs, and conquests. Maybe the women were right, in their own clearly demented way: that without death there was no meaning, when when there was no meaning only pleasure held any significance. If there was no afterlife, no reward or punishment - which Sasha didn’t believe, but they seemed to - then there was no reason not to do what you wanted. To have fun. To take revenge. 

If all Georgie wanted was to have fun, and if all Jon wanted was revenge, then what did Jonah Magnus want? Sasha didn’t know. She had the feeling that if she didn’t figure it out, she wasn’t going to live much longer. 

Why had Jonah Magnus done this to her? What was the point of framing her for murder? She couldn’t do her job like this. What’s the point? 

Half-drunk, head spinning, she found herself vocalizing this. Somehow, Annabelle Cane had ended up sitting next to her, letting spiders run along her slightly too long and too jointed fingers. Annabelle Cane just smiled at her, jaw slightly slacking open to expose teeth. 

“Maybe it’s just to fuck with you,” Annabelle posited. “Why not? Do you think he has another reason?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha groaned. “I don’t know anything. Everything’s confusing and terrible. I could never understand those psychopaths.”

“You won’t make it very far in this line of work if you never ask why,” Annabelle scolded. She paused a second, spider running thoughtfully across her eyeball. “But too many questions damns you just as effectively, I suppose. Hm. Jonah’s quite good, isn’t he.”

“Why me,” Sasha groaned. “Everyone’s trying to keep shit from me, it fuckin’ - it fuckin’ sucks, man. It sucks. Nobody would tell me what’s going on, but I don’t think anybody knows what’s going on. Not even Jonah, or Jon, or - or anyone. Nobody but me.”

Annabelle blinked at her, somewhat curiously, before leaning in. Her perfume lingered in the air, a heavy rosy scent. “Do you know something that Jonah doesn’t?”

“Yeah,” Sasha slurred, world fading in and out. “Jonah doesn’t know that Jon -”

Then the world faded into black, and Sasha fell asleep. 

If she had felt too old for this at the nightclub, she definitely felt too old for this hangover. Sasha spent twenty minutes crouched over a toilet bowl, reluctantly shoved the Eggs Benedict in her mouth that Georgie insisted was a hangover cure, somehow, and refused the Bloody Mary that Georgie also insisted was a hangover cure that her Mum used to feed her. The thought of Georgie’s Mum filled Sasha with a deep fear, incapable of imagining somebody who was both likely born in the 1800s and who had raised a hellion like Georgie. 

When Sasha mumbled this to Georgie, she didn’t look offended. She just smiled, strangely fond. “Oh, none of this is my Mum’s fault. She was a darling, her and my Da. My childhood was positively idyllic. All things considered, you know.”

Yes, Sasha thought, struggling to imagine 1910s London in her mind, idyllic. She took another look at Georgie, squinting slightly as her head throbbed. She definitely seemed younger physically than Jon, but Jon had a particular way of carrying age about him that had nothing to do with his appearance. “When did you stop aging?”

“I forget, honestly,” Georgie said airly, sipping her own bloody mary. For some reason, Sasha didn’t believe her. “It always takes a while to notice, you know. I suppose, logically, it would be about when I died the first time.”

That, more than anything, alarmed Sasha. “I thought you couldn’t die.”

“Not permanently,” Georgie said, as if this was somehow obvious. “Eat your eggs, they’ll get cold.” Sasha frantically shoved eggs in her mouth, desperate for the story. But Georgie just sighed and propped her chin on her hand, eyes distant. “You know how it is. Small town girl, grew up in North Birmingham, Alabama - back when it was just a tiny little thing, you know. I wanted to be a star. I always did. Scared of dyin’ in the dirt. If I was gonna die young, I wanted to do it where everybody knew my name. So long as they remember you, it’s no kind of death at all, really.” She sighed, lost in memory. “I could sing so good...so I went to Harlem, ‘cause all my friends and I always had dreams of going to Harlem and making it big singing in the jazz clubs. They didn’t get so far, staying at home with their babies, but I did. Wasn’t really made for babies and such, I think.” Something strange emerged in her words, the last vestiges of a Southern accent. “I was pretty, and I could sing, and I took to the spotlight like a duck to water. It was tough, but man - if it ain’t tough, it ain’t worth it. I worked so hard. Like I was working myself to death, almost.”

She trailed off, birds softly trilling outside, and Sasha was silent. 

Quietly, Georgie began speaking again. “Got into some trouble. You know how it is. I spent dozens of years wondering if it was my fault, if there was something I coulda done differently, zig instead of zag...but now, I don’t think so. Just my own rotten luck, you know. Put my trust in the wrong people. Had the wrong sentence whispered into my ear.” She shrugged listlessly. “Couldn’t handle the truth. Just another girl who couldn’t handle the limelight, that was what they said. But I was set up to fail. All those jazz clubs were ganger run, you couldn’t avoid it. Every girl in that golden age fell prey to those men, same as I did. I just wanted to feel again. Tried everything once, just to feel something.” She sighed, taking another drink. “Got shot. Got back up. I remember it, clear as day. Must have been 1923. I scrubbed the blood out of my show dress and went back on stage that night, cuz you can’t get a rep as a flake. They said, that day...that day was my best performance.”

She trailed off, Sasha finally alert. She wanted more details, almost desperately, but she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to risk putting the whammy on her host, even if she wasn’t sure that she could. If Georgie was being purposefully vague...well, Sasha wasn’t entitled to her pain. 

Instead, she said, “I bet you were good.”

Georgie smiled at her wanly, eyes far away. “I was the best.”

They sat in silence for a little while, eating their food, Sasha’s head ringing and mind buzzing. What about this picture was she not understanding? What was so important that she was missing?

Finally, Sasha carefully floated, “I bet you must have met Jon soon after.”

Georgie looked up from her bloody mary, surprised. “Oh, yes. Just a few months after. He must have caught the word on the wind, you know, of that singing girl who got back up after getting shot in the lungs.” She sighed, propping her chin on her hand again. “Saw him in the front row of my club. He was so handsome, and so finely dressed. But there had been something strange in his eyes, you know? Like little marbles, reflecting the lamps. He caught up to me afterwards, and I figured he was just another fan to squeeze dry, but he told me in his funny little accent I’d never heard before that he could help me.” She swallowed, looking away. “That he could help me understand what was happening to me. Why I was having those strange dreams, seeing those strange tendrils. I guess he was right. After I met him, I understood it all. Things moved fast after that.” She smiled weakly at Sasha. “I suppose you know the rest.”

She really didn’t, but Sasha understood the dismissal for what it was. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me all of that.”

“It’s no secret,” Georgie said dismissively. She smiled cunningly. “A hundred years later almost exactly, and what I did to those gangsters was still my finest work. They say that if you pass by an old building on St. Nicholas Avenue, you can still hear the screams. Anyway, I have a meeting with my land development company in an hour, must run, ta!”

On that distressing note Georgie swanned out the door, and Sasha was left alone with nothing but a stack of conspiracy theories, an opulent flat, and bad memories. 

Time seemed to move quickly, yet sluggishly, after that. After another day of writing down literally every Statement she could remember off the top of her head and trying to fit them into the weird and seemingly kind of arbitrary categories that Leitner had given her, she had hit a roadblock. She couldn’t remember any more Statements, she didn’t have access to them, and the ones she did remember she either already sorted or couldn’t dredge up enough memory of them to sort them in a satisfactory way. Either that, or the Statement itself was just incomprehensible - Sasha still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with Tessa’s problem. She tended to have a better memory of the ones that seemingly mentioned the Avatars in the background, just because it had been so startling to actually meet them - and a few even mentioned Jon, usually in context of Salasea or any Eye Statement. 

When Georgie came home that night, they watched another movie and they both studiously avoided mentioning anything supernatural. Best not to take work home with you, even if Sasha had never quite been good at that. 

The next day Sasha did what she should have done in the first place, and hacked into the Magnus Institute server. 

It was seriously, comically easy. Sasha had installed a backdoor connection to the desktop of her work computer from her laptop ages ago, and all she had to do was borrow one of Georgie’s laptops and redownload the program. With an easy virtual desktop she was already in. It was somehow satisfying to see all of her work programs pop up on the borrowed laptop, and it was almost a relief to access the Archive drive that connected all of their computers. More importantly, where they all put their research follow-ups and the spreadsheet that documented the debunked, uncertain, and verified statements. It had gotten to the point where if the statement refused to record on the computer they automatically put it on verified, but what Sasha really wanted from that spreadsheet was the one sentence description they had all put for each Statement. 

From there, it was much easier. Sasha, sick of the disorganized conspiracy theorist aesthetic, made her own spreadsheet and began categorizing the verified Statements that way. Much more reliable than working from memory. 

If only she could actually access the Statements...Sasha’s life would be so much easier if everything could be digitized. The debunked ones were typed up, filed, and recorded, but the verified ones only existed on paper. Couldn’t be typed up, couldn’t be recorded. It was so stupid. 

Sasha checked the clock. Eleven am on a Wednesday. They were definitely all still working. Maybe…

It was an invasion of privacy. Did she actually care about that? No. Was she worried about apparently being locked into an employment contract with an...entity of some sort that preyed on invasions of privacy? No, although she felt like she should. Was she concerned that Jon and Jonah were trying to turn into her a conduit of this entity’s power into the world, probably gradually turning her, if not evil, at least into a giant dick? Somewhat. 

Words echoed through her mind, and Sasha’s fingers halted over the keyboard. Her powers manifesting differently than Jon’s...her unique skill with hacking…

Well, that was just kind of offensive. Sasha had worked hard for her skills. They weren’t given to her by Jon’s weird god. Also - seriously, a god? It was just a malevolent eldritch entity living in a separate dimension that encroached tendrils into Sasha’s life. There was nothing divine about it. That was just offensive. Sasha was a good feminist, transgender Catholic on the run from the law and didn’t worship false idols. 

It was only then that Sasha noticed a folder on the drive that she hadn’t created. It was labelled ‘For the Archivist’. Despite herself, she clicked on it. 

It held a few pdfs. Sasha clicked on one curiously, and saw that they were photocopies of statements. No - of Statements. She was already recognizing this one as one of those spider ones. She quickly printed them all out, conscientious of how easily supernatural files corrupted, and quickly exited the drive and the virtual desktop.

It wasn’t until Sasha was already in the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of Jack that she realized what she was doing. She sighed, replaced it, and fetched herself some sparkling water instead. She drank it slowly as she returned to her laptop and logged remotely into the police database, which she already had a backdoor into. 

It occurred to Sasha, perhaps belatedly, that if the police found her laptop and the incredible variety of highly illegal programs meant explicitly for accessing secure servers she was probably triple going to jail. This time, for something she had actually did. 

All of the hacking had never felt illegal. It had just felt...well, fun and necessary. It had never been about whether or not she should, it had been about if she could. 

Was that how it had started for Jon? Collecting household secrets because he had to, so secure the money and influence he desperately needed, because he could, because it was fun? 

Whatever. Sasha shook herself. She could have her moral crisis after she was no longer on the run from the cops for murder. This wasn’t the time to be squeamish about something that wasn’t hurting anybody. She knew, as Jon probably did, that just because something was illegal didn’t make it wrong. 

It was easy to log onto the police database and check out her own open case. She frequently checked out open homicide cases for fun, but it somehow hit a little different when it was her they were talking about. Incident, Senior Citizen, Offence: First Degree Murder, Location of Arrest: N/A, yeah, yeah, yeah…

One victim, a John Doe. Foul play was suspected...yes that’d be the gunshot wound. No witnesses. Reporting officer’s narrative...Elias Bouchard and Jonathan Sims the Fifth had walked into Head Archivist Sasha James’ office to discuss work with her when they found the body. Both were shocked and called the police...gun found at the scene had her fingerprints and the ballistics matched...suspect still at large. Friends and family had been contacted, everyone denied knowledge of where she was. Suspect had a noted history of mental illness...great…

The officers dispatched had been Alice Tonner and Basira Hussein. Sasha found that strange: Basira had history with one of the witnesses and the suspect, wouldn’t it be unprofessional to send her out? 

There couldn’t be that many sectioned officers, Sasha reasoned. Even if the incident hadn’t officially been sectioned, because the police report still existed, as a general rule if something happened at the Magnus Institute it was sectioned until proven otherwise. Even if the murder itself was seemingly mundane. 

Out of curiosity, she searched up Detective Tonner’s records. Been on the force for a long time, worked her way up the ranks. Very, very few cases and incident reports for a detective who had been on the force as long as she had. Sectioned, obviously, but even Basira had more official cases than she did. When Sasha clicked on the incident reports, they were extremely spotty and strange. Obvious details were omitted or censored. 

Something cold began to creep down Sasha’s spine. She found the arrest records of the latest four people with official records of Detective Tonner arresting them. 

Almost all of them had entered custody with bruises, cuts, and in one case a broken limb. They all had records down as ‘resisting arrest’. Sasha felt sick. 

There was one case that stopped strangely short. A clear perp, a rapist but one with little evidence, who Tonner had quickly caught. That was where the case ended: the report that Tonner had found his hiding spot, but no arrest, no trial, no prison sentence. When Sasha investigated the perp, she found that he had unceremoniously vanished shortly after Tonner had reported that she had found his hiding spot. A month later, a death certificate had been filed. 

Sasha stared at the death certificate, nauseated. This was who she was dealing with. A vigilante, some batshit pig who had obviously decided that the law was best taken into her own hands. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but...if anybody looked at Sasha’s case on paper, they’d say the same thing. 

And that was just the cases on record. It was the only obvious instance Sasha could see of Tonner having offed someone just because she felt like it, but cops were good at covering shit like that up. How many other arrest records had fallen in the cracks? How many other dead perps that nobody gave a shit about? How many sectioned cases? 

God, Sasha was fucked. 

She begged off hanging out with Georgie that night, instead staying in bed with the covers pulled tight over her head as if that could ever protect her. Why was Jonah doing this to her? What did he have to gain? If he wanted her to die a mysterious death in the bottom of a ditch, why wasn’t he man enough to do it himself?

Tonner was going to murder her, Sasha thought hysterically, and she was going to pat herself on the back for keeping another monster off the streets. 

And Jon knew. The fucking hypocrite. He wasn’t going to help her. Nobody was. But, god, she was so alone…

The next morning, as if she knew, Georgie slipped Sasha a burner phone over the breakfast table as they both robotically ate quiches. 

“It should be untraceable, but just know that anybody you call you’re putting at serious risk,” Georgie warned, before her expression softened. “This’ll all be over soon, honey. I promise.”

“Did Jonah tell you that?” Sasha asked bitterly. 

“Nah. I just know those two.” Georgie delicately ate a forkful of quiche. “They get bored of terrorizing humans pretty quickly. Now, Michael’s a different story. They’ll terrorize someone for decades. I’ve seen them do it!”

“Great,” Sasha said. 

It seemed to be at this point that Georgie realized she was actually making Sasha feel much worse, because a slightly panicked expression crossed her face and she quickly reached out to pat Sasha on the hand. “But I’m sure they won’t do that to you,” Georgie said quickly. “They love you! Jon especially. Jonah’s just on another of his little power trips right now, he’ll get over it. And Jon, like, feels really bad about this whole thing. He’s been super annoying about it, actually -”

“See,” Sasha said, standing up to clear away her dishes, “I would rather handle an enemy who obviously wants to kill me than a friend whose good side I always have to be careful to stay on, who I can’t afford to ever make mad. I guess that’s the only difference left between me and you people.”

She angrily put her dishes in the sink, where the housekeeper would do them, and stalked to what was rapidly becoming her room, slamming the door. 

Flopping down on the bed, she stared at the burner phone. Tim wouldn’t be at work yet. They could talk. They could - 

Do what? Get back together? Split up? Could he explain, beg for her forgiveness? Did she have to apologize too? Sasha didn’t understand. 

That was rare for her. She understood a lot of things, or at least she thought she did. Maybe she had been lying to herself, about everything: that her and Tim were a good idea, that Martin was sketchy,  that Jon was evil, that Jon was kind, that Georgie just wanted to help her, that there was nothing that Jonah Magnus would do to her, that she was safe and human and a good person. 

God, her capacity for self-delusion was ridiculous. But maybe people needed a little bit of self-delusion to survive. Nobody could live in complete honesty, in full sight of their flaws and shortcomings. You could burn away, living like that. 

No. No time or space for fear. Sasha wasn’t afraid of anything. If she kept telling herself that, maybe it would be true. She desperately punched in a number that she didn’t remember memorizing, holding the phone desperately to her ear, her one connection to humanity. 

It rung, and rung, and one, and Sasha’s heart thumped in her chest. 

Finally, the ringing stopped, and a slightly sleepy voice punctuated the dead air. “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s me,” Sasha burst out, everything she wanted to say to him rushing through her throat and choking her, and she burst into tears. 

Distantly, through the sound of her crying, she could hear Tim on the other side losing his shit, and eventually wrangling himself to calmness. 

It was almost funny, how they could work each other up like that. Eventually, by the time Sasha had managed to wrangle her own crying, Tim had calmed himself down enough that he was able to clumsily try to cheer her up. 

“We’re all fine. Everyone’s perfectly safe. Martin’s gotten, uh, even more annoying since you left, and we’ve technically hired Melanie, which is - not good but it’s funny? Are you still crying? Please don’t still be crying.”

“I’m fine,” Sasha hiccuped. She rubbed at her red eyes. God, she’d missed him. “Tim, what happened?”

The line was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Is this line secure?”

“Uh - probably? I mean -” Sasha quickly checked herself. She didn’t want to mention Georgie. The less he knew the better. “ - it’s a burner, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not the one who bought it.”

“Where are you living?” Tim asked harshly. “Are you homeless? You have to come stay with me, I can -”

“You mean the first place Tonner will look?” Sasha shot back. “No. I’m safe, I’m dry, things are fine. That’s all you need to know.” She softened her voice. “I promise, if it was safe I’d tell you more. I want to see you again. Tim, I - I’m really sorry.”

Tim laughed hoarsely, without humor. “Shouldn’t it be me saying that? I’m the one who thought you were a monster.”

“...yeah, that one’s on you.” Sasha sighed miserably, lying down on her bed, wishing Tim was next to her. “I am, though. A monster, I mean. Tim, I - I’m definitely not entirely human anymore.”

“God, Sash, that’s the least of our problems right now,” Tim said, laughing slightly again. “Can you just tell me what happened? I know you didn’t fucking do it. That dick Bouchard keeps playing dumb and his shitlead lackey keeps on avoiding the Archives. I bet Sims killed that old man, right? He totally did. Martin keeps on saying that his precious Jon wouldn’t let you take the fall for something he did, but I’m not so sure.”

“I...it’s more complicated than that.”

Sasha explained in short order. For once, Tim was totally silent the entire time, letting Sasha dispassionately recite the entire sad story. She finished it at Michael helping her escape, not detailing where she had been dropped off. 

Finally, after a long silence, Tim said, “So this is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Sasha said harshly. “You were manipulated, same as I was.”

“I’m the idiot who -”

“Yes, you were being an idiot. You should have talked to me, talked to anyone. You should have done anything other than your homicidal partner in crime. You definitely shouldn’t have been buying a fucking black market gun when I know for a fact you have no idea how to shoot. But you tried playing hero and you played straight into Magnus’ hands. You fucked up. Okay? Now let’s try to do better.”

More silence, until Tim sighed. “Can’t believe the Douche’s Jonah Magnus. Explains why Sims is always playing lackey for him. Can’t wait to spill to Martin how his boyfriend framed his boss for murder.”

Sasha chewed her lip, uncertain. She hadn’t shared the details of Jonah and Jon’s conversation too closely - it had seemed private. “See, I’m not sure this is...entirely Jon’s fault.”

Tim groaned. “Not you too! Why is everyone but me and Melanie a fucking Sims apologist?”

“Jon and Jonah are...they’re weird, okay?” Sasha moved to chewing her hair, uncertain of how to describe it. If it should even be described. It seemed so private, so unsuitable to name...but maybe everybody thinking that was how these things stayed perpetuated for so long. “I think Jonah’s kind of, you know, abusive?”

The line went silent again. 

“Wow,” Tim said finally, “Martin’s going to be so disappointed his boyfriend’s taken.”

“They’re just friends! I think. I’m like, ninety percent sure. But you didn’t hear them, Tim. They’re really...it’s messed up. Trust me.”

“Jesus, Sash, why are you defending someone who fucked all of us over like this? Sims is a big boy, he’s responsible for his own shitty decisions and the shitty company he keeps.” Tim snorted. “I’ve heard them talk, anyway. If anything, Magnus is the one always giving into Sims and his little tantrums. Jesus, I just want to throttle the both of them.”

“Maybe you need to get over your anger issues and focus on actually solving the problem for once,” Sasha snapped. “Nobody has time for your revenge fantasy, Tim! We need to fix all of this.”

“Which one is it, Sash?” Tim asked coldly. “Was I manipulated, or was it my anger issues and hero complex? Are you going to decide if this is my fault or not?”

Sasha’s heart stuttered in her chest. She didn’t know how to explain to him what she knew - that it was everything, that it was all of the above, that he was manipulated through his anger issues and hero complex, that Tim had been pushed in a direction but he had taken the steps all by himself. But she couldn’t blame him entirely, because Sasha had been manipulated the same way, and so had Jon and Martin and Georgie, and if she started thinking like that then she would have to start hating the whole damn world. 

“Tim, are we going to stay together?” Sasha whispered, broken-hearted. “Can we even still be together? I love you. I want you here with me. But there’s so much ugliness that’s growing between us. I don’t know if this can be fixed.”

A long silence again. Sasha wanted to be there with him, to read his face, to see what he was thinking. She had always understood him so well, or at least she thought that he did. 

“I love you too,” Tim said finally. “I want to fix this too. I - I don’t know, Sasha. I love you. The thought of you alone, in danger, and not even knowing where you are, is fucking me up. It’s like Danny all over again, Sasha, I can’t handle this. Can we have this conversation again when I know you’re safe?”

“Okay,” Sasha said, and she knew that this was probably the best both of them could do right now. “Are we staying together?”

“...I don’t know.”

“...are we breaking up?”

“...still don’t know.”

“Okay,” Sasha repeated again, and sighed. “I won’t call you from this phone twice. I’m doing the best I can here. I’m safe, I think. Things will be okay, Tim.”

“Sash,” Tim said, “I don’t remember the last time things were okay.”

And neither did she, and they both knew it, and she hung up on him without saying anything further. She lay on the bed, listening faintly to the sound of the housekeeper vacuuming, staring up at the fan as it beat in a steady rhythm on the ceiling. 

Was Tim right? Was she reading too much into Jon and Jonah? It wasn’t her job to fix Jon, to puzzle out his weird psychology. Maybe he was just an asshole without a spine,and there wasn’t anything more to that.

No. Sasha didn’t believe that. This was a puzzle that she hadn’t solved yet, and she had the feeling that at the heart of this puzzle was the key to finally keeping herself and Tim safe. She couldn’t abide a mystery, couldn’t trick herself into thinking that the truth wasn’t important. The truth was all Sasha had. She couldn’t close her eyes to it, that awful and ugly reality. 

Tim...he had been such a bad idea. But he had always been her favorite one: the way he could always cheer her up, his bright and bold smile, his courage and heart and sensitivity and vulnerability. He had loved her, truly and wholly, for who she was. He knew the ugly corners of her and loved them as much as he loved her best attributes. 

Was that still true? Was Sasha turning into a person that Tim just couldn’t love? Was Tim turning into someone that Sasha couldn’t love? 

People changed. Sometimes they changed apart. And for some strange reason, Sasha just couldn’t bear the thought of that. 

Lying on the bed of a grim reaper, crying like a broken-hearted teenager, Sasha didn’t notice that the housekeeper’s vacuum had stopped running. She didn’t notice the knock on the door, or the creak of the door opening, or the gentle rise and fall of voices. She only heard it when there was a soft knock at her own door, and she was forced to roll off the bed to open her bedroom door. 

Standing in front of her, looking nervous, was the housekeeper. Standing behind her was Jonathan Sims. 

He looked pretty bad, Sasha noted clinically. Eye bags, even more pronounced than usual, stood starkly under his eyes, and his hair wasn’t as cropped short and styled as it usually was. It had grown out a little, making Jon look more like a tired modern guy walking the streets of London than a centuries old immortal psychic vampire. He was still dressed in a suit, as he always was, but the suit jacket was off and his dress shirt was rolled up to the elbow.

He stared at Sasha, probably registering every minute change in her appearance as she did his, before glancing down at the housekeeper. “You’re excused for the day. Thank you for your time.”

He passed her something - probably neatly folded bills - and nodded at her as she shakily nodded back and escaped the flat as quickly as possible. Jon stepped backwards in the hallway, gesturing for her to come out, and walked back into the living room. Because Sasha was just slightly too prideful to barricade herself in the bedroom, and partly because she wasn’t sure that Jon wouldn’t break into a woman’s bedroom, she stepped out into the grandiose yet cluttered living room with him. He stood in the center, hands in his pockets, looking over the flat with a clinical eye. 

“Georgie’s sense of interior decoration is as immaculate as ever,” Jon noted clinically. “She used to spend months getting every house we ever lived in just right. Said it was her job as lady of the household. She had never been a lady of any household, of course, not in the way that Jonah and I had once known - but her fun’s important to her, and it doesn’t hurt anybody important.” He sniffed slightly. “You coming to stay here was for the best after all. She’s been lonely, I think.” 

“I’m staying here because I’m homeless,” Sasha said flatly. For the first time, she noticed a small manila envelope under his arm, tucked slightly into his back pocket. “Because of you.”

“I’ve kept your flat for you,” Jon said eagerly, stepping forward, and letting his cold mask fall. In him now was something eager, something almost pleading. Sasha forced herself not to step away. “All of your possessions are intact, and I can get your bank accounts unfrozen easily enough. Once all of this blows over, your life can be right back to normal.”

“Wow,” Sasha drawled, crossing her arms, “how kind. Were you so busy being this nice to me that you forgot that Georgie barred you from this flat because I don’t want to fucking look at you?”

“She’ll get over it,” Jon said dismissively. “She’s been wanting us to make up, anyhow.” He stepped closer again, fluorescent green eyes fixed on her large and warm brown ones, and Sasha fought the tingle crawling up her spine. “Sasha, I really am sorry. Jonah was out of line in what he did. But - but you know, he really does know best. Even if it doesn’t seem so. What we’re doing now, it’s for the best for your development. I promise this will all blow over soon, and things will be better. For all of us.”

“For a subject of a truth god,” Sasha said, voice dripping sarcasm, “you have a unique ability to lie to yourself.”

Jon puffed up, scowling down at her. “That’s ridiculous. I -”

“Does Jonah Magnus respect you?” Sasha pressed. 

Jon...hesitated, and they both saw it. Jon frantically tried to cover, quickly saying, “Of course he does. I’m his partner, and we’ve been partners for two hundred years. There’s nobody on earth he respects more than me. There’s nobody he respects but me.”

“Then why does he talk to you like you’re an idiot?”

“He talks to everyone like that.”

“Because he doesn’t respect anyone but you. You just said that. But if he respects you, then wouldn’t he talk to you differently?”

There it is - Jon’s shoulders hunched slightly, unconsciously on the defensive. “Does he give you equal input on decisions?”

“I always give my -”

“Does he listen to them?”

Jon was silent. Finally, slowly, he said, “Jonah was right. He said you’d get like this.”

Fuck. Sasha’s heart sank, even as her jaw dropped in incredulity. She had lost him. “You must be kidding.”

“He said you’d get jealous.” Jon crossed his arms, turning slightly away from her, but what he clearly meant to be a closed-off stance just seemed defensive. “He said that you’d get upset that I’m more loyal to him than to you. What we’re doing now is for your own good, Miss James. You’ll see one day that this - this unpleasantness is helping you grow.”

Unpleasantness? Unpleasantness?! Putting her life at risk was an inconvenience? “I’ll see, huh?” Sasha said bitterly. “Just like you saw? Just like how you changed your mind from this being cruel and traumatic to it being a momentary unpleasantness?” She barked a short laugh, not very humorous at all. “I was there. He called you stupid, he said that you couldn’t trust anybody but him, and he called you an idiot. Are those the words of someone who respects you? Of someone who even likes you?”

Jon stiffened, mouth tightening, and he broke eye contact and looked away. “Don’t concern yourself with the private business between Jonah and I.”

“When you’re having the conversation over a cooling corpse that you framed me for then you’re making it my business, you absolute shitheel!” Sasha yelled, finally losing her temper. “Your bullshit is ruining my life! Your complete inability to stand up to that sack of shit is ruining my life!”

“Shut up!” Jon yelled, seemingly having taken her losing her temper as permission to lose his. Distantly, Sasha was aware of his stupid this must have looked: two fully grown adults, yelling in a living room like children. “You’re a spoiled child who doesn’t know anything! All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and you spit in my face! You’re no better than Martin!”

Abruptly, strangely, Jon stopped short. He seemed almost embarrassed, almost in pain. 

And just like that, Sasha knew. “He’s not letting you see Martin, is he.”

For just a split second, Jon’s expression crumpled, but he forced it back into his haughty mask. “I decided that it was best I didn’t waste my time with manipulative traitors.”

“Was that your idea?” Sasha asked flatly, abruptly extremely tired. “Or was it Jonah’s?”

Jon was silent. They both knew the answer. 

“If you walked up to Jonah now and told him that you wanted to start dating Martin, do you think that you’d leave that conversation still wanting to do it? Or would you somehow decide, all by yourself, that you’ll end up doing what Jonah wants anyway?”

Jon didn’t say anything.

A strange mix of emotions swirled in Sasha’s stomach. Anger and disgust mixed with pity and sadness. What had Jon been like, before he met Jonah Magnus? Had he been a good person?

But maybe that wasn’t so important. Maybe the question that had to be asked was - what kind of person would Jonathan Sims be without Jonah Magnus in his life?

All at once, the fight seemed to go out of Jon. His shoulders sagged, and he abruptly deflated. He looked down at the ground, ashamed and aware of it. He had always been aware of it. He had just been lying to himself. Maybe it was impossible to live without it. 

“I don’t know what to do without him,” Jon said quietly. “I’ve never - I need him.”

“You don’t,” Sasha said, abruptly exhausted. “You want to help me, Jon? You want to protect me and Martin? You can’t do that while staying friends with Jonah Magnus. You have to choose. So long as you stay close to him, you are going to stay within his complete control. That’s what he does. He controls everybody and everything. And you’re letting him. You’re justifying it. You’re doing his work for him. Everybody around him is - even Georgie. There are two people in your life who are trying to get you away from him, and he’s trying to convince you to cut them out of your life. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “You’re wrong.”

“I need your help, Jon,” Sasha whispered, and to her shame found her voice cracking. “I need someone on my side. I can do it alone, but - but I’m scared. And I don’t want to. I need help. I’m scared.”

But she knew, even as she said it, that Jon was scared too. He couldn’t reach out a hand to her - not now, not here. Jon had carried around his fear for hundreds of years, pushing it down and pretending it wasn’t there, and it informed everything he’d ever done. Scrambling for power, exerting that power, desperately dominating even as he was dominated - it stemmed from that fear, all of it. And Jonah Magnus kept those flames fanned, because a Jon who was afraid was a Jon who could be controlled. 

A Sasha who was afraid, who was isolated, who was trapped, was one who could be controlled. 

The realization was dizzying. Somehow, the thought that kept running through her mind was - who’d do that? Who was such a terrible person that they’d go through all that trouble, all of that plotting, just to make someone suffer? Not because they disliked them, not in revenge, not because of any human emotion - but just because it was convenient? Useful?

Because you could?

So this was what power did to a person, Sasha realized. So this was what power and immortality and money and supernatural gifts did to you. It made you someone who Sasha could never hope to understand, whose depths of depravity she could never truly rationalize. To Sasha, who prided herself on knowing people and being able to understand them and their motives - it was almost a relief, almost a blessing, that she couldn’t possibly understand the motives of Jonah Magnus at all. 

Jon stared at her, fluorescent green eyes wide, and for just a minute she could see the fear that she knew was there written all over his face. For just a minute, Sasha and Jon were scared together, both trapped in tumultuous waters that they couldn’t control. For the first time Sasha empathized with Jon. 

Jonah Magnus was somebody that Sasha could never understand. But Jon was, and for the first time Sasha knew what Martin meant when he said that he felt as if Jon had been a good person, a long time ago. 

You can’t understand someone and hate them. Not really. You could be angry, upset, betrayed...but if you really understood someone, backwards and forwards, true hate was difficult to find. 

“I have to go,” Jon said, almost dizzily. He shoved the manila folder at her, both of them having forgotten that it was even there in the first place. He glanced at it, frightened and guilty. “Be - be careful when meeting Jude Perry. Don’t take her at her word. I have to go.”

He fled, as if the hounds of hell themselves were snapping at his heels, and Sasha was left standing in an opulent hallway, clutching a manila folder as if it was a time bomb, completely certain that it was meant to hurt her and cause her pain and damage her, completely certain that she was going to read it anyway. 

Like Jon - what choice did she have? 

But as she stumbled back to her room, as she sat down on the comfortable chair and thumbed on the tape recorder that sat at the desk, the words of Jonathan Sims ran through her mind. His warning. A clumsy attempt at protection. At the very least, a signifier of desire. 

Sasha knew, as she sometimes knew things, that Jon had started out somebody who deeply desired to protect others like him. To take revenge, to grab power, yes, but also to spread that precious knowledge and resources around. He had never stopped thinking of himself as one of those vulnerable people, people who society had stepped on and ground into the dirt. Deep down he had just wanted things to be fair, wanted some justice in the world. Jon, at one point, had only wanted to help. 

Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all. 

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist…”

#my writing #YES I KNOW THIS IS TOO LONG FOR A TUMBLR POST BUT CONSIDER: ITS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR AO3 AND MY STANDARDS ARE INSANE #jonathan sims #georgie barker #sasha james #archivist!sasha #human relations #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jonmartin #jason's tims age

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Read into Me Chapter 11: Love Story

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 4,771

Warnings: fire, injury-all end of season three things!

Author’s Note: Happy belated Strangers Things 3 Day! I wanted to get this up yesterday, but I didn’t have it in me to work. This is the end of the series, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was a fun little ride!

Series Tag: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @jisungiesluv @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @n3wtscaseofniffler5 @peterparxour @linkispink1995 @a-big-ball-of-idk @used-avocado @mochminnie @sledgy14 @the-creative-lie @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @ggclarissa @voidnarnia @anonymousonion33 @awkwardnesshabitat @darkcrystal-wolf @hannahrisacher

Paris was a lonely city. You’d arrived alone, having not seen Steve since prom and still desperate to see him one more time. You’d selfishly kept his sweatshirt, wanting a piece of him to take with you to a different country. Your mother hadn’t picked you up from the airport, having sent a car instead. She didn’t seem much interested in speaking to you after months apart; she was much more interested in redecorating her new condo and talking about her fiancé. You met him, a French fop named Jean-Pierre at least fifteen years her junior. He was nice enough, although a bit fruity for your liking. His interests were more on the modeling jobs your mother was getting him. She had no time for you, which was fine since your lessons at the salon began immediately.

You and thirty-five other young hopefuls spend your days locked in a studio with abundant resources and endless models and objects to sketch. And you hated it. You hated the long, rambling lectures from the artists who came to the salon to preach the values of the school and the importance of French art. They alternated between speaking in French and English without explaining themselves as they switched tongues. Your French language skills were nonexistent, so the lectures were exhausting and endless. The only time they ever seemed to help was when they brought you all to the Louvre to examining the long dead French men who’d made the museum possible. There, you could at least sketch out the greats and enjoy the beauty of the art. Inside the studio, you felt as though your head was going to explode. The lectures spoke too loudly and loomed over you without warning or word, you weren’t allowed your headset or Walkman in the studio to combat them, and the smell of various paints and clays made your stomach churn. The girl who’d taken up the easel next to you, a little German named Lisle, had taken to making clay pots and sculptures and the sound of her pottery wheel mixed with her incessant humming made you want to commit manslaughter. It didn’t help that the smell of the brown clay invaded your sinuses and made you sneeze violently. You dreaded the salon. But you dreaded being at home more.

Your mother had hired you a French tutor, utterly horrified by the fact that you hadn’t been practising. You tried to tell her that, despite her assumptions, Hawkins High had stopped offering a French elective two years before you started there.

“You cannot live in Paris without speaking French! It won’t do!” she moaned. Jean-Pierre was already on the phone, speaking fast into the receiver. You didn’t see what the big deal was. Everywhere you went, people spoke enough English to communicate with you fine. It didn’t occur to you till after dinner that if you were to study in the country, you’d need the language to understand your lessons.

So you got a French teacher, a short tempered older man who insisted on being called Monsieur Bérnard. His greying whiskers moved sharply as he spoke and he often spit on you as he taught proper pronunciation and conjugation. He ranted and raved all afternoon, disgusted by your apparent lack of an ear for languages and your doodling on the edges of notebook paper instead of working. You’d go from sensory overload in the salon to being bullied by a Freud-looking asshole each day with no room for a break or a breath.

You lived for weekends. Rest was very well thought of in the city so the hell spawn tutor didn’t work and the salon locked its doors. You were allowed to wander the city at your leisure, your mother glad to have you out of the apartment. You’d spend most of your days sat at a café near the Eifel Tower, a prime spot to tourists. Every day, you’d bring your sketchpad and try to draw out the profiles of those you passed you by. You spent two weekends working on a sketch of people sunbathing on the lawn in front of the tower. But it seemed you left all your talent in Hawkins. You’d spent so long drawing familiar faces back home, now that you were away from your nest, you found yourself without the skill to capture the faces around you. It occurred to you that you knew the faces of Hawkins far too well. They were engrained in your mind, your hand working like a stamp to put them on the page. France was full of strangers. You didn’t know how to understand them like you understood Hawkins. France wasn’t home. You couldn’t work out in a world of strangers.

You couldn’t work in the salon either. It was too much. Everyone was constantly showboating and trying out-do one another. You couldn’t work with people spying over your shoulder. You felt judged and insecure about what you could do. You didn’t want to be watched as you tried to make art. It didn’t help that you had no idea what to make. The closest thing you’d gotten done is that sketch of the Eifel Tower and that wasn’t something you couldn’t buy on the streets around the monument. You’d tried all the things that you couldn’t in your bedroom-paint splatter art, pottery, carving, paint pulling, mosaics. You never finished anything. The drive to push through wasn’t there.

When the loneliness and fear became too much to bear, you held Steve’s sweatshirt and cried. It still smelt like him; Irish Springs soap and Fabregè Organics shampoo and hairspray and a bit like sweat. It was nice though. You missed him. You tried to write him letters, but you knew that they wouldn’t get home before you did. You’d made up your mind that whatever the answer was, you were going home. Whether that meant deferring a semester or missing the first week of school you would go back to Hawkins. Still, you’d written over a dozen letters, all crumpled in your waste bin.

You waited until the last minute to finish something for submission. You’d tried to sketch your mother, to find who you knew in the fancy woman in front of you. With her bleached blowout and designer clothes, thirty pounds lighter and yellow gold jewellery glinting in the midday sun. She looked like the epitome of elegance, straight out of a magazine. The woman you remembered had greying roots and love handles, her only jewellery the wedding rings your father had given her. Europe had changed her into someone who you didn’t know and who didn’t seem to want to introduce herself to you. Nothing you drew seemed to capture the middle between who she was and who she is now. You realized in her profile that you weren’t a part of her life anymore, that she didn’t want you there. You were as strange to her as she was to you. You passed each other like ghosts in the hall, almost recognizable but hauntingly foreign.

The day before your final piece for submission was due; you got a letter from Steve. It only had one sentence.

“I should have asked you to stay.”

It was all you needed to hear to be inspired. You made your final project a tribute to him, mixing memories with unfinished letters building into his face. You used plain black ink to sketch his profile on the surface of the mess, building him into your loneliness. You only had your memory to recreate his face and your own letters to fill the canvas. Still, it was the only thing you’d done the whole time you were in the country that you were actually proud of. You didn’t finish it until the sun rose and you handed it off to be judged without a second thought, bleary eyed and exhausted.

You were on a plane home by the wee hours of July 4th.

Hawkins was a depressing place. After graduation, Steve found himself listless and at the hands of his father. He was a failure, a disgrace of a son. He was unready to start into the family business. His grades were pathetic. He had to get a job. Of course, with no job experience and late to the game, no decent place wanted him. The new mall only offered him one place of employment, Scoops Ahoy. And the uniform was embarrassing. Stupid sailor shirts and matching shorts, fucking knee socks and a corny paper hat. He looked like a certified geek. And his co-worker was a freak. Robin fucking Buckley did nothing but bug him all shift. It didn’t help that he had no friends without you, even Dustin had left for some nerdy science camp after the school year ended.

He was alone and lonely.

He tried to write you a half dozen times. But nothing seemed to make sense, nothing was worth telling you. What was he supposed to tell you? That he had become an even bigger loser overnight? He felt so utterly pathetic. He just wanted things to go back to the way things were. But what did that even looked like anymore? It wasn’t a life with Nancy, she’d dumped his ass, and it wasn’t a life with you, you’d left him for a different continent. He didn’t have a clue where he was going anymore. So he did what any lonely, practically friendless teenager did-he worked his ass off. Eight hours every day in the mall with smart ass Robin Buckley, waiting for the ground to suck him up. And sure, he tried to hit on the girls his age that came around. It was a good distraction from his broken heart. He’d made up his mind that he was ready to move on and try to date again. That he needed a girlfriend. That he needed to be cool again.

And then, Dustin came back and Hawkins started acting up again. He thought it was over. Those damn dogs were gone, the thing was closed, the kid was safe and acting like a kid. Everything had gone back to as close to normal as he’d seen it in awhile. But Dustin just had to find a secret code and Buckley just had to decode it and Lucas’s bitchy little sister just had to be small enough to fit into the vents and find a secret Russian elevator. And they just had to get stuck in it.

He couldn’t keep that damn kid from seeking out trouble. And yeah, it was kind of fun in a scared shitless kind of way, but it wasn’t worth getting drugged and beaten up and nearly dying for. And it certainly wasn’t worth getting tricked into thinking that he had feelings for fucking Robin. He could murder that kid for getting it in his head that he liked that girl. Robin was cool; he wouldn’t pretend that she wasn’t a decent friend to have at the end of the world. But he didn’t need the embarrassment of trying to ask out a lesbian. At least the reason for her rejecting him wasn’t that he was unattractive or lame, just that she didn’t dig dudes. He was cool with that. And at least he got to punch out a communist. If he could tell his father that without going to prison or being murdered by a Russian goon, he’d be proud. Fuck that, he was proud. He won a fight! He beat up a Russian spy! More than one, he beat some up while drugged out; at least he thought he did. He couldn’t remember much, other than watching Back to the Future with Robin. That movie was too confusing. And then he stole a car, he saved Nancy’s life, he set up that weird tower thing for Dustin-there was too much going on to even recognize how crazy he sounded. How crazy all of this sounded.

And then, the mall was on fire.

Your flight landed on the fourth of July at about ten fifteen in the evening. It took about forty-five minutes to get from the Indianapolis International Airport back to Hawkins. You were buzzing. Seven words had given you all the hope you needed to push you back to the states. Every fibre of your being was alive with energy, with excitement. You couldn’t wait for your grandfather to park the car, you jumped out as soon as you were settled in the driveway.

“Don’t you want to go upstairs and unpack?” your grandmother called after you as you booked it down the driveway.

You turned back “No, I’ll be back later!” you called. Steve’s car wasn’t in the driveway but you figured if anyone was home they’d know where he was. You bounded up the stairs, ringing the doorbell twice.

Mrs. Harrington came to the door in her bathrobe. “Oh, hello there…” she trailed off, obviously unable to remember your name.

“Y/N, hi it’s nice to see you, do you know where Steve is?” you asked, bouncing from your heels to your toes.

Mrs. Harrington narrowed her eyes “He’s at his job I assume. At the mall.” She said slowly.

“What mall?” you demanded. Mrs. Harrington’s eyes blew wide open and you realized that you were probably coming off like an insane person. “Sorry, I’ve been out of the country for about a month.”

“It’s where the Hawkins Laboratories were, off East Wood Road.” She pointed out the door towards the roads. You knew instantly that the fastest way to get there was through the woods. You ran through the backyards of your neighbours and into the woods. You didn’t like the Hawkins forests. They were dark and dim and poorly maintained. The county hadn’t been out to cut down potentially problematic trees on the few hiking paths in the woods.  Burs caught your socks and twigs scratched your legs as you hopped logs to try to get there faster. They’d carved a road through the woods, you’d found it halfway to the mall, deserted and blocked off. You could see the bright orange flames from a mile away.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest. Steve was in there. You could cry.

Instead, you hopped the blockade, running down the road despite the calls of passing fire trucks and police. You didn’t care if they tried to arrest you, although you doubted that they could. It would be a waste of time to bother with you during an emergency.

The parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles. Massive streams of water were attacking the building. Luckily, it seemed the mall was closed, judging by the few people who were milling around not in uniforms. You sprinted into the crowd, looking around frantically.

Steve had been ushered into the back of an ambulance and draped in a bright orange emergency blanket. It wasn’t that cold but he felt as though he was freezing. The EMTs had checked his vitals and disinfected the wounds on his face and knees. As for the remaining drugs in his system, he chose not to mention them. He knew that the high would wear off eventually. Robin was sat next to him, equally bandaged up and silent, save an uncontrollable shiver. Wordlessly, Steve took the blanket off his shoulders and placed it over hers. He wasn’t that cold. Moreover, he just felt numb. He’d had this happen so many times; his face beat in, an otherworldly thing trying to destroy his life and hurt his family, a major building destroyed-it all felt familiar. It made him sick to his stomach to know that it was familiar. If he had anything left in his stomach he would’ve thrown up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something running towards him. At first, he tensed. He didn’t know what it was and it could probably kill him. His heart stopped and then raced wildly. He held out an arm to protect Robin and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Steve!” you cried. He was in an ambulance. He was hurt. He was alive. You felt as if you could cry. In the span of fifteen minutes he’d gone from working to escaping a fiery building to missing in a fire to simply hurt. And hurt was just fine, you could handle hurt.

“Oh my god Steve, are you okay? Are you alright? I love you so much…”You grabbed his face, examining the bruises. You pulled him tightly to your chest, trying not to cry or freak out. You knew it wouldn’t help.

“I love you too…” he breathed into your ear, pulling you close to him. He recognized you by the smell of your hair, the feeling of your arms around him. He could cry. He didn’t believe you were real. But when you pulled away and his hand came to your face. You were real. And you were here. And he was safe. He was safe and alive. Feelings of relief rushed through his body. He wanted to cry, but the shock was too overwhelming for a tear to even drop.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper and hoarser than he’d ever felt it. “I thought you were still in Paris.”

“I came home early,” you chuckled, pressing a kiss to his jaw bone. “I didn’t get in.” That was the nicer version, the judges laughed at your final piece, they called it pedestrian. You should’ve been more upset, your mother was furious, but you couldn’t have cared less. You were free to go home. You could’ve thanked them for rejecting you.

Steve pulled away, looking you squarely in the eye. He wouldn’t have you give up on school to hang out with him in bum fuck Indiana. But you were telling the truth, it was written plainly all over your face. “Those bastards…” Steve murmured. You laughed, your eyes watery and throat thick. You were overwhelmed. You expected to come home and just see him in his element. You expected him to not necessarily want to see you. You didn’t expect a fire or Steve being injured or Steve to even be there at all. You pulled Steve back into your arms, you didn’t want to let go.

“I missed you so much…” you whispered. Steve’s arms came around your hips, pulling you in between his legs. He needed you here, to keep you in place for awhile.

“I missed you too…” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Did you get my letter?”

You looked up “Yeah I did…” you said “I wish I had written you, I tried so many times but I couldn’t find the words and-” Steve kissed you hard, stealing the words from his throat. He didn’t care if you didn’t write him back; this was the best thing he could’ve gotten from you. A letter wouldn’t do it justice.

You were lit up by his kiss. This is what you needed. No words could do the feelings he expressed in his kiss justice. You felt alive. You felt at home. Steve tried to pull away, but you pulled him back by his shirt, kissing him as if your life depended on it. Maybe it did. You couldn’t be sure anymore.

A loud clearing of one’s throat interrupted you and you pulled away to see Robin waving awkwardly. “Oh hey Buckley…” you muttered awkwardly. “How’s Samantha?”

“No clue, she never called me back.” The younger girl shrugged nonchalantly, hopping down from the ambulance deck. “I’ll catch ya later, Harrington.”

You turned your attention back to Steve, looking down at the material still in your fists. He looked ridiculous. “What the fuck are you wearing?” you asked with a laugh. Steve’s hands settled on your lower back, holding you in between his knees as if you’d run off if he didn’t.

“Oh this? This has been my whole summer.” He groaned “I’ve been captaining a boat on an ocean of flavours.” You couldn’t help but cackle, you had no idea what he was talking about but he seemed so serious.  

“And by that you mean?” you lifted the fake red neckerchief attached to his shirt, running the material between your thumb and forefinger.

“Ice cream store in the mall,” he pointed to the embroidered Scoops Ahoy logo on his breast.

“You’re kidding…” you shook your head as if to shake the idea out of your mind. Steve’s fingers trailed the raggedy edge of your sweatshirt. Well, his sweatshirt, his last name and basketball jersey number were embossed on the back; he could feel the textured design on your lower back.

“I like my sweater,” he chuckled, reaching up to adjust the length of the drawstrings on the hood. You looked away, a bit embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to keep it I just…missed you,” You replied “You can have it back.”

“Nah, it suits you,” he smirked “Besides, I want my girl in my stuff, it’s cute.”

“Your girl?” you grinned giddily, elbowing him in the ribs. “Since when am I your girl?” You liked the idea of being Steve’s girl. It had a nice ring to it.

Steve smirked, squeezing your hips in his hands. “Oh come on baby, you’ve been my girl for awhile…”

“Oh really? Well, I wouldn’t know since you’ve never asked me…”

You heard a loud yell and turned to see a set of paramedics carrying a stretcher towards you and Steve. They were sprinting and bringing a badly burnt and unconscious Billy Hargrove towards the ambulance you sat on. You quickly moved out of the way. Steve grabbed your hand, allowing you to tug him from the ambulance’s deck.

You only got a brief look at the teenager, but it made your stomach churn violently. You felt ill. You felt Steve squeeze your hand. You turned to look at him and saw how hollow his eyes were. You wrapped your arm around his middle. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, trying to stifle a yawn. You were exhausted from your flight and your run here and the trauma that had smacked you across the face.

Steve noticed anyway “Did you just get here?” he asked, lifting your chin.

“My flight landed at ten, I came to see you as soon as I could.”

“You should’ve gone home to rest, I wouldn’t have been mad at you.” You looked absolutely exhausted. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like.

“I missed you too much to not see you. And what if you had gotten hurt, if you hadn’t made it out then I would’ve never forgiven myself…”

Steve wrapped his arms tightly around you, shielding you from the scene, as more mangled people were brought out. The beast must’ve fallen apart once the brain was destroyed. It looked as though a bomb had gone off. Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to leave, but he knew that the FBI would be called and he’d have to talk to them again. He wanted you to go home, but that didn’t seem like an option now.  Selfishly, he liked having you there, it was comforting to have you in his arms, squeezing him under his ribs and keeping him calm.

“I’m not gonna get hurt, I’m okay…we’re okay…” You nodded roughly against his chest. You felt as if you were burning up and freezing at the same time. You saw blinks of red flashing lights and sirens as one of the ambulances sped past. You were so thankful that he wasn’t on that ambulance.

“Yeah, I know, I’m not gonna let you out of my sight ever again.” Steve lifted up your chin, raising an eyebrow at you. “What? Last time I did you nearly died and for what? A shit job in the mall?”

“Well, not just for a job, I was helping Robin and a couple kids who were with us,” That wasn’t the whole story. Steve knew he’d have to tell you eventually about everything, but for now he was more than comfortable ignoring the looming problem beneath their feet.

“What a hero…” you giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Something had been bothering Steve for awhile now and he determined now was the best time to tackle the subject. He turned away from you, folding his hands in his lap.

“Did you mean it when you said that you loved me?” he asked quietly. Truthfully, he wasn’t certain that you meant it. Or if he had even heard you correctly. After Nancy, he wasn’t sure if anyone actually loved him back. He’d given so much of his heart away only to have it tossed to the floor and tread upon like it was nothing more than a cigarette butt. He wasn’t sure if he could trust that you meant it.

You let out a small sigh through your nose, crossing your arms over your chest. You were a bit embarrassed. You were half hoping that he would forget about it. Your response brought all of Steve’s hopes crashing down. “Yeah, yeah I do,” you admitted, rubbing your arms, having suddenly gone cold. “I will admit, I hadn’t planned on saying that this early, feels a bit middle school to say that you love someone before they’re even your boyfriend.”

Steve turned to look at you once again, a bit surprised. Your face had gone red, adorably red, but still very red and your gaze had turned down to the asphalt at your feet. He reached out and took your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Good,” he said with a smile. You turned up to look at him; brow furrowed “I thought I had like imagined it.”

“Oh…no you’re good.” You said slowly. He looked like a little puppy dog, his whole face was radiating sunshine; it was almost hard to look at. It was harder to not match his energy, to get drunk off it. Then again, no one was stopping you from just enjoying the moment. You let out a small breath, not so much heavy with sadness or regret, but simply exhaustion. You let your head rest on his shoulder, smiling softly despite the scene in front of you. If it weren’t for the smouldering building and the emergency vehicles surrounding the pair of you, it would almost be romantic. The fact that you were even trying to find romance in the scene felt a bit silly, but maybe that was what this was supposed to feel like. Finding love in a burning building was a bit dramatic, it certainly not what you’d expected for your life, but you determined that no matter what you’d keep Steve safe. You had no idea what was going on at this scene, you had no idea what happened. But no matter how scared you were, you knew that Steve must’ve been even more scared. You knew that you couldn’t protect him, the same way that he couldn’t protect you, but maybe together you could keep each other safe for awhile.

“I love you too, you know,” Steve said quietly, his gaze trailed on the smoke of grey smoke coming up off the extinguished fire. The front of the mall had crumbled and the giant neon ‘Star-Court Mall’ sign shattered on the pavement. You hadn’t seen the mall before the fire, you didn’t know what it was supposed to look like, but a cavernous jagged mouth probably wasn’t the design goal. Still, you turned your attention to the side of Steve’s face. He couldn’t face you, the tips of his ears bright red underneath his flat, sweaty hair.

You swallowed hard “I know,” you say softly. Steve turned to look at you, examining your face with a nervous expression. You smiled and nodded reassuringly “I know.” Steve smiled and laced his fingers with yours. He squeezed your hand tightly in his and you squeezed his back, the feeling of his hand squeezing yours the only feeling left in your body beyond the giddy buzz. You didn’t know how any of this worked, you didn’t know if you were doing this right, if there was a right way to do it. The buzz under your skin was two parts anxiety and one part excitement. But you didn’t pull away. You were glued to his side.

“You know, I think that was one of the first normal conversations we’ve ever had,” Steve mused.

You scoffed loudly rolling your eyes “That was not normal.

Steve shook his head with a small laugh “Yeah, I know…”

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