#katie writes things

[katia-dreamer]

Revelation

When Vex dips her hands in the stream, the water is so cold that it almost stings. She ignores the discomfort as she cups her palms and splashes her face. She is about to reach down again when she hears a rustle from the woods behind her. She hastily dries her hands on her tunic and reaches for her bow. 

Percy walks into her line of sight. His pace is brisk and sure. He’s wearing nothing but a white shirt and trousers. Though his holster is on his leg, he still looks vulnerable, and his face looks slightly shocked.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

“I needed to get away for a moment,” she says. 

“Ah, I see. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. There’s more than enough water for two.”

“I wasn’t worried about that.” He removes his gloves and tucks them into his trouser pockets. “Moments of privacy are rare. I don’t want to interrupt yours.”

“You aren’t.”

Percy gives an affirmative hum as he squats down next to her.  He’s close enough that she can see the stubble on his jaw. To her utter surprise, he unties his shirt just a little. As the fabric falls apart, moonlight dances like fingers of silver on his skin. Then Percy rolls up his sleeves, exposing quite lovely forearms.

Her mouth goes dry, and heat blossoms in her cheeks. She’s blushing! Fucking blushing!

“Are you all right, Percy?” she asks to distract herself. 

“I am. Are you?”

“Of course,” she answers too quickly. 

“Good.”  Percy looks at the stream and then back at her. “Will you hold my glasses for a moment?”

“Yes.”

Percy removes his glasses, and their hands brush as she reaches out to take them. His skin is warm and mostly soft, but there are a few calluses that have utterly delicious potential. Their eyes meet, and she can’t help but notice how much younger he looks like this. Yet the intensity of his gaze and his focus are the same. Her heart skips a beat.

He bends down to the stream and splashes his face. He instantly splutters, “Fuck, that’s cold! Why didn’t you warn me?”

She watches droplets fall down his cheeks, past his jaw, and along his neck. At that moment, something wild flows through her veins, and she reaches into the water and splashes him. It hits him more haphazardly than she intended, getting his shirt and hair wet. 

“Oops.”

Percy blinks once, then wipes his hand across his face. “That’s what I get for trusting you.”

“Sorry,” she hides a small smile. “You can splash me back if you want. I won’t fight back.”

“While that offer is tempting, I have to refuse,” he pauses. “I’ll simply get my revenge when you least expect it.”

“Is that a threat?” 

“It’s a promise.”

She laughs so hard that her shoulders shake and her stomach aches. Percy laughs, too, and the smile looks good on him.

Vox Machina has seen many sides of Percy, but this moment is hers alone.

And it’s a damn revelation.

#katie writes things #cr1 #perc'ahlia #*waves* then *hides*

[thee-morrigan]

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat

The Wayhaven Chronicles Ava du Mortain/Petra Carlisle (f!detective) 4.3k words rated G read it on AO3

Petra hides from her own welcome-home party by organizing her bedroom. Ava plays a word in Scrabble I've only ever seen in Chaucer. Both of these are totally normal behaviors. (also shout-out to @serially-wayhaven for having the Brilliant and Inspired idea that A would use Middle English words in Scrabble. Most correct take of all time, tysm for the inspo 💖)

—

She had been in her room when Ava found her, cross-legged on her bed, somewhat aimlessly rifling through a cardboard box, one of several such half-emptied boxes lining one wall of her bedroom. Strewn across the bedspread next to her lay a scattered sweep of trinkets she'd evidently been sorting through when Ava interrupted her.

"Avoiding your own party, detective?"

"Technically I'm not a detective anymore," Petra replied, looking up from her unboxing and smiling at the woman in her doorway.

Ava shot her a look that suggested she was missing the point. "You're still the guest of honor."

"It's my party, I can hide if I want to?" Petra offered back with a sheepish grin.

Ava rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching in amused exasperation. "Seems unusual for you, though."

"Unusual times," Petra shrugged, turning her attention back to the box in her lap. "And I think I just needed a break," she admitted.

Ava studied her for a moment, her keen eyes softening as she took in the other woman's unusually subdued demeanor. Tried not to take in the amount of long, bare leg currently on display, thanks to the small white shorts Petra wore.

"I can understand that," she said finally, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms. "Things have been... turbulent, to say the least."

Petra glanced up from her task and offered Ava a small, lopsided smile. "That's one way to put it."

Ava hesitated, stiffening a bit and looking as if she might be contemplating a retreat. "Would you prefer to be alone?"

"No, stay," Petra said, her smile lingering. "Please."

Ava nodded, once, a hint of something like relief flashing across her face as she pushed herself off the door frame and stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her. Whether to buy herself time to decide where in the small space to situate herself or from the force of a habit centuries in the making, Ava paused a few steps in, eyes sweeping across the room as though she were considering the strengths and weaknesses of its layout (few and many, respectively).

She jerked her chin towards the box in Petra's lap. "You're...unpacking, then?" She glanced sidelong at the assortment of objects next to Petra's bent knee, trying to determine any possible thematic coherence to the spread, though none presented itself.

"It needed doing at some point," Petra replied, her own gaze flicking across the haphazardly sorted items beside her: a pile of faded postcards and Polaroids, several brightly colored notebooks, and what appeared to be a small, stuffed walrus in an improbably bright shade of blue. Little more than a jumble of memories, and ones she'd been on the verge of re-boxing. "I think this one is probably better left as it is, though."

"Why?" Ava asked. "What's in this one?"

"Other than a mess, you mean?" Petra answered with a huff of a laugh. "I think this one is mostly stuff from undergrad. It was probably in this box already when I had to pack everything up for the...renovations." She pursed her lips, though whether in thought over whether that were truly the word she wanted or resigned amusement at the memories it brought to mind, Ava couldn't quite tell.

"Renovations," Ava echoed dryly, corners of her mouth quirking upwards. "An interesting way to describe your upstairs neighbor's bath crashing through your ceiling."

Petra laughed then, a hint of her usual good spirits sparking in her eyes. "It did result in renovations," she defended, her fingers tracing along one corner of the box. "Not ones I'd planned for or particularly wanted, but renovations nonetheless."

"I suppose that's one perspective," Ava conceded, her gaze softening as Petra's laughter filled the room. In that moment, she looked a little less weary, a little less subdued.

The room became quiet once again, silent save for the soft rustling of Petra sifting through the hodgepodge contents of her college self and the muffled chatter and laughter from the party outside her bedroom door. For a moment, Ava let herself watch her, eyes tracing the curve of her shoulder as she leaned over the box, the delicate lines of her fingers as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, dark strands lined with silver in the dim glow of the lamps she had placed about the room. Her gaze lingered on Petra's profile, features cast into soft relief by the warm wash of light. She felt the now too familiar longing to reach for her, accompanied by an equally familiar ache pushing against her ribs.

She cleared her throat, pulling herself out of her reverie. "Find anything interesting?"

Petra shook her head, not looking up from the box. "Nothing too exciting," she replied. "Just some old papers, some cards from friends, that sort of thing. Oh!"

A faint smile tugged at her lips as she gingerly lifted a worn-out Scrabble box from amidst the clutter. It was worn at the edges but still intact.

She held it up and wiggled the box slightly. "Ava," she started, her grin widening, "Any chance I could interest you in playing a game with me?"

Ava's lips twitched at the proposition, the tension that had settled between her shoulder blades unwinding at the sight of Petra's brightening expression.

She looked at the box, then at Petra, and inclined her head, trying to keep her voice steady. "I think I could be persuaded. Though you would likely find Nat to be a more worthy opponent for such a game," Ava said, although she had already crossed the remaining distance between them, moving to perch at the foot of bed across from Petra, her back ramrod straight as if she needed the posture to keep more than her spine in check.

"Perhaps," she replied with a shrug, shifting the half-unpacked cardboard box off her lap and onto the floor, settling the game box on the bed between them. "But I'd rather play with you."

Though her tone was playful, her eyes were serious as they met Ava's. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to shrink until it contained only the two of them and that single, sparkling thread that seemed always to stretch and tangle between them. Ava felt the weight of Petra's gaze, tangible as any physical touch as it traced the contours of her face. "Very well," Ava conceded, her voice whisper-soft. She reached for the box, her hand brushing against Petra's for a fleeting moment. A soft shiver ran through her at the contact, and she jerked her hand back as if even that brief touch had burned her.

"I suppose it would be impolite to refuse, especially since this is your party," she added, trying to regain her composure.

"Indeed it would," Petra agreed with a soft breath of laughter, though her grin dimmed a bit, face growing a little more distant, as if she were reeling herself back in.

# The better part of an hour later, and the two were in a deadlock.

“Thirty-two points,” Petra said evenly, though she couldn’t quite hide the pleased grin curling up at the corners of her mouth as she sat back from straightening an e.

“Xebec?” Ava asked, one pale brow arched with obvious curiosity.

“It’s a Mediterranean sailing vessel,” Petra replied promptly.

“Is your memory that good or do you simply make a habit of reading the Scrabble dictionary for fun?”

“A woman likes to maintain an air of mystery about these things,” she grinned back.

Ava laughed then, quiet but open. Petra wanted to bottle that sound and mount it on her wall, like one of those ridiculous, tacky singing fish that were so strangely ubiquitous in the early 2000s — wanted to be able to release that unexpected waterfall of melody whenever she needed a boost of serotonin.

She watched as Ava studied the Scrabble board, her lips pressing together as she mentally shuffled around letters and possibilities. Petra couldn’t help but study her in return, those green eyes alight with competitive focus, her nose scrunched slightly in concentration, which Petra found endearing in a way she couldn't quite articulate.

“Shend. Twenty-two points.” Ava’s voice pierced through her thoughts, drawing her back to the present moment.

"Shend?" Petra asked, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. "Is that even a word?"

"I assure you, it is a word. Although you are free to challenge it, if you'd like to forfeit your next turn."

Petra narrowed her eyes, tapping one violet nail against the wood of her letter rack, lips pursed as she considered. Ava's face was, as ever, impassive — a mask of cool, collected certainty. But she could be certain and still be wrong.

"Challenge," she said finally, sliding her phone out of her shorts pocket.

Ava crossed her arms and watched as Petra tapped away at her phone, brow furrowed in concentration. And smirked when, after a moment, Petra gave an indignant hiss. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

She squinted at Ava. "This should not count."

"So it is once again my turn?"

"It's archaic."

"But an acceptable word."

"It's Middle English!"

"But it is permissible."

Ava's smile broadened, pleased, and Petra couldn't ignore the flutter of warmth that spread inside her at the sight. She turned her attention back to her own tiles. "Just...play your next word," she muttered, the corners of her own mouth twitching upwards despite her vexation.

Those green eyes glittered as Ava drew fresh tiles and turned her focus back to the board. After another moment, she announced, "Waded for twenty."

Petra shot her a teasing grin. "Back in this century, are we?"

Ava rolled her eyes but shrugged good-naturedly. "I didn't want you to have to forfeit another turn simply because you didn't know a word."

"How very considerate of you," Petra replied, lips quirking as she dropped her eyes to her tiles. Her fingers ran over the raised letters as she mentally formed and discarded potential words before scooping up a handful of tiles, arranging them neatly on the board.

"Quetzal." She looked up at Ava with a triumphant glimmer in her eyes, the corners of her lips curling upwards. "For 127 points. Plus la, so one twenty-eight total."

"One hundred and—" Ava started incredulously, her eyebrows raising as she leaned forward to study the board.

"It's a bird," Petra explained, her triumphant smile morphing into a teasing grin. "From Central America."

"I know what it is."

"And a Q and a Z on a triple-word score..." Petra hummed, propping her chin on one hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Ava narrowed her eyes at Petra, but there was no real heat in her gaze. Instead, she let out a huff of laughter before shaking her head in disbelief. "I ask again: do you spend your free time studying the Scrabble dictionary?"

"You should know better than anyone how little free time I have."

"And yet you somehow find a way to acquire an encyclopedic knowledge of high-scoring Scrabble words," Ava retorted, her gaze fixed on the board before them. Her lips were pinched in deep thought as she studied the sea of letters sprawled across the game board.

Just as Ava reached out to arrange her next set of tiles, the door bumped open, the no-longer-muffled noise of the party beyond breaking their tranquil bubble and causing both women to look up at the surge of noise.

Tina leaned against the door frame, her silhouette bathed in the soft, amber light spilling in from the hallway. "Well, look at this," she said with a mock gasp, the words laced with humor. "Petra's actually found someone brave enough to face her across a Scrabble board."

Tina’s grin widened as she stepped into the room, a gust of laughter and chatter from the party beyond entering with her, breaking the fragile quietude of their bubble.

Ava raised an eyebrow, glancing across at Petra. To her surprise, Petra blushed, a soft pink dusting her face.

"Hi, Tina," she said, leaning back away from the game and folding her arms.

"Hey." Tina's grin grew wider, her gaze traveling from Petra to the letters scattered across the board. "No wonder we couldn't find you."

"Well, you would've had to look in like, four whole rooms for me, so I can understand the difficulty."

Tina ignored her and leaned back against the door frame, shifting her Cheshire-cat smile to Ava. "She didn't tell you?"

Ava lifted a brow. "Tell me what?"

"We should probably get back to the party," Petra interrupted, unfolding herself from the bed and rising, stretching as she did so.

Tina was unable to contain her mirth, her eyes dancing with delight as she glanced back and forth between a flustered Petra and the bewildered Ava. “Petra here,” she began, jabbing her thumb in Petra's direction, “Used to be quite the sensation on the Scrabble circuit. Nationally ranked, too."

"Yeah, like five years ago! It's not that big a deal," Petra objected.

"No one will play with her more than once," Tina continued, ignoring Petra's protests. "Because she's insufferable about it."

"I am not insufferable," Petra muttered, rolling her eyes, flush deepening.

Ava's eyes widened as she took in this new information, her gaze shifting to the game board then to Petra. There was an amused twinkle in her eyes as she said, "There's a national Scrabble circuit?"

"Sounds made up, right?" Tina tilted her head toward Ava, still grinning as she pushed off the door frame. "But it's totally true. You should ask to see her trophies sometime."

"I don't have trophies."

Ava's mouth curved upwards.

Petra scowled. "I don't!"

Then: "They're medals."

Tina tipped her head back and laughed. "Medals! That's even better," she declared, clapping her hands together.

"Go away, please." Petra groaned, dragging a hand through her dark hair and squeezing her eyes shut.

Still giggling, Tina raised her hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I'll let you get back to your game. Just wanted to check in on you."

"And make fun of me, apparently," Petra muttered, her arms crossed over her chest. The flush still hadn't faded from her cheeks, although the corners of her mouth kept twitching upwards.

Tina gave her a wink. "That's just a bonus," she said, before turning on her heel to exit the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, muffling the party's noise once more.

Ava’s gaze remained fixed on Petra for a long moment as repressed amusement simmered in her eyes.

"All right, all right, don't look at me like that," Petra said, attempting to muster a glare and sinking back into her seat on the bed.

"I suppose I should feel pleased," Ava murmured, a teasing lilt in her voice. "I managed to play at least one word you didn't know."

"Because it was from the twelfth century."

"Perhaps," she said, her eyes turning back to the Scrabble board. "But a word is a word. Not that I think it has done much to improve my chances of winning this game."

"Admitting defeat already? How unlike you," Petra teased, folding her legs back underneath herself and propping her elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands as she leaned forward to survey the board and their scant few remaining tiles.

Ava tilted her head and smiled slightly, her gaze locked with Petra's. "Why would I admit defeat when the game is not yet over?"

Petra chuckled lightly, her eyes sparkling with undisguised mirth. "Fair enough," she said, eyes shifting once again to the game board.

# In point of fact, the game had been over for awhile. At least in terms of determining a highest final score, anyway, given the well-padded lead Petra had secured for herself with words like "quetzal." "Hey, thank you, by the way," Petra said, pausing their cleanup of the finished game and wrapping one hand loosely around Ava's wrist.

The other woman's eyes flicked down to Petra's hand, though she didn't pull away. When she looked back up, her eyes showed only confusion. "For what?"

Petra shrugged, hand falling back to her side. "Just...I dunno. Hanging out with me, I suppose." She gave a light laugh, raising her eyebrows at Ava. "And maybe for not being a sore loser."

Ava's lips twitched at the corners, a ghost of a smile. "Consider it a welcome home gift, agent."

Petra snorted softly. "Guess I'll need to get used to your calling me that from now on."

"It will be an adjustment for us all, I'm sure. Though not an unwelcome one."

"Well, original offer stands," Petra grinned, leaning forward and sweeping tiles from the board and into her open palm. "Unless my new job requires I change my name, you're always welcome to just use that."

She brushed a hand over her hair, curving it behind an ear where it had fallen in a smooth, dark sheet across her face when she'd bent over the game board, glancing up at Ava as she did so. "Not that I expect you to. I mean," she corrected, mouth smoothing into a tense little smile as she looked back down at the board. "I know you prefer to...not do that. Which is fine! Whatever is more comfortable for you is fine. I want you to be comfortable around me. I mean I want you to be comfortable in general, obviously," she fumbled, giving another awkward hiccup of a laugh before pressing her lips tightly together and refocusing her attention on the Scrabble board, feeling her cheeks heat as she did so.

Conversations, she thought, unfortunately did not reward one for using all the words they knew in one fell tumble.

Not that Scrabble really did, either, of course. Bananagrams did, though. That game would have been the more apt analogy, she supposed.

...And now she was rambling in her own head, too.

Speaking of Bananagrams, she thought.

She did want Ava to be comfortable around her, though. For lots of practical reasons, of course, not least of which was their increasingly close work together. But also because she liked Ava. (More than liked her, actually, but she shut down that line of thought fast and hard, slamming and dead-bolting that particular mental door before it pulled her in like a tiny black hole.)

But liked her as a person — as a friend, she hoped — too. She hadn't regretted that disaster of a kiss, or any of the rest of it, even if, in hindsight, she might wish to have navigated that whole...encounter...differently. But she would regret it, she thought, if it meant no more evenings like this, no more conversations that didn't feel like playing hopscotch in a minefield.

Ava regarded her for a moment, then another, before she, too, began collecting tiles, perching once more on the foot of the bed across from her. A quiet settled between them, not entirely uncomfortably, the quiet scraping of wood on cardboard, the muffled clink of bagged tiles against one another, and the somewhat less muffled sounds of the party beyond Petra's bedroom door the only sounds.

Ava was the first to break it, sitting upright as Petra slid the lid of the Scrabble box shut, letting it rest on the bed between them. "It wasn't a bad way to spend an evening," she admitted, her tone softer than usual.

Petra blinked, the words sinking in. "No," she agreed cautiously, her gaze flicking to Ava's face and then back down at her own hands, pressed flat against the cardboard box. "No, it wasn't."

"Even if you did neglect to mention your...past accolades when you suggested this particular game," Ava continued, a wry smile once again playing at the corners of her lips.

Petra looked up again, that lingering rigidity easing from her a little, and she arched a brow. "Would you have preferred we played something else? I'm sure Tina had many additional drinking games she'd have loved to pull us into."

Ava shook her head, that almost-smile stretching just a little bit more as she huffed a laugh. "I do not care for losing," she began, and Petra snorted, rolling her lips together to keep from whatever laughter or commentary was itching to spill past them, though her eyes still danced with amusement.

Ava gave her a withering look, though it wasn't terribly convincing. "As you know. But I would rather lose to you in any board game, any number of times, than participate in further rounds of —" she tipped her head toward the noise coming from beyond the closed door. "—that."

The look that crossed Ava's face — deeply, intently unamused — undid her, and the giggles Petra had been holding so valiantly at bay bubbled forth. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it did little to muffle the sound, warm and bright and infectious, sunlight piercing storm clouds.

"I never realized I was quite so entertaining." Ava tilted her head to one side, arching a single eyebrow at Petra's amusement, but the corners of her lips twitched upward nonetheless. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen Petra laugh quite this openly — this freely — in a long while.

The laughter slowly faded, leaving them in a comfortable silence within the confines of the room—away from the party, away from the outside world. Petra's hand fell away from her mouth and landed back onto the Scrabble box. She smoothed her thumb along one edge of it, eyes settling on Ava again.

"Next time there's a party we both want to avoid," she said, eyes still glimmering with residual mirth, "I promise to let you pick the game."

Ava raised a brow, her smile still tracing the edges of her lips, all the while a soft chuckle escaped her. "A generous proposition," she responded, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "I might just take you up on it."

"I hope you do," Petra said, her voice laced with sincerity.

"I should actually be thanking you," Ava said after a moment, her tone dropping into something softer, something vulnerable. "For providing an excuse for a reprieve from... that." She tipped her head once more towards the door, her gaze following suit, as if she could peer through the wood and paint to the party on the other side.

"It is nice to have something almost resembling a break," Petra agreed with a lopsided grin, although her eyes lingering on Ava were somber as she studied her expression. As ever, she gained little insight from the profile of the commanding agent. "Though I don't imagine we're likely to get many such moments in the near future. You probably least of any of us, I'm guessing."

Ava's lips compressed into a thin line, a faint shadow of acknowledgment flickering across her face. "The nature of our work seldom allows for such... indulgences," she acknowledged, the familiar weight of duty and obligation settling across her shoulders like a well-worn cloak.

Petra nodded, understanding the unspoken burden that came with the roles they played— figures on a relentless, ever-turning carousel. She reached out, her fingertips brushing against Ava's hand in fleeting solidarity before she pulled back again, folding her hands in her lap.

"Ava..." she started, then paused, looking down at her hands again, her restless fingers, for a long moment. “If you ever need a place to go—a place where you don’t have to be decisive and tackle the hard stuff—a place where you don’t have to be the commanding agent—I can be that. If you wanted." She looked up from her hands with another half-formed smile, all blurred edges. "I won't even make you play Scrabble with me again."

“I cannot.” The words fell, quick and solid, from Ava's lips, as if pulled from rote memory, as if she had practiced denying herself the mere suggestion of seeking solace for so long that it had become basic instinct. Weighted by a lifetime of forging herself into something impenetrable.

Petra nodded slowly, a single dip of her head, something like resignation tightening along her jaw, her mouth. She couldn't really say she was surprised, or even truly disappointed, although she felt the bud of something like it pushing against her ribs.

Then Ava did surprise her, just a little, because she spoke again: “I do not know how.”

It was as if the words stumbled out from behind that stoic facade, laced with a vulnerability that Ava seldom allowed to surface. Her gaze shifted away from Petra's earnest eyes, fixing on some distant point, as if she were viewing a tapestry woven with the complexities of her own inner conflict.

“Well if you ever feel like trying…if you ever need a break, I can be that. I will be that place. For you.” Petra said gently, her voice a low murmur in the quiet of the small room.

She waited a beat, then another, and when Ava still said nothing further, she shrugged, rising from the edge of the bed and moving towards the door, the world beyond. As she reached the doorway, she turned, twisting back towards Ava, still seated at the foot of her bed. "If that ever feels like something you might want. Now or five years from now. Or whenever. Standing offer."

The corners of Ava's lips turned upward in a small smile, gaze softening as she looked at the other woman. "I'll keep that in mind, Petra," she murmured.

"I hope you do," Petra said, quietly but not weakly. With another flicker of a smile, small but genuine, she pulled open her bedroom door and re-entered her party.

#this fic brought to you by the time my partner learned why my sister and I aren't allowed to play Scrabble anymore #god help the rest of UB if they ever have a team game night #katie writes things #twc #ship: a light in the dark #oc: petra carlisle

[goldkirk]

I think I’m finally writing a story fam

#it’s not hymn or any od the others #it’s a new one that needs to come out first #or at least part of it does #it may or may not end up on ao3 it depends on if it Fucks Me Up like Latchkey did or not #and if it feels too weird or anything #I’m gonna give a disclaimer now that it’s an expression inspired by child grooming so if that’s a no go for you please be aware #I won’t be graphic but it’s me so it WILL be emotional I hope #and I do have good news on the other fics…can’t write hymn yet but the vibes are getting closer #and I can’t write freakin me out yet but I’m guaranteeed to have a medical hyperfixation again every year or two so that’s just a matter of #time. #but ghostbusters? accidental necromancer Tim drake? the vibes are creeping closer #they return for about two glorious minutes every 17 business days now #so stay tuned for that #katie writes things

[rebelspykatie]

Steve’s never had anyone show any genuine interest in the things he likes. Robin rolls her eyes when he brings up sports or silly movies that don’t have a bigger plot or character work. Even though she played soccer, she doesn’t care about it in the same way that Steve cares about basketball or football. 

The kids make fun of everything from his taste in music to his choice in snacks for movie nights. Mike calls him a little housewife for baking one time and he never shows up with cookies again. They’re never intentionally mean spirited, or at least he doesn’t think so. He knows he can give as good as he gets when it comes to catty, sarcastic comments, but he tries to steer clear of personal attacks on someone’s identity these days. He learned that lesson with Jonathan. 

But even before the party came along, it was like that. His parents never stuck around long enough to find out what he was up to, never attending a game or meet, and certainly in the dark about what he might be up to outside of school. Tommy only ever cared about himself and Carol, only following Steve around for clout, popularity by association. If he asked him right now, he’d bet a lot of money that Tommy doesn’t even remember his favorite food or the movie he used to watch when he was sick. There was a point where he thought he could share things with him. Until he realized mid ramble about sports cars that Tommy wasn’t even listening to him. He was staring at Carol and nodding along with a vacant expression. 

So he stopped sharing. Stopped caring if people knew anything about him because they never asked. People always made assumptions about him anyway. The girls he slept with only wanted one thing. The kids were happy to let him chauffeur them around with no questions asked. Robin was the only one he let in, the only one that cared about digging deeper. But, and she never said in so many words, he could tell that she thought his interests were mundane, and clearly not something that sparked any enthusiasm from her. She couldn’t even keep up with the girls he slept with, giving him the same bored stare as Tommy. 

Even now, after a few years, Steve’s reminded that they never would have become friends if not for trauma and the secret inner workings of the Russian’s within Hawkins. He’s lucky to have her, but he doesn’t think she ever would’ve chosen this, chosen him. And that’s fine. He’s used to not being chosen. His parents didn’t choose him when they started leaving him alone at age 12. Tommy and Carol chose each other and the reign of a new king when Steve fell from his throne. Nancy chose Jonathan. 

He doesn’t think he has a lot to offer. 

Well, at least until Eddie comes along. He’s taken by surprise when Eddie asks after the song that’s playing in his car. He’d assumed Eddie only liked metal music, and yeah he pokes fun at the genre of music Steve seems to stick to, begging him to give metal a shot, but he doesn’t say a word about how lame it is. When they’re having a movie night, Eddie notices that Steve gravitates towards coke and brings him one without Steve asking.

After Eddie sees his bedroom, Steve gets a pack of hot wheels for Christmas. Eddie jokes that he should give one to each of the kids as their new ride, since they seem to be ungrateful little twerps. Steve places them right under his posters on his dresser and Eddie grins at them every time he comes over. They lay in bed and pretend to drive them on the ceiling like they’re kids again. It shakes something loose in Steve’s chest. 

Eddie hates sports, but he invites Steve over on Mondays, when Wayne is perched in his chair for football. He quietly works on his campaigns while Steve and Wayne watch the games. Eddie somehow worms his way into Steve’s heart, digging deeper and deeper with each new thing, like he wants to know more. Steve’s history is a minefield, but Eddie expertly navigates through it, leaving who they were behind, building something new together. Steve’s already halfway in love with him before he even realizes that Eddie is something that he likes. 

He expects to freak out a bit more, but who is going to stop him? Who is going to care if he wants to be with this boy? He’s spent so long ignoring parts of himself for others that he wants to cherish this fragile thing, to cradle it in his hands, make sure no one can ruin it for him. When he kisses Eddie, it feels like coming home, like he’s finally found that place he’s been searching for his whole life. It’s a kind of devotion that Steve’s not used to, born of love and not obsession or jealousy or anger. 

He’s not sure he deserves it, but he’ll do everything in his power to keep it.

#steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #katie writes

[swanhookheart]

Mythic is becoming a real book soon! Almost 13 bloody years in the making!!! 😭😭😭

#katie writes things

[judasofsuburbia]

something something the spicy six go to vegas and...slightly nsfw below

“Oh God, no” is the first thought that runs through Steve Harrington’s head as the morning light pulls through the windows and into his eyes. He buries his face into his pillow as he feels his stomach lurch, the sins from last night’s alcohol consumption returning with a vengeance. He knows he has to get himself out of bed and into the bathroom before disaster strikes but another thought hits him.

He’s naked.

Probably done in a fit of being too drunk and too lazy to leave his boxers on. He just hopes Eddie didn’t see him because they’re sharing a room on this trip. Though Eddie was just as plastered as he was so it’s unlikely he cares. Still, the idea of Eddie seeing him like that makes his face flush. That could also be the nausea though. 

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin when an arm wraps around his bare waist and a nose buries itself into his spine. There is hair, a lot of hair touching his skin.

Holy shit, did he bring someone home? To their shared hotel room?

Eddie must have bunked with Robin and Nancy or Jonathan and Argyle. They’re all going to be so pissed at him. 

Steve lifts his head just enough to turn over his shoulder and sneak a peek at this mystery person, already figuring out how to get them out of his hotel room before the others wake up and pound on his door for breakfast. 

It’s not someone sleeping next to him. It’s Eddie.

The someone as far as Steve’s heart is concerned. 

Steve’s head whips back forward as he tries to steady his breathing. Which ends up in not breathing at all as Steve stays completely still. Steve studies the way Eddie is curled up next to him. Not really holding him, more laying his arm on Steve’s hip. Hair tickling his back. Hot puffs of breath on his skin. It would make him smile if he wasn’t seconds away from throwing up. 

Steve exhales dramatically because his body is finally fighting back for air. Steve’s still naked, dear God, and Eddie’s kind of cuddling him, and this is bad and it’s going to be so awkward if Eddie wakes up in the midst of this.

Why are they sharing a bed? Why is Eddie so close to him? Does Eddie think he’s someone else? Is Eddie even conscious yet?

Something’s conscious but it’s not Eddie. It’s what’s attached to Eddie. 

Steve gets pulled back tighter into Eddie’s embrace as an erection is suddenly poking into the back of his thigh. Steve feels his stomach lurch again but this time it’s not the nausea. It’s everything he’s wanted over the last two years but he has no way of knowing if Eddie is even aware of his actions as he continues to snore right into Steve’s ear. Did they…how are they…they’re both naked as the day they were born in the same bed and nothing about this feels like a platonic mishap. 

Steve is trying hard to remember anything. Any detail of last night but it’s all a blur. He rubs his hands over his face and groans into his palms. He’s going to be sick and it’s no fault of the beautiful man lightly scratching on his stomach, making his cock slowly stir. As much as he wants to live in this fantasy world where he gets to wake up next to Eddie naked in the mere hours of the morning, he gently yanks Eddie’s arm off of him and rolls out of bed. 

He darts to the bathroom and crouches over the porcelain bowl as his body makes him pay for his crimes. 

After he’s emptied everything from his system, he stands shakily and turns the faucet on to rinse out his mouth. He looks positively debauched in the mirror. Hair standing at all angles and holy shit…hickies littering his neck and chest. His hands instantly go to them, pressing into them to make sure he’s not making them up when he notices a ring on his left finger. 

Eddie’s mood ring. 

No fucking way. 

#to be continued hehehe #alexa cue waking up in vegas by katy perry #emily writes #harringtons got her don’t ya big boy? #steddie #steddie au #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things ficlet

[missluthorwillseeyounow]

What do you do when someone you love is a psychopath and a serial killer? How do you pick up your life and move on from it?

If you're Lionel Luthor, you don't. Your son betrays you and the legacy you built for him, and so your heart betrays you too. You sit at your desk with those damn pills your quack of a doctor prescribed and one too many drinks. You feel a warning twinge on your arm before excruciating pain, red and angry, blooms in your chest, and you never see the morning. 

The only good thing about this is that you never see your son go to trial for killing 47 people over a span of 6 years. People whisper that you are one of Lex Luthor’s victims.

If you’re Lillian Luthor, you don’t either. You clean the damned mess these Luthor men left you. You take over the company that your husband had the gall to leave you, just as he left you with your only daughter. You clean up the tatters of your family’s reputation and legacy that your son left behind. 

In the eyes of the world, you move on. You rise, finally able to flex the muscles so long held back by your husband and the rest of the world's expectations. And you bring Luthor Corp with you. 

The millstone of the trials and scandal hang heavy on your neck, but all your life you have taught yourself to walk gracefully among lesser beings with your back straight and your head held high, just as you did as a young girl with textbooks on your head. This is no different.

But once a month, you make a pilgrimage to Stryker’s Island. To Lex. To the son you loved the best way you knew how, the only way you knew how - with a firm grip and the relentless, uncompromising push to achieve excellence, the intractable determination to make him grow into his fullest potential. That this potential was realized in murder, malice and manipulation was not your intent, but the world is far too quick and vindictive in their judgement because he is a Luthor. The mightiest always fall the farthest, and those beneath them wait hungrily for the chance to pull them down.

Your daughter leaves you too. The daughter who emerged, not from your body, but from your husband's infidelity. The same one who once looked up at you with eyes full of innocent trust that you vowed you would reciprocate in the best way you knew how. And so you did your best to prepare her, to mold her in your own image - into what a Luthor woman should be in this cruel, savage world that both worships and hates Luthors. 

You’ve seen what the world does to Luthors who do or say the smallest wrong thing and you never want her to suffer those whispers and so you tell her yourself. Better she hears it from family than the mouths and forked tongues of strangers.

But she is too hard-headed and too soft-hearted to comply. She rejects your bequest, the ungrateful girl, and tries to escape the Lena Luthor you tried so hard to cultivate all these years. 

As if you don't know. As if you could forget that it was her who brought this down upon all of you. Her, and that detestable Clark Kent. 

And if you are Lena Luthor, you cannot move on. You cannot escape it. No matter how far you stray from your family. No matter how many reparations you make, no matter how hard you strive to separate yourself from the curse it brings -- it always finds you.

It finds you in the dark hours when you’re by yourself without the touch of another woman or the burn of alcohol to distract you - and suddenly you’re a scared little girl again, walking into an ominous house made of grim oak, unforgiving marble and dark shadows. And the only warmth you receive is not from a largely absent and formidable father nor from a condescending and controlling mother, but from a charismatic and mercurial brother who taught you how to play chess and promised you the world.

But it turns out his shadow was the darkest of all, and you didn't see until it was too late.

How could you not see it?

You were just a girl at that time, Agent J'onzz once tried to comfort you with that fact. Back when Lex was arrested.

Just a schoolgirl home for the holidays -- shoes polished as bright as the naivete in your eyes, uniform pressed to Lillian's exact standards, picture perfect but always with just one tiny detail you forgot that was enough to attract notice and invite criticism. This time it was the glasses sitting slightly crooked on your face. 

You were more concerned with weathering the scorching disapproval just long enough until you got back to boarding school that you failed to notice Lex's distance. You failed to recognize the signs. You failed to decode his lies.

You failed.

By the time you got back to boarding school, he would have killed 2 more people.

By the time you caught on, he'd already killed 31. Those lives are all on you, because you were so absorbed by yourself, you didn't see what was happening under your nose. And those 3 agents Lex killed because he refused to come quietly? The judge and jury he poisoned at the trial? That's on you too.

Forty-seven lives taken. Forty seven more than there should have been if you hadn't been so blind. 

If only you hadn't been comforted by the gentle hand holding yours under the table throughout Lillian's litanies of your shortcomings everytime you were home from school. If only you hadn't fallen for the "adventures" he had tricked you into that always ended with you in disgrace or punished, like that time you stole Lionel's prized pen from the King of Jordan, just for him. 

If only you hadn't believed the fairy-tale dream of the two of you escaping to the snow-covered mountain peak, of finally being free of the Luthors’ oppressive presence.

And now he's serving 20 consecutive life sentences, and you've devoted your life to studying and stopping people like him.

Now you have 10 years of experience as a profiler and an undercover operative for both the Interpol and the FBI. Your work has taken you from Toran, to Kaznia, to Corto Maltese, to Metropolis, and now to National City.

You have seen the worst humanity has to offer, from terrorists to human traffickers to serial killers. But you keep looking into the abyss.

Because you looked into it once, you stared it in the face, and you didn't recognize it for what it was. 

_________

Or, a Supercorp Criminal Minds AU

There's actually 3 major plots in this, and they all intersect in varying ways

The first is Lex as a serial killer

The second is about Sam and Reign

The third is the most vague one, which includes Lena’s birth mother and Leviathan

It starts (as the intro says) with Lex being a serial killer who killed 47 people. In one version of this story, Clark is a reporter who, like Lena,  made the connection between Lex and the murders. One night after dinner  with the Luthors, Clark sneaks into Lex’s study to find evidence he can use for his story. 

He’s rummaging in a desk when he hears a voice from the doorway.

“You  won’t find anything there.” Clark whips around to find Lena standing  there, silhouetted against the light coming from the hall. He tenses,  thinking she’s about to tell her brother what Clark was doing. 

“If  Lex really is behind these murders, and I know you think he is, you  won’t find anything there. He’s not foolish enough to hide evidence  here." 

Clark doesn’t say anything, he just stares at her.  Lena pauses, looking away. "I… I didn’t want to believe it. Not Lex… He  wouldn’t…” Steel injects itself into her green gaze. “But the more time I  spend with him, the more clearly I see the truth. You see it too, don’t  you?" 

Clark straightens up and nods gravely. “Yes.”

The FBI eventually becomes involved in the investigation, and the team includes a certain agent on the fast track to becoming the unit chief, J’onn J’onzz.

J’onn meets Lena only briefly, but he’s struck by the young girl’s keen intelligence and remarkable calm. (Eventually, he becomes the one who suggests that Lena consider a career in profiling and criminal psychology).

Fast forward a couple of decades later, Lena is working with the BAU. The other members of the team here are J'onn, Alex, James, Brainy and Winn. Lena is a transfer from Interpol, and she's had years of experience in profiling, suspect and victim identification, as well as infiltration, under her belt (I also hc that she worked briefly with the CIA and the MI6, mostly in intel, profiling and undercover work).

For the sake of her anonymity (and also because it was necessary for her undercover work), she's erased all connections to Lex and the Luthors (including old photographs and newspaper articles until the name Lena Luthor is but a footnote in the Luthor history with nothing to tie her to who she is now). She's also changed her last name. (I'm torn because I just don't know if I can use the name Walsh for Lena, it doesn't sound.. right? Idk So for now, she's Agent Kieran).

Lena is very professional, almost intimidating. She’s revered by the younger agents in the Bureau, well-respected by her colleagues and highly praised by her superiors. But she's very guarded and keeps everyone at arm's length, doesn't go out for after-work drinks with the others, practically sleeps with one eye open — years of working undercover and living with a serial killer will do that to you.

Until a certain promising young recruit comes along.

Kara is new in town — the adopted sister of Alex Danvers, the cousin of one of J'onn's old friends (I don't think teaming family members up is actually allowed in the FBI, so some suspension of disbelief is required here). Lena is assigned to oversee her training and transition into the team herself.

Kara's sunny demeanor couldn't clash more with Lena's icy, professional facade. Lena approaches the task with thinly-veiled impatience and something remarkably close to disdain.

However, Kara quickly proves to be more than a perky attitude and a pretty smile. She squirms at blood, which Lena is quick to exploit at first (What FBI profiler can't stand the sight of a corpse? "We profile serial killers here, not celebrities in high-waisted jeans.").

But Kara displays true empathy to the victims and their families, she's sensitive to other people's emotions and knows just what to say to get a reluctant victim or witness talking. She's extremely dedicated to catching the unsubs, and relentless in her investigation. Not to mention, she's extremely handy to have around in a crisis.

Lena finds this last part out when they're on a case, trying to find a missing girl.

The team is headed to the unsub's apartment, but on a hunch, Lena heads to an abandoned warehouse near the apartment, with only Kara as backup. They enter the warehouse, and just as they're clearing the rooms and checking for the missing girl, the unsub attacks Lena and manages to pin her to the ground, choking her. Kara gets there just in time to shoot the unsub in the leg, saving Lena's life.

Later that evening, Kara and the rest of the team go to the bar to celebrate. Lena is absent, as usual.

Just as Kara is getting another round of drinks at the bar, a low, smoky voice interrupts her. "Didn't profile you as a drinker, Danvers.”

Kara squeaks, nearly dropping the drinks, and turns to see Lena smirking behind her. “I wonder what other surprises you're hiding behind those glasses and cardigans."

"Agent Kieran! I didn’t expect to see you here— No, these aren't all for me, I— " Lena's face softens at Kara's babbling, and she takes a few of the shot glasses from Kara's hands.

"You know, I have a rule..." A wry smile lifts one corner of her lipsticked mouth. "Anyone who saves my life gets to call me Lena."

Kara blushes profusely at the other woman’s arched eyebrow. "Well then, if I'm calling you Lena..."

Lena smirks. "Kara it is, then."

For the first time — much to the gaping surprise of the rest of the team she's worked with for years — Lena joins them for a post-case drink.

To everyone's — and no one's — surprise, the pair quickly become the best of friends.

Two days into their friendship, Lena starts jokingly calling Kara Supergirl. Three weeks later, they start grabbing lunch together. Three months in, Kara sends Lena a video of herself petting a St. Bernard on the street only to be bowled over in a mass of furry paws and puppy licks — and the cadets Lena is training are even more bowled over to hear the "Ice Queen" laugh. Of course, they're later treated with a scorching glare and a sharp reprimand, but it's a revelation just to discover that she's actually physically capable of laughing.

By six months, the whole department is in a secret "will they or won't they" betting pool. A year in, and every other department has stakes in the pool (Alex publicly condemns the pool, but secretly bets a hundred bucks that "they will" by winter).

One time while they're eating lunch together, Kara tells Lena why she became a profiler when her career was in journalism.

"It just felt... too late. I'd be covering these stories about these terrible things, people who were already victims, and I thought... it's too late... Don't get me wrong, I loved being a reporter. Journalism was a way to bring truth out there, to give voices to these victims, but.... I wanted - needed - to do something more. I wanted to stop these things from happening. To keep these people from becoming victims."

But despite their growing closeness, Lena has yet to tell Kara about Lex, or about her life before the BAU.

She doesn't tell Kara about the woman she'd loved once, who hates her now because of the lies Lena told her. She doesn't tell her about Reign. She doesn’t tell Kara about the sweet young girl living far, far away, who plays soccer and loves to sing and read. The little girl Lena loves from afar, but knows only through secret updates from James, because it's for her own good.

Because that sweet little girl that Lena hasn't seen since she was a baby deserves to live a life that's whole and good — away from those who love her, but could hurt her. Whether she's thinking about Sam or herself, Lena doesn't know.

There are too many secrets, Lena decides, as she shoves them all one by one into their little boxes, clamping the lid securely shut. Kara is too good to be tainted by any of them.

Kara, who gets squeamish at the sight of blood, but resolutely hunts each killer like an avenging angel. Kara, who somehow, somehow still believes in the good in people.

And when she realizes that there is very little of that to be found in Lena Kieran or Lena Luthor, Kara will hate her as much as Lena hates herself.

But then the day comes when Lena receives a package in the mail.

She reaches in and pulls out two things: one, a chess piece — the white knight — and the other, a surveillance photo of Kara and Lena having lunch together.

On the back of the photograph are three cryptic little words that fill her with dread: “See you soon, sis.”

Panic overrides logic and years of training, and Lena stashes the package and its cursed contents into her safe. Heart racing, she calls the warden at Strykers. It takes several favors, but she manages to procure video footage confirming that her brother is still incarcerated. Despite the visual confirmation, she doesn’t sleep a wink that night, nor the night after.

Everything is quiet after that, so quiet that Lena is almost lulled, if not into a sense of complacency, then at least a state of less vigilance. Everyone needs a breather, a reprieve from paranoia at some point, and that is exactly what Lex is counting on.

A string of seemingly-unrelated murders heralds Lex's return, luring the BAU — and Lena — closer and closer. Lena knows she should leave, and leave soon. The closer the team gets to figuring out it's Lex, the more danger they're in — not just Kara, but the rest of the team that Lena has now come to care for.

But Kara, being Kara, holds onto Lena and keeps her from leaving.

Kara knows her too well now. She knows that something is wrong. She pushes without pushing, in that earnest yet respectful way, relentless in her concern for the people she cares about, yet still mindful and considerate in her efforts. It's one of the things Lena loves about her.

And then, after coming home from a case one night — Kara is shot by an intruder in her apartment.

The whole team is thrown into chaos trying to find Kara’s assailant. They all agree that the attack cannot be random, but there’s a frustrating lack of evidence anywhere.

But Lena knows.

The lack of clues is a glaring clue in and of itself. She knows this is Lex’s handiwork. Her brother’s way of getting back at her for “telling on him”, just like he used to when they were children. Except the stakes are infinitely higher this time, and he has gone too far.

And Lena — who should've known — didn't prevent it. She was too selfish, too greedy, wanting more time — more time with Kara, more time with her team, her family — and now this is the result.

Lena knows that Lex will go after everything and everyone she loves, because he wants to hurt her. Luthors are not raised on half-measures. Win the game, or burn the board. He will not stop, Lena knows this. Not until either of them is dead.

While half the team is waiting at Kara’s bedside, and the other half is delving into Kara’s case — two people are noticeably missing.

Alex can’t bear to see her sister looking so weak and vulnerable in that hospital bed.

Instead, she goes to Kara's apartment to clean her sister’s blood off the wall before Kara gets home from the hospital.

She's just getting a bucket full of soapy water when she hears movement at the door. Alert, Alex already has her gun out and trained at the door.

When the door opens, all Alex sees is a flash of black hair and wide green eyes before she gets a gun aimed at her too.

"Lena?? What the fuck?! What are you doing here??"

Alex puts her gun down slowly, her heart still hammering. Lena cautiously does the same, her hands held out to her sides.

Alex gestures at the door "How did you—?"

"Kara gave me the key three months ago." Lena's eyes haven't lost their wary edge, but she has the decency to look a bit abashed. "She said I could come over anytime."

"Yeah, but Kara's still in the hospital. What are you doing here?"

"I know that," Lena slants her a light glare as she looks around Kara's apartment. "I just — I wanted to make sure the place is secure, and... well... I didn't want Kara to come home to that."

She gestures at the blood-spattered wall, but looks away quickly. As if she, like Alex, can't bear to stand the sight of Kara's blood.

It's funny. They're both seasoned agents, they deal with horrific things on an almost daily basis. The sight of blood rarely fazes either of them anymore. Except this is Kara's blood.

It seems impossible that Lena could get any paler, but here she is, as white as a ghost and looking just as sick as Alex feels. And yet, she's still here. Out of everyone in Kara's circle of friends and family, only Alex and Lena are here, performing a task that somehow seems more terrible than anything either of them have encountered.

It's in this moment that it begins to dawn on Alex just how special Lena is. How special she may still become.

Alex bends down and drags the bucket of soapy water to the wall. She doesn't look at Lena, and instead focuses on the wall and swallows down bile at the sight of her sister's blood. Over her shoulder, she mutters "Grab a sponge."

"That's not gonna be enough. We, um—" Lena clears her throat and chokes out. "— need bleach."

Alex nods curtly. "Under the kitchen sink."

Lena gets the bleach, and the two of them silently begin scrubbing Kara's blood off her walls, and that's that. Once they're done, Alex gets a couple of beers that Kara keeps especially for Alex in her fridge and offers one to Lena.

Then Alex gives her a mild version of a shovel talk lol

And then, two days before Kara is released from the hospital, the news breaks. Lex Luthor, convicted serial killer, has escaped from prison.

All eyes are focused on the BAU screen, except J’onn’s. He turns to his left. Lena Kieran watches the television without batting an eye.

Lena waits only until after Kara has come back home, to make sure that she's safe, that Alex is staying with her for now.

Looking at the blonde tucked into blankets on the couch, soft and vulnerable, Lena can't bring herself to say goodbye, so instead, she just leans over to kiss Kara on the forehead and says good night.

Then without a word, without even packing a bag, Lena Luthor leaves National City to lure her brother out of the shadows.

Lena makes her exit just as the team is on the cusp of finding out that Lena Kieran is Lena Luthor.

She leaves her apartment intact, knowing that Kara and the rest of the team will eventually search it. She sticks the surveillance photo of her and Kara on the bedroom mirror and writes on the glass in red lipstick: "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make this right."

J'onn is the only one who knows the truth of who Lena really is, and in the end, he's the one who tells them.

With Lena gone, it's clear to J'onn that she's about to do something monumentally stupid, like sacrifice herself for the team. He gathers everyone, and tells them the truth.

The group is gathered around the conference table, staring at pictures of young Lena on the screen.

Tiny Lena, not even 5 years old, just after she was adopted by the Luthors, her wide green eyes sad and confused, her little hands clutching a worn, well-loved teddy bear.

Six year old Lena and a teenaged Lex Luthor standing together in front of Lena's new school. The little girl in her neat uniform, holding onto the older boy's hand, looking at her big brother with an adoring smile.

Fifteen year old Lena on summer vacation, and a now-adult Lex, the young girl perched on the hood of a restored vintage car with Lex's hand on her shoulder. Lena is thinner, more gaunt, and her smile less bright, but Lex is different. He's grinning at the camera, looking every inch the charismatic billionaire playboy. You would never know from Lex Luthor's easy smile that he had already been killing for 5 years at this point.

Finally, the last Luthor family portrait, taken the year Lex was arrested. They're a beautiful family, there's no denying that. Each person in the photograph is regal and proud — but in each set face, there's a private war being waged. Lena looks far older than her sixteen years. Her face shows no emotion in each cut line, but her eyes betray all: a somber intensity that's impossible to look away from. Lex is the exact opposite. His smile is charming and draws the viewer's gaze, but his eyes are cold and dead. Within 8 months, Lex would be in prison, Lionel would be dead, Lillian would be running the company, and Lena would no longer be a Luthor.

Kara feels... she doesn't know how she feels.

There's anger, shock, confusion and... hurt. A lot of hurt, a heavy ball of it resting on the base of her spine, mixed with the ache of a longing she doesn't understand, something broken that only confuses her more. So she decides to settle on the anger.

Yes, anger is good. It gives her a sense of purpose and clarity, and it doesn't threaten to make her curl up into a tiny ball. She's angry that her best friend — one of the most important people in her life, second only to Alex — has been hiding all of this from her for years. She's angry that Lena, who has taught her so many things — not just about being a profiler, but about life and love and friendship — didn't trust her enough to tell her about any of this.

Anger is good, because it keeps the tears stinging the back of her eyes from falling, because... because Kara's always thought she knows Lena better than anyone. Had believed that out of everyone, Lena had trusted her, Kara Danvers, enough to get to know her. But now, it seems she doesn't really know Lena at all.

The screen flickers.

Everyone blinks up at the screen in confusion as it begins to glitch. Suddenly, the photos of Lena disappear from the monitors. It’s replaced by what looks like a grainy video feed. Kara turns to J’onn, who shakes his head, frowning. This was not his doing.

“What the hell?” Alex frowns up at the monitor and nudges Winn, who immediately squints into his computer screen. “Who’s doing that?”

“I have no idea...” Winn mutters. “Gimme a second...”

It looks like feed from a surveillance video, except it’s showing what looks like a cabin. Even from the pixelated image, it looks well-decorated, expensive, like something from a country home magazine. Outside the far window, Kara can see a view of snow-capped mountains. Outlined in the middle is a dark shadow of a man.

“They live soft, luxurious lives, don’t they? Your so-called friends. Oblivious, unencumbered by knowledge, and so pathetically... mortal. Fragile.” A smooth baritone voice cuts through the static, and Kara’s blood chills. That voice is familiar. “You and I, we have been trained in the hard school of danger and war. Haven’t we, sister mine?”

Another figure steps out of the shadows and into view, and Kara gasps. Even in the grainy image, Lena’s smile is sharp and icy. “Comparing yourself to Alexander the Great now, are you? But then again, you always were trying too hard, Lex.”

I don't know exactly how happens, I haven't figured it out yet, but Lena confronts Lex with the intention of killing him, except she's the one who's "killed".

And Lex, being the sadistic ass that he is, had the whole thing captured on a hidden camera and it's being broadcast on every BAU monitor, for Lena's family to see.

The whole team watches Lena "die".

But Lena had a failsafe. She told someone of her location, maybe Andrea or Jack or Jess idk, and had them standby to help her in case something happened.

The whole time Lex streams their confrontation, Kara is frantic. The table suffers under her fury, splintering with the force of her desperate grip.

Every time they get nowhere trying to track Lena and Lex, Kara punches the walls, and Alex has to hold her sister back, afraid of how Kara is losing control.

When the feed broadcasts Lena's death, it seems almost unremarkable. One second, Lena is standing, the next she's on the floor, lifeless and unmoving.

A deadly silence grips the BAU conference room. No one is moving, not even breathing. It's as if when Lena dropped dead on the feed, so did they. They wait. And wait.. and wait.

Lena doesn't move.

On the screen, Lex checks his sister's vitals and satisfied, steps over his sister's body and out of sight. The camera blacks out.

They all stare dumbly at the screen for a long moment, afraid to move, as if moving from their frozen spots would make it true.

It's Alex who stirs first. She jumps into action, frantic, ordering Winn to get the feed back, but it's impossible. The room erupts in a blaze of action, but Kara... Kara's the only one left staring at the screen, frozen in shock and disbelief, as if she can't believe it's real.

It’s not. It’s not.

In the interim between Lena's death and the reveal that she’s alive, Kara spends every waking moment hunting down Lex or secretly looking into Leviathan (which she also uncovers when she digs deeper into Lena’s life before the Luthors and learns more about Lena’s mother).

Kara goes down so deep into the rabbit hole, that Alex is genuinely afraid for her sister. She almost prays that they don't find Lex Luthor. Not because she doesn't want that man brought to justice, but because she's afraid of what Kara can and will do once she sees him.

Kara hasn't mentioned Lena's name in months. But then again, most of their team hasn't.

In the months since Lena’s death, two new members have been brought int the BAU team, William Dey and Nia Nal.

William and Nia know very little about Lena from the team itself, because her name is hardly mentioned. Nia only knows Lena through her reputation, and through what Alex and the other agents outside of their team have told her. 

Alex is the only one in the team who says Lena's name because she hates that everyone tiptoes around it.

Lena was their friend. Her friend, and it's not right that everyone flinches at her name, that they can't look at the plaque of her on the memorial wall. She knows how hard it is to look at Lena's picture there, just as hard as it was to look at Kara's blood on the walls.

But Alex is not gonna be the one to look away. Lena didn't look away when they cleaned Kara's blood off the walls, and Alex will not look away from her either. She's gonna hunt Lex Luthor down like the animal that he is and make him pay for taking Lena from their family.

But Alex is getting worried about Kara.

Her sister doesn’t sleep anymore. Barely eats. Kara doesn't stop — she pores over old files of Lex's murders, goes over the old profile, possible places he might be. Alex is worried about her fixation with Lex. It's not healthy. Kara's grief — or her refusal to grieve — is gonna drive her to the ground.

So she confronts Kara about it.

They're in the BAU conference room when Alex finally speaks up, but Kara meets her gaze head on. With one hand, she points to the empty seat Lena used to favor, right across Kara's. "Lena's chair, Alex. What do you see when you look at it?... Nothing, right? We've left it empty all this time. No one can bear to sit it in. Tell me, what do you see, right now?"

Alex glances over at the chair, then back at her sister "Kara..."

"Tell me what you see, Alex."

Alex sighs. "Nothing."

"Exactly. Nothing." Kara nods, her eyes hard. "Do you wanna know what I see? I see her, Alex. I see Lena sitting across from me, just as clearly as I can see you now.”

Alex swallows at the intensity burning in her sister’s eyes.

“I see her everywhere, Alex. All the time. I see her smile, her eyes, and I—" Kara's voice cuts off with a sob. The agony in her eyes is almost too much for Alex to take. It takes a long moment before Kara can speak again.

"I can't stop, Alex. Whenever I stop and I look at her, I — I know she's - she's gone, but she looks so alive, and I— I know the only way I can get any kind of peace about it is knowing that Lex Luthor has been wiped off the face of the earth."

A frisson of fear shivers down Alex's spine. "Killing Lex won't bring Lena back, Kara."

"I know that, Alex." Kara's eyes are dark as flint. "Believe me. I know."

Sometime after Lena’s “death”, the BAU receives an unannounced visitor.

Lillian Luthor strides into the BAU bullpen, tall and imperial in her furs, her icy glare making everyone it lands on feel small and insignificant.

She strides past the bullpen, past Kara, and comes face to face with J’onn. Her cold blue eyes render everyone in the room silent. She scoffs her hatred into his face.

 "Taking my son away from me wasn't enough for you people, was it? You had to take my daughter away from me too. I warned her. I warned her this would be her undoing, and I was right. And now she's dead." 

They end up having to work with Lillian to find Lex, because as Lillian says "It takes a Luthor to find a Luthor." [And there's gonna be an interrogation lol. I just have this vague idea of Lillian talking about Lex and Lena.]

"The truth is, I lost Lena long before now.” Kara suspects that this is the closest anyone has come to hearing regret in Lillian Luthor’s voice.

“I was.... harsh on her, in a way I never was with Lex. Lex always had a sharp edge to him, but Lena — Lena was too soft, too vulnerable. A Luthor cannot be soft. Not when the world is watching, waiting for you to make the smallest mistake."

It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. Kara slams her hands on the table, unable to believe the nerve of this woman. J'onn grips her arm in warning, but Kara ignores him, snarling at Lillian, her anger plain on her face. "You abused her! You made her feel unworthy of love, unable to trust anyone—"

Lillian lifts her chin. "I made sure my daughter could face a world that's hungry for Luthor blood. I made her a Luthor."

"She was just a little girl when she came to you!" Kara shouts, her fury growing by the second. "A little girl whose mother just died, who was looking for love, and instead she found you. She trusted you—"

Lillian's voice rises, a flash of heat scorching the cool, detached dignified tones. "I made her strong!" 

"She didn't need to be strong!" Kara yells, surging up to her feet, her face inches away from Lillian. J'onn grabs her shoulder, restraining, but Kara presses forward. "She needed someone to love her! And you answered that with nothing but condescension and neglect! The only one in your family who made her feel loved was a psychopath who betrayed her!"

Lillian is struck silent, her eyes wide and her face strained as she stares at Kara. Kara meets the older woman's eyes, staring her down without the fear that a younger Lena must have shown Lillian all those years ago.

Kara wishes she could've been there to hold that young Lena in her arms, wishes she could've taken her away from the family that broke her.

"The Luthor name didn't deserve Lena. You never deserved her."

#supercorp #lena luthor #kara danvers #supergirl #katie mcgrath #melissa benoist #me trying to write #I guess it could also fit with any crime drama not just CM #tbh I haven’t watched the show in I don’t even know how long. I was just watching a crime drama show and I had these in my drafts so #enjoy I guess? or not there’s a truck full of angst in this thing #p.s. this is like my FAVORITE characterization of Lillian. i tried my best 👉👈 please be kind #this is version 2.0 of my Criminal Minds AU cos i had to rework that one. and honestly i think this one is better #more fully realized i guess? idk it's 2am #sorry for the long post 😅

[chenziee]

Shortly after Ace starts dating Marco in a modern AU, Luffy is chatting with Sabo about his latest E.R. trip when when he goes "Actually, Pinapple man was there and--"

Sabo is completely confused for a moment, until Luffy notices and clarifies, "You know that guy. I forget his name. That pinapple guy. Ace brought him to BBQ last week."

It takes Sabo a full minute to process that Luffy just called Ace's boyfriend, the department head of the university hospital, 'that pinapple guy' but when he does... he laughs. He laughs and laughs to the point of tears; he can't remember the last time he laughed quite this much.

He keeps bursting into snickers when he rushes to the store right after.

When Ace gets home that night, there is a pineapple sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, complete with googly eyes and fake glases glued on--as well as having its own plate and cuttlery set out before it, ready to get its own serving of dinner.

Ace doesn't have to look at the name tag that reads "Marco, that pineapple guy" that is hanging on lanyard that's tangled in its leaves before he, too, starts laughing until tears are streaming down his face.

A photo of Marco the Pineapple is set as Marco the Human's contact photo before dinner is even served.

Marco the Pinapple sits at the table for a few days but after a Straw Hats visit, it is deemed that he is taking up too much space and is relocated to the living room, his new home being the top of a cabinet.

By the time Marco the Human visits the ASL household about a month later, Marco the Pineapple is pretty much a family member.

Marco doesn't notice the random pineapple at first--the pineapple that is now wearing a tiny lab coat and a stethoscope--until Ace's cat, Kotatsu, jumps on that particular cabinet.

It's only when Sabo's warning hiss of, "Kotatsu, you know you can't touch Marco, don't you dare" draws his attention that he notices the cat wasn't about to start wrestling with his ankles.

Instead, he was sitting next to the decorated pineapple and staring straight at Sabo as if to tell him to try and stop him.

Marco isn't sure if he's ever been faced with a sight so bizzare... but he would be lying if he said he didn't find it hilarious.

Ace gifts him Marco the Pineapple Jr. to keep on his desk at work.

And Marco loves it.

#one piece #marcoace #marace #sabo #luffy #asl #asl brothered #modern au #today on things i'll never write #katie pretends to fic #portgas d ace #ace #marco #so many typos omfg #that's what i get for writing and posting thos while falling asleep #marco the phoenix

[nburkhardt]

59. “H-How long have you been standing there?”

ILY 😘

ILY 🥰 sorry it went a little angsty

~

“Maybe being here isn’t the best idea but I can’t handle not knowing, okay? And- and I need to know, even though we, we aren’t friends and I just needed to be here. To know if you’re good and when, when you tell me to leave- I’ll go, I swear” Steve is pacing and rambling, not making any sense but it’s okay sort of.

He’s the only one in here right now, besides well, Eddie. Who can’t respond because he’s not awake, and that’s why Steve’s even talking out loud and pacing like a worried partner. And truthfully he is worried, he’s just not Eddie’s partner.

Not even Eddie’s friend.

Letting out a sound that’s definitely a sob, he continues to pace and shake his head. Wrapping his arms around himself, “you just, you can’t die, Eddie. You’d be making Henderson sad and I can’t handle that and, and i- we need you, man. Gotta have another adult around. I, I’d like to get to know you to need you.”

He whispers the last part out, wanting it to be a secret even if Eddie is clearly out cold from the medication the doctors have him on and probably will never hear this.

There’s movement from the door and Steve spins around to freeze in his spot, coloring draining from his face.

“H-how long have you been standing there?” He chokes out and wonders if he was being too loud again, he can’t tell what his volume is sometimes. Hopes he wasn’t just yelling his thoughts out.

Wayne Munson steps further into the room and he pats Steve’s shoulder as he moves to sit next to the bed, “Long enough to wonder if I should get ya something to relax, sit down”

Automatically, he finds the other chair and sit down with his back straight. Avoiding looking at Wayne, focusing his gaze at Eddie’s hand.

He hears Wayne sigh, “Boy, just hold it. Here, press your fingers right at his pulse point,” he follows it and slowly grabs hold of Eddie’s hand, pressing his fingers along to feel, to know, that Eddie’s heart is beating.

“How, um, how much did you hear?” Steve asks, gaze still locked on Eddie’s hand and now his, moving it to properly hold Eddie’s. “Was I loud?”

“Enough to know you care about my boy, ain’t loud either.”

Steve nods, taking a moment to breathe before looking up at Wayne, “I’m sorry, Mr. Munson, if he- I shouldn’t-” he drops Eddie’s hand and stands up to leave, he should leave.

“Boy, Steve, sit down” Wayne’s voice is rough and he’s shaking his head, sighing, “Ed will be fine, and he’d be throwing a fit if you just left”

“What? How” Steve’s eyes widen and look at him, “we aren’t- he doesn’t, why”

“I know my nephew and who he wants around, you might not know much about each other,” Wayne looks at Eddie a twitch of a grin on his face, “might’ve even just met, but once he knows you, he wants you around. Especially if that person helps save his life”

Steve drops back down and leans his head against the bed, his tension falling as he does, “I’d like to stay, I’d, I’d like to know him”

The room grows quiet, only the beeps from the machines is heard.

Steve shifts, getting more comfortable with his arms crossed on the bed and his head on top to look at Eddie. Wayne nods with a smile, despite Steve not looking at him, leans back in his chair to get comfortable.

In the morning, they’ll talk more. They’ll get coffee and spend the day waiting for Eddie to wake up.

~

This wrote itself, it actually wanted to go on longer butttt I don’t wanna. I WILL say this is after vecna and Steve definitely carried Eddie to the hospital and refused to leave his side. The only reason Dustin’s not there is because his mom has him under house arrest to let his ankle to heal ✌️

Tag list under the cut:

@spectrum-spectre @itsfreakingbats @mysticcrownshipper @artiststarme @thereindeerlady @justforthedead89 @ronniescontinuum @freyaforestafay @littlewildflowerkitten @gregre369 @zerokrox-blog @flustratedcas @carlprocastinator1000 @marvelmwah @solliesolesito @navnae @i-less-than-three-you @grimmfitzz @estrellami-1

#steddie #well actually #pre steddie #nburkhardt writes #Steve Harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #hurt with little comfort #angsty #steddie fic #steve x eddie #stranger things #dear Katy idk what happened I might to write something silly…

[ukulelekatie]

no no you don’t understand I don’t want to write this fic idea. i don’t even necessarily want to read it per se. i just want to put it in my mouth and thrash my head around like an an excited dog with a chew toy

#just katie things #katie writes

[the-kr8tor]

Guys, guys! Listen I've been having this brainrot for a few days and I think I'm ready to share it! It's perfect for another Halloween fic!

Imagine pirate captain! Hobie who only plunders the rich to give to the needy (like robin hood but on the sea) his crew consists of the atsv cast, (miles, pav, gwen maybe even some ttn casts in there) and then there's the reader, who craves adventure on the sea but couldn't because she's a woman and women are bad luck when sailing the sea. But then she sees Gwen and goes wait a minute, that's allowed?

She sneaks inside the boat as a stowaway then somebody finds her tucked inside a barrel lol there's gonna be sea monsters and the navy will be after them too!

This is what happens when I happen to watch the last voyage of the Demeter thinking it'll be like iwtv lmao

Send me your thoughts if you want me to write something like this!

#katy mumbles #this'll be a tall order to write but idc i love it so much #pirate captain! hobie perhaps? #fae! hobie will still be a thing #in another Halloween fic

[katia-dreamer]

Percival is different. Like a piece that doesn’t quite fit into his surroundings, jagged edges against a smooth surface.

An arrow weighted wrong.

His white hair, his eyes that can be cold and detached but are full of the kind of fire that burns so bright it almost scalds.  His hair is shaggy and scraggly, and his body appears worn thin by whatever he suffered in his cell.

Percy looks up at her across the campfire, his spectacles flashing white. 

Who was this man who talked like a noble? Who waved about a ridiculous name and had shadows under his eyes that seemed to leech into his very skin? Who was this man who had given her his every cent? She can almost still feel the weight of the coins pressed into her palm, cold and hard.

Percival shifts, pulling his coat tighter around him. “You are studying me very intently.”

Vex bristles at his words. “Can you blame me for being curious?”

“Do you not pick up strangers from jail often?”

“No.”

“What will you do with me now that you have me?” he asks.

She tilts her head, considering, and then says, “You’ll have to wait and see.”

He laughs and almost jumps at the sound, as though he was unused to hearing it. “I suppose I shall.”

He is different, but she could eventually grow fond of it.

And that’s dangerous.

Vex doesn’t make any more conversation that night.

-

also available on A03

#katie writes things #cr1 #cr fanfiction #perc'ahlia

[thee-morrigan]

in any universe

The Wayhaven Chronicles Ava du Mortain/Dinah Batra/Nate Sewell 6.5k words rated G (for 'good god I didn't expect this to get so long???') content warnings: snowstorms, mysterious cabins, a rogue time-traveler, and gratuitous descriptions of Ava's eyes read it on AO3

I had the absolute pleasure of writing for @evilbunnyking as part of the @wayhavensecretsanta this month. (Did I spend the past several weeks fully giggling, twirling my hair, kicking my feet, glitter-gel-pen writing in my diary about Dinah, Nate, and Ava? Maybe! 💖) Thank you for letting me have a playdate with Dinah! I had a blast with this, and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it 💖🥰

— It’s barely past noon, but already the watery winter sun is fading, rays of diluted daylight trickling slowly past the stark, spiky tree limbs that jutted at irregular angles into the blue-grey sky. What little of it filters onto the ground — hard and hoary with frost and the dusting of snow from the spindrift of flurries early this morning — is weaker still, the scant brush of the sun’s warmth against Dinah’s face barely registering, its light trailing off like unfinished sentences, thin tendrils curling into nothing but air, like the smoke of a snuffed candle.

“We should have taken the SUV,” Ava says, and Dinah looks up at the woman walking alongside her, the spectral tendrils of sunlight gilding the edges of her face — the slope of her nose, the wisps of pale hair that the wind has tugged free of her usual low bun — turning the other woman’s profile as silvery as the frosted path beneath their booted feet. For her part, Ava does not look at Dinah as they walk, hawk-sharp eyes sweeping along the path ahead, across the surrounding wood, as if the trees standing sentry are liable to go from resembling a watchful assemblage to becoming one entire, long bare limbs poised to come alive as soon as she looks away.

“It’s not far,” Dinah replies, turning her gaze back to the path ahead as well, the winding, snow-flecked bridleway looping its way through the forest just as the fissures in the bark of the surrounding trees spiraled up and around their vast trunks.

Sweet chestnut trees, she thinks, though she can’t remember when or why she came by this knowledge, at what point she learned to associate the thick, purple-grey trees with that identity.

“It is an unexpectedly lovely day for a walk,” Nate adds from her other side, throwing Dinah a gentle smile. “I’d thought we were due a heavier snowfall than this morning’s flurries turned out to be.”

“We are,” Ava says, turning her head to look at both Dinah and Nate as they traipse further through the woods. “The radar this morning indicated we can expect winter storm conditions this afternoon, and perhaps into tomorrow as well.”

“We’ll be safely back at the warehouse before the worst of it hits, Ava,” Dinah soothes, though she can’t keep the corners of her mouth from curving upwards in mild amusement at the idea of Ava monitoring the weather radar map. “And Nate’s right: at least for now, it’s a nice day.”

Ava sighs and turns her gaze back to the path ahead, though not, Dinah notices, before her expression softens a bit, her mouth relaxing, green eyes glimmering with something approaching a look of fondness towards them both.

##

Dinah is right about the cabin not being much further, situated only a few miles away from the warehouse, and so it isn’t much longer before they reach the place. Despite its relative closeness, however, and perhaps because of its being nestled just that much deeper into the forest surrounding Wayhaven, there is a certain air of isolation about the little house, as though they’ve somehow managed to travel much further than could ever be possible in the time they’d been walking.

She thinks this air about the old cabin, this shimmer of eerie uncertainty surrounding the property, is partly why Tina had begged the favor of her, to check in on the house after a few reports from the owner about things seeming just the slightest bit out of sorts recently — windows that should have been locked being cracked open, bedside lamps left switched on when they oughtn’t have been, and that sort of thing. Tina had been inclined to chalk it up to the particular quiet of the surrounding wood and simple human forgetfulness on the owner’s part, given that he mostly kept the cabin as a source of supplemental income these days, letting it as a vacation rental property. The only reason he’d known to report anything amiss in the first place had been thanks to the cleaning crew he paid to check in on the property once a month, give or take when the cabin was occupied by guests, whose presence could explain any or all of the unexpected occurrences the owner had reported to the station.

Still, Tina had said when she relayed all of this information to Dinah a few days ago, I know it’s probably nothing, but, if I’m being honest, that place has always kind of given me the creeps.

And so Dinah had agreed to the favor. One last thankless detective’s task for old time’s sake, she supposes.

“Just a quick look around and we can go,” she promises Nate and Ava as they approach the cabin now, raising her voice slightly over the wind, which has begun to pick up in the past few minutes, accompanied by a fresh flurry of fat, wet snowflakes.

Despite Tina’s apparent discomfort with it, the cabin appears, if anything, like something you’d find in a winter painting or emblazoned on a postcard, nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering ancient cedar trees and the elegant sweeping cradle of silver birches, long-limbed and half-frozen. The snow-dusted roof glitters in the white-gold wash of afternoon sun, contrasting against the darkened timber walls of the cabin. It emanates a certain charm, as if it holds secrets within its sturdy frame.

Nate, his gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets, gazes at the cabin with a sense of wonderment. "It's like something out of a fairy tale," he murmurs.

“I wonder why Tina said it gave her the creeps,” Dinah muses as they step onto the wide, weathered planks of the porch, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket and scrolling through her last texts with her erstwhile colleague until she sees the code to the lockbox fastened next to the front door.

She punches the code into the keypad with gloved fingers, a bright, staccato chirrup sounding as the electronic latch clicked open, allowing Dinah to retrieve a small leather keychain bearing two keys, one silver and one a dull bronze. It’s the silver one that must be the cabin key, she thinks. The bronze one is smaller, with fewer teeth than its companion. It almost resembled a mailbox key, but she’s not sure it’s quite large enough for a standard post-office box.

She puts it out of her mind, though, as her assumption about the silver key being the one needed to enter the cabin proves correct. As she inserts the key into the lock, a gust of wind howls through the treetops, causing the branches to sway and creak. The sound is mournful, as though the forest itself is warning them of something unseen.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Dinah steps inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the frost-laced windows. The cabin is unexpectedly warm, despite its emptiness and the cold of the world just beyond its wooden walls. The wind and promised winter storm conditions have begun to pick up in earnest now and, while the interior warmth is a welcome surprise, she hopes they can report everything in order quickly and begin the trek back towards town and the warehouse before it gets any colder.

Dinah steps further into the cabin, letting the warmth envelop her. She glances around, taking in the worn wooden furnishings and old-fashioned charm of the place. The thick wooden planks that make up the walls are dark and weathered with age, each knot and grain clear as day, like a tapestry of nature itself. The scent of pine and wood smoke fills her nose, mixing with the musty odor of dampness and age, lingering beneath the sharper tang of citrus — oranges, she thinks, rather than lemons — particular to furniture polish and oil soap. Lingering from the cleaners, she presumes.

Before or after they’d phoned the owner? She wonders. Before or after they noticed whatever it was they’d noticed to create the impression that all was not as it ought to have been?

Nate follows behind her, pausing only to scrape the frost and forest debris off his boots and onto the coarse fibers of the doormat. "Seems normal so far," he remarks, though his voice holds the barest tinge of unease.

She thinks she understands it, this shade of uncertainty coloring his voice; perhaps it is only the way in which her brain has primed itself for something, anything, to be unusual. Perhaps it is how preternaturally lovely the cabin had been as they approached it outside, the glittering winter panorama that had made Nate think of fairytales.

Perhaps it is the slight, burnt-sugar taste on her tongue, the roof of her mouth, whose flavor she associates with campfire-scorched marshmallows and, more recently (more pertinently), with magic.

Ava is close behind, the door creaking slightly as she pulls it shut, leaving them in near darkness until she finds a light switch. Dinah’s eyes have swept from Nate’s face to Ava’s, as if seeking a second confirmation of something, but Ava’s gaze is narrowed on the large stone fireplace in the center of the living room.

“How long did you say it has been since this cabin has been occupied?” She asks.

"Quite a few months, if I remember correctly," Dinah replies, her gaze following Ava's to the fireplace. The hearth is immaculately clean, not a trace of ash or soot to be seen. Stranger still, the scent of freshly burned wood hangs in the air; evident beneath the pine and citrus scent. “Well, aside from the cleaners, I suppose. They would have been here last week, I think? Or the start of this week.”

“It seems unlikely that they would have built a fire,” Nate muses, his expression thoughtful as he watches Ava, her gaze still fixed on the rough fieldstone fireplace. “Though the room certainly smells of one.”

"Indeed," Ava replies, her voice low and thoughtful. She steps further into the room, striding past Dinah and Nate to kneel before the fireplace, stretching one hand out toward the cold hearth. Her fingers hover for a long moment over the scrubbed, smooth grate before she pulls her hand back, straightening and turning back to face the others.

“It does not seem to be any warmer than it ought,” she concedes, the beginnings of a frown creasing her brows. “But it smells as though someone lit a fire. Recently.”

“Maybe they burned a candle?” Dinah suggests with a shrug, though her hazel eyes are pensive flick between Nate and Ava, watching whatever unspoken conversation they’re having.

“Perhaps.” Ava does not sound convinced.

“You’re probably right,” Nate says gamely, giving Dinah a smile that almost successfully wipes the earlier glimmer of uncertainty from his face. “What else did you need to check before we head back?”

##

Their sweep of the other rooms, thankfully, doesn’t seem to spark any additional sense of lingering disorder, although it does take a bit longer than Dinah had anticipated because of the cabin's surprising size. Closets, bedrooms, and a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen are methodically examined by the trio. Finally satisfied that she's done her due diligence and can report back to Tina that everything seems more or less normal, Dinah checks her watch, squinting at the dimly lit dial.

"I think that's it," she says as they finish their search of the cabin. A soft sigh of relief escapes from between her lips as if expressing a quiet gratitude to the labyrinthine cabin for not exposing them to any other irregularities.

Nate, who had stopped to scrutinize an antique grandfather clock situated against a wall just past the entryway, looks up at Dinah's voice, his own lips parting as if to respond. It is Ava, however, who speaks next, calling to them from the far side of the living room, where she's taken up what Dinah can only consider her typical position before a window, this one overlooking the front porch and, beyond, the path they had taken to reach the cabin earlier this afternoon.

"It would appear we have run into a problem," Ava says grimly, her beryl eyes narrowed at whatever she's spotted outside the cabin.

"What is it?" Nate asks, stepping away from the old clock and towards the living room.

Dinah answers as he ducks through the open doorway, having twitched aside the curtain of another window nearer to her. "Winter storm conditions,” she sighs.

##

They decide to make the best of it — because what else can they do, really?   They will spend the dwindling daylight hours and the coming night in the cabin and reassess in the morning. By then, they reason — they hope — the worst of the snowstorm will have passed.

Once more, the trio split up, this time in search of necessary supplies for the coming evening rather than the presumed vandals or squatters they’d been sent to suss out earlier. Ava elects to venture outside and to the small shed behind the cabin in search of firewood, before the snow completely blankets the forest and renders visibility difficult for even supernaturally keen eyesight. Nate and Dinah will stay inside, sorting through the numerous closets and cupboards for candles, blankets, and foodstuffs. 

The cabin resonates with a strange sense of harmony, each of them engaged in their own tasks; Nate humming slightly as he sifts through kitchen cabinets, the rhythm of Dinah's steps echoing through the rooms as she ascends and descends the staircase, rifling through bedroom closets.

Ava returns, though after how long, neither Dinah nor Nate are entirely sure. Time has seemed…looser, since entering the cabin, perhaps since entering the surrounding wood altogether. Slowing and speeding at intervals irregular to their own cadence, each moment stretching on indefinitely but also second by second – ticking away as marked by the steady rhythm of the grandfather clock. 

Nonetheless, she returns, indeterminate time notwithstanding, arms laden with chopped wood, cheeks flushed against the biting cold, her form in the doorway a specter-like silhouette against the backdrop of mounting snowfall. She shakes loose a flurry of snowflakes caught in the folds of her scarf, the collar of her coat, shuffling wet clumps of snow off of her boots and onto the wide, wooden planks of the front porch before stepping past the threshold and into the cabin proper.

Nate emerges from the kitchen as she deposits her findings in a precise stack next to the fireplace, the logs clattering and thudding methodically alongside one another.

“It seems we were wise not to have attempted the walk back,” he says by way of greeting, crossing the living room to pull the front door shut where Ava, arms otherwise occupied, had left it half ajar. The heavy door slides shut with a muted thud, the worn, smooth metal of the brass handle icy beneath his palm as he gives it one more firm, brief tug before releasing it, satisfied that the torrent of snow falling in wet, heavy swirls outside wouldn’t make it into the dry warmth of the old cabin.

Ava gives a murmur of agreement, on her knees before the hearth, hands busied with the work of starting a fire with the wood she’s procured and the ceramic urn perched on the mantle, which is full of matchbooks, taken over a period of years, no doubt, from restaurants and bars and hotels. The logs are slick with the meltwater of snow and ice, although some thoughtful previous cabin guest has left a small stack of newspaper pages on the hearth, tucked behind the spindly wrought iron stand holding a small assortment of fireplace tools, presumably to be used as tinder.

With deft fingers, Ava strips off her gloves, laying them neatly on the stone of the fireplace, and reaches for a sheaf of newsprint, crumpling the pages into loose wads. She arranges them with a few of the driest twigs, striking a match against the strip on its book cover and holding the tiny flame to the newspaper until it catches and begins to consume itself in a bright orange glow. The first crackling embers in the grate send out a thin spiral of fragrant smoke, wrapping itself around Ava as she fans the flames into life. She pauses, straightening a bit to unwind her still-snow-speckled scarf, the wool of it damp in spots where the warmth of the cabin and her fledgling fire have begun to melt the lingering frost, and watches as her handiwork takes hold and steadily grows. The warmth now emanating from the fireplace is welcome, cutting through the chill that had started to settle in her bones.

“Thank you, by the way,” Nate says, coming to stand next to where she’s still knelt before the fire, a pleased hum of a sigh accompanying the words of gratitude. “For the fire, and for venturing into—” he sweeps a hand toward the front windows “—that to gather firewood.”

“And for not reminding either of you that I advised against walking here in the first place?” She leans back on her shins and tilts her face up to look at him, the tops of her booted feet pressed flush against the floor, her palms resting flat against the tops of her thighs. Ava’s voice is dry as bone, but there’s an unmistakeable shimmer of amusement in her eyes, the bright green of them turned aventurescent in the flickering glow of the firelight.

Nate laughs, and the warmth of it, resonant and radiant, sears through any lingering coldness in her that had gone unreached by the heat of the fire now burning steadily in the grate. Warms her to her marrow, as his laughter (his voice, his existence) has done for over three hundred years, now.

“That too, I suppose,” he amends, still smiling as he offers his hand to her, although they both know it is an unnecessary politeness — she does not need assistance to unfold herself from her position before the fire, to rise to her feet. She accepts it anyway, pale, calloused fingers grasping his dark, fine-boned hand as she rises to stand beside him.

Deeper into the cabin, footsteps sound, light and quick, as Dinah emerges from the dark of the corridor behind Ava, a bundle of fabric and a cardboard box cradled in her arms. She smiles, glancing at the fire as she steps further into the room and towards the two vampires standing in front of it.

Something about it — everything about it, she amends, for it is everything, really, about their current situation — strikes her with an odd feeling, a warm swell of something like familiarity or nostalgia or sentiment that takes her a moment to place. The crackling blaze of the fire, warm as bathwater against her face as she draws nearer, warmer still where its glow reflects off of her companions, its light painting their faces and hands in shades of rose and gold and ochre. How the light and heat contrast with the mercurial silver of the afternoon outside, the cloud-smothered sky already grown too dark for the hour, even for winter, its icy fingers pressing and dragging against the windows. The way Ava and Nate always seem to look at her, and even more so how they always — have always, at least as long as she’s known them, in each, century-spanning context — look at each other.

When she places the odd, slip-sliding sensation, she can’t quell the soft laugh that bubbles out of her. Nate gives her a quizzical smile as he steps towards her, reaching to pull the box from her arms. He sets it on one of the two chintzy, overstuffed armchairs in the middle of the room, the one nearest to the fireplace, lifting one of the flaps to peer at its contents.

“Is something amusing you, agent?” Ava asks, one dark blonde brow arched as she unbuttons her woollen peacoat before moving to hang it next to Dinah’s on the wooden coat rack by the front door.

“Just experiencing deja vu, I think,” she answers, unfolding the bundle of cloth still draped across her arm — a cable-knit sweater, it turns out, large and cream-colored and heavy looking, which Dinah slips on over her own thinner sweater, warm enough under her coat for the weather earlier in their day, but somewhat lacking in the current snowstorm. The garment hangs loose on her, the hem landing halfway down her thighs, and she has to roll the sleeves twice to free her hands, but it’s gloriously warm, and she almost laughs again at the memory of another borrowed sweater, in another lifetime.

“Deja vu?” Nate asks, still sorting through the box Dinah had unearthed. Her search of the bedrooms had been a fruitful one, it seems: the box is full of useful paraphernalia for anyone unexpectedly snowbound, including, among other things, at least a dozen long, white candles, a couple of camping lanterns, one heavy flashlight, and packages of batteries for each. Ava has crossed back over to them now, too, and slips a hand into the box alongside Nate’s to help him sort through its contents.

“Thinking of the last time we were…unexpectedly ensconced in a remote location like this. Lauterbrunnen.”

“Ah,” Nate says, and she knows before even looking at him that he’s smiling at the memory she’s called up, can hear it in that one syllable alone.

“The selection of reading materials pales in comparison to the chalet, of course,” she allows, failing entirely to contain her grin at Ava’s quiet, whip-quick rejoinder: “The volume of materials, as well.”

“But,” Dinah continues, that irrepressible grin seeping into her voice, “we do have electricity and running water here, so.” She shrugs. “Maybe that almost evens out, all things considered.”

And, of course, of fucking course, it is at that moment that the power flickers — dims — and peters out entirely.

##

The kitchen, bathed in a blend of candlelight and lantern glow, becomes their sanctuary as the world beyond the frost-coated windows plunges into the inky cold. The kitchen turned out to have an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, so Ava has built them another fire, its comforting warmth and scent filling the air, coupled with the aroma of the soup Nate had found in the pantry (although he’d seemed truly distressed at having only canned food to offer Dinah, with no fresh produce to supplement it, and it had been an effort not to laugh at the consternation on his face).

Canned though it may be, the soup is hot and filling, and Dinah sips at it happily enough, warming her fingers against the large, earthenware mug as she does. In addition to the lighting supplies they’d quickly put to good use, she’d found a jigsaw puzzle in a hall closet, and so, for lack of much else to do, they’re now sat together at the long kitchen table across from the wood stove, puzzle pieces strewn across the width of the table, tiny cardboard islands in a sea of dark mahogany.

Even as they collectively bend towards their task, their breaths intermingling in a rhythm of shared concentration, Dinah’s mind remains centered elsewhere. She finds herself watching her companions more than working on the puzzle, studying their focused faces under the flickering candlelight. There is a certain harmony to their movements, the result, she knows, of years and years and years of working all manner of tasks alongside one another, and Dinah can't help but feel a pang of affection for them both.

“You know you can’t win a jigsaw puzzle, Ava,” Dinah remarks, a teasing grin tugging insistently at one corner of her mouth.

Her comment is rewarded by a soft huff of laughter from Nate and a pointed silence from Ava — although perhaps the latter is less due to Ava choosing to ignore her and more the result of the commanding agent’s intense focus on the scattering of puzzle pieces arranged before her.

She’s not surprised, of course, that Ava takes jigsaw puzzles as a kind of tactical challenge, that she faces them as something to be outwitted through strategic brilliance and logical prowess. It’s part of why she likes her, really: a shared thread of fiery determination that runs through them both, this impulse — this compulsion — to rise to any occasion, meet it head-on and straight-backed, no matter how un-momentous the occasion may be. After all, hadn’t Dinah once taken the task of choosing a wine that Ava might enjoy as a challenge to be faced? Heracles and his Labours; Dinah and her (unboxed) wine.

Ava and her jigsaw puzzle.

Still, scouring hundreds of puzzle pieces in the dim light of the lanterns and candles, coupled with the growing lateness of the hour, is beginning to wear on Dinah and her human eyes, so she leans back in her chair, stretching languidly as she does. Propping one elbow on the back of the chair, she twists in her seat, casting her eyes about the room if only for a brief change in focal distance. Through the open doorway of the kitchen, she can see into the living room, the light of the still-crackling fire a rippling glow, illuminating the overstuffed armchair set closest to the fireplace.

Illuminating the object resting thereupon, which Dinah is quite sure had not been there earlier in the evening. There, lying open and facedown along one of the chair’s puffy arms, is a book.

It’s a squatty paperback, small and thick, its pages, as best she can tell through the dimness and the distance, gone slightly yellowed with age, corners slightly rounded and curling, dulled with the thumbing of untold hands over unknown years of use.

“Nate,” she asks, cutting off whatever conversation had been happening, whatever idle, puzzle-side chatter she’s fully relinquished the thread of now, her focus grasping instead for the unexpected snag of this book in the living room. “Did you leave that there? That book, in the living room?”

She tilts her head, chin jerking slightly in the direction of the doorway, not taking her eyes off the book as she speaks, because she already knows what his answer will be, already knows that, even if he had found a book to peruse while she’d been rummaging through bedrooms and closets upstairs, he would not have left it thus, splayed carelessly as if forgotten in the wake of something more captivating. Knows that, whomever it was who had last touched this book and then left it, discarded and haphazard, on the arm of the chair, it would not have been Nate, whose elegant hands are gentle and careful with almost everything they touch, and always so with books.

Well. Give or take a scant few exceptions, she remembers, although when she thinks of the circumstances in which he might be — in which he has been — so driven to distraction as to be truly careless in setting aside a book, she is reasonably confident that they do not apply to this particular scenario.

Nate looks up from the scattering of puzzle pieces through which he’d been sorting, eyes moving first to Dinah, half-twisted in her chair across from him, to the open doorway through which her gaze is still focused, finally alighting on the book in question. His brow furrows slightly as he glances from the discarded paperback to Ava, who has wrested her own focus from the jigsaw puzzle to the two of them, something in the tone of Dinah’s voice tugging her away from her consideration of optimal puzzle completion strategies.

“No,” he says finally, and can see his own confusion mirrored in Ava’s expression as those cool, emerald eyes slide to meet his, a mélange of question and calculation flickering there as he answers.

Green eyes and brown shift once again towards Dinah as she twists back around to face them, her own dark eyes lingering over her shoulder and into the living room for a too-long moment, as though not trusting the room behind her to remain static once she turns her back on it.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and looks between the two vampires, her mouth stretching in a grim almost-smile. “I didn’t think so,” she murmurs ruefully as she meets Nate’s puzzled gaze. “Although I was really, really hoping to be wrong.”

She stands abruptly, the chair skidding back on the wooden floor with a harsh rasp that echoes in the silence that has settled over the three of them. Dinah meets Ava’s eyes first, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary before shifting her attention to Nate. There's a sense of urgency crackling around her as she strides towards the living room, her fingers tightly curled in anticipation.

She moves deliberately towards the forgotten book, each footfall echoing in the stillness of the room. She hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and picks up the novel, the rough edges of the worn pages making her fingers prickle with an odd sense of unease.

She flips it over to see the cover — the title, Time's Shadow, is embossed in gold letters above a dramatic illustration of a branching tree, its roots plunging into a shadowy abyss while its leafy arms reach towards a clock face trapped in a twilight sky, although its hands point to a minute shy of twelve o'clock.

Puzzle abandoned, Nate and Ava have followed her into the living room, though neither of them seems to have any more idea than she as to how this book came to be here, or from whence it came.

Dinah flicks through the pages, her gaze quickly scanning the taut lines of text. The scent of old paper and ink wafts up, mingling with the room's musty air. There is nothing else remarkable about the book. No annotations, no dog-eared pages, no forgotten bookmarks or slips of paper. Just an ordinary book left in an extraordinary circumstance.

Nate steps forward, a mix of caution and curiosity on his face. "May I?" he asks, extending a hand towards Dinah.

Wordlessly, she hands it to him, watching him as he studies the book. He traces the edge of one golden letter before opening the paperback carefully, his long fingers leafing through the worn pages with a careful reverence, dark eyes skimming across the pages, though nothing seems to catch his attention.

The silence of the room is broken, suddenly, by a soft voice. "I hope you were kind enough to mark my place before you turned the page."

The trio whirls around, startled by the unexpected voice that had so disrupted the stillness of the room, a stone thrown into a tranquil pond. Seated comfortably on the weathered armchair against the far wall is a man who wasn't there moments ago, hands folded neatly in his lap, a thin smile etched across his face.

The man is nondescript in most ways — medium height, mid-forties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back from a high forehead. His eyes, as calm and deep as a placid lake, meet theirs with an amused glint.

Dinah straightens her spine and takes a step forward, her gaze hardening to steel on this stranger. "And you are?" She manages to ask, forcing her voice to remain steady, courteous, even, tempering the whirlwind of questions threatening to break loose.

Ava has moved to lean against the threshold that divides the two rooms, her fingers curling around the edge of the wall as she studies the interloper. Her green eyes hide nothing of her suspicion as they flicker over him, assessing and analyzing with a calculated precision.

The stranger chuckles, the sound warm and non-threatening. "My name is Cyrus," he says, his voice as soft and smooth as worn leather. "And I mean no harm."

Nate, still holding the book, steps closer to Dinah, his face unreadable. There is a moment when their gazes meet; an unspoken understanding passing between them. When his gaze flicks to the stranger, though, there is nothing but polite interest on his face, as open and friendly as it had been the day Dinah had met him. "And why are you here, Cyrus?"

The stranger — Cyrus — merely chuckles, a low, pleasant sound that echoes through the silent room. He leans forward slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers together. "There are many answers to that question," he says finally. "Some requiring less explanation than others."

He glances at the worn paperback still clasped in Nate's hand. "I suppose you could say I'm here for my book." He gives another light laugh, then shifts, leaning back a bit in his chair before unfolding his hands and gesturing towards the other armchair, the couch. "Please, take a seat," he says, an air of welcoming familiarity settling around him. "There's much to talk about."

Nate and Dinah share a glance, a silent question passing between them. Ava's gaze is fixed on Cyrus, her posture rigid but curious. Finally, Dinah steps forward, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room as she takes the offer. She sits, her back straight and her mind whirling with a thousand questions.

Nate follows suit, handing the book back to Cyrus as he does so. The man accepts it with a warm smile, tucking it next to him on the chair.

"Now then," he says. "I, along with my book, am here, in part, because this is my house."

An indignant, disbelieving noise escapes Dinah before she can stop it. "No, it isn't. Micah Langley owns this cabin."

The stranger's smile, while not fading exactly, has morphed into something cut through with sorrow. "Micah Langley is my husband. Or, well." He pauses, as if considering. "I suppose it may be more correct to say he was my husband. What year is it, please? It is possible that I may have already died. It's so difficult to keep track of which year it is, let alone which timeline one has stumbled into."

The statement hangs in the room, a tangible thing that seems to ripple and flex with tension.

“I am,” Cyrus continues calmly, voice as placid as if he is discussing the weather on any given Thursday, “come unstuck from time.”

They gape at him, for a long stretch of moments.

Nate breaks the silence first. "I beg your pardon?”

"Unstuck," he repeats with a nonchalant shrug. "One minute I am somewhere, the next... here. I do not control it. It just... happens. Just as you might walk through a door. Exit one room — one time — and enter another."

He asks again: What year is this?

When Ava answers, he sighs and gives a small nod. "As I suspected. In this timeline -- in this universe -- I am unfortunately no longer among the living."

The group's silence stretches on for a few moments longer, the only sound being an occasional crackle from the fire in the grate behind them.

And then they begin to ask questions.

Where had he come from? What year had he left? How did he cope with the constant displacement? Did he have any control over it?

While in this timeline — in this universe — he is dead, he confirms, in answer to Dinah’s slightly incredulous protestations that he hasn’t been alive as she’d known him — known of him — for almost a decade. However, in other universes, other timelines, he is very much alive. Oh, he’s dead in some of them still, he acknowledges. But in others he lives on, lives well, lives differently.

In every universe, though, the one constant: his beloved.

The man who owns the cabin still, though has barely stepped inside it since the death of his husband — this breathing, dime-store-noir-novel-reading, dead-not-dead man sat on an armchair before them.

Somehow, in every timeline, Cyrus finds Micah, or Micah finds Cyrus, or they find each other.

Across any world, each forking decision path splitting into a crystalline myriad of mirrors, a tapestry of threads, tangling and intersecting and weaving together in infinite ways. In every universe, they are bound to meet, or to have met. A microcosm of their own making, each of them the reference frame for the other -- the special relativity of two human bodies, the nature of their time and space impacted by the other's gravitational pull.

The night passes and they are insatiable, the three accidental guests of this man’s former home, asking him question after question. What does he mean, unstuck from time? How does it work? How can he know how else he lives in other realms of time? Of space? Are they each of them truly him? How did he first learn this? What does this mean, practically speaking? How, how, how?

To his apparently eternal credit, he answers all of them, or at least all of them as best he can, with the same unflappable serenity of demeanor with which he’d introduced himself and his…situation.

At some point, the power clicks back on, lamps humming back to life, the radiator clanking as it begins the process of re-warming itself and the cabin. The sudden noise and light — low though it is — cracks through the spell of the evening — no, somehow now nearly morning — and the four of them blink at one another as reality creeps back in.

Cyrus stands and stretches, stifling a yawn. "I do believe, my friends," he declares, his voice resonating with the soft weariness of the late hour, "It is time I took my leave."

"But," Dinah protests, her sleep-deprived mind still struggling to grasp the enormity of their conversation, "where will you go?"

He tilts his head towards Dinah and smiles, a sad but understanding gleam in his eyes. "Once more into the fray, I suppose. Another timeline, another universe."

He walks to the entrance and looks back at them, his features softened by the diffused light from the lamps. "Do not worry for me. In each world, I am home."

##

(Later, as they are straightening up and finally, finally preparing to leave the cabin and return to their own homes, their own reality, they will discover that he has once again left his book, forgotten once more on the armchair nearest the fire. None of them are certain whether the dog-eared page — the sight of which once again sends a streak of dismay across Nate’s face — marks the same spot as the book had been opened to before. But whether it is or it isn’t, the page that’s been saved now includes a note, of sorts, in the form of a single highlighted sentence: Space by itself, and time by itself, are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of the two will preserve an independent reality*.)

*this is, in fact, an actual quote from the physicist Hermann Minkowski, in an address to the 80th Assembly of German Natural Scientists and Physicians, 1908. Physics: secretly the most hopeless romantic coded science since 1908!

#yall i went into a full fugue state and emerged 6.5k words later #wayhavensecretsanta #twc #katie writes things

[myfairkatiecat]

TMBS FANDOM I DID A THING

still don’t know how I feel about it but I Did It

so I was like

I was having Benedict twin feelings

and I

I wrote a song???

I usually just write songs about stuff that happens in my life and then I shut them up in a book and forget them but I wrote A SONG ABOUT TMBS???

….all this tmbs musical writing is getting in my head.

ANYWAY. I don’t have a recording studio or anything and my voice definitely isn’t the *greatest* thing in the world but BECAUSE I LOVE YOU GUYS, I used my phone’s microphone to try to record SOMETHING like what it sounded like, so here you guys go!

have a Benedict twin inspired song!

(If you’re not interested in hearing my phone attempt to be a recording device and fail miserably, just scroll for lyrics :)

Lyrics under the cut:

once there were two boys

who shared the same life

same parents, same orphanage

same hair and eyes

two halves of an

imperfect whole

safe in the illusion

they were inseparable

one of them silently

tired of a life

in the shadow of a boy

who was his same height

the other was constantly

after respect

for himself and his brother

he wanted to protect

they were not the same

in more than just their name

you’d never know it

from pictures of them

you would never take

them for each other by mistake

not your average

identical twins

one day the life they shared

was split in two

and each of their hearts

had to learn to make do

with half of the whole

that they had once had

what made it imperfect was

it wasn’t built to last

they were not the same

in more than just their name

you’d never know it

from pictures of them

you would never take

them for each other by mistake

not your average

identical twins

one of them grew up

and grew a hard heart

a stone cold exterior

to protect from more harm

and one of them learned

to find a family of his own

he wasn’t complete

but he wasn’t alone

#here have a thing I did #why did I write a song about the Benedict twins? #shhh don’t ask that question that’s the wrong question #(because I don’t know the answer—) #the mysterious benedict society #tmbs #nathaniel benedict #nicholas benedict #the benedict twins #original music #Katie recording things

[rebelspykatie]

Robin convinces Steve that Eddie is interested in him, just based on how frequently he flirts with Steve. Uses the same logic that Steve deployed to convince her to give Vickie a shot. Except, there’s no doubt about who Eddie could be attracted to. He’s gay and doesn’t really flirt much with women, keeps it more surface level. 

But with Steve, he’s all over him, getting in his personal space, tapping his chin, batting his eyelashes and draping himself over his lap during movie nights. Steve’s confident in his newly discovered attraction to men, and subtly tries to turn up the charm on his end. Flirting back, giving as good as he gets, but it never seems to affect Eddie. 

Steve’s gotten used to striking out. Never really catching anyone’s attention these days, what with the lackluster attempts at being interested in the mundane things some of the girls drone on about, to being afraid to sleep over for fear of a nightmare tearing him from sleep, to the way no one makes his skin buzz. He’s given up the pursuit of anyone else, setting his sights on Eddie, pushing gently at the boundaries that barely exist between them. 

Until the first time Steve and Robin are invited to see Corroded Coffin perform at the Hideout. He watches from afar as Eddie bounces across the room before the show. He hasn’t spotted them yet as he makes his way over to the bar. There’s a cute, older guy bartending, probably in his late twenties, buzz cut hair, ripped leather vest accentuating his arms. 

Steve watches in what feels like slow motion as Eddie leans over the counter to get as close as possible to this guy. That mischievous smirk that Steve’s used to seeing pointed at him is out in full force. Eddie is saying something, looking up at this guy, reaching out to squeeze a bicep and getting playfully batted away. Eddie lets the guy tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, almost a caress along the side of Eddie’s face. 

And there’s a moment where Steve feels like he’s floating on air, suspended in a moment in time before a catastrophic shift changes his trajectory. He’s careening to the ground at break neck speed and crash landing all in a matter of seconds. A vice-like grip squeezes his heart, reminding him that he’s not special. He’s dissecting every memory of Eddie flirting, finding nothing consequential there in the wake of this discovery. 

How stupid could he have been to think that it meant anything? That must be why Eddie never reacted to his advances, they were just a blip on his radar. He’s got this guy wrapped around his finger, just like he’s had Steve. Except Eddie’s never blushed like that around him, or let Steve tuck his hair away. 

As much as he wants to turn around and get the hell out of here, he promised he’d come to Eddie’s show, even if looking at Eddie right now feels like a shot straight through his heart. That inexplicable draw to Eddie doesn’t just disappear. He wants to cross the room and drag him away from this guy, but what right does he have to do that? 

He feels Robin’s hand slip into his, turns to look at her, sees a mirror image of how she looked on the grimy bathroom floor of Starcourt, letting Steve down gently. Their friendship past the point of needing to verbally communicate anything. Robin gently tugs on his arm to convince him to sit at a table, clasping his hand underneath it tightly when Eddie finally spots them and Steve has to pretend like he’s fine. And he is fine. 

But he’s also not. His heart is cracking open with each note Eddie sings, the fault line growing until it feels like he’s split in two, bleeding out on the floor of this disgusting bar. When is he going to get it right? When is it his turn to feel wanted? Nancy and Robin hurt, but he feels blindsided by this one. He was so confident he was right, that this time it was reciprocated. 

But maybe he’ll always be the fool.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #katie writes #as always #cross posted on twitter #also i'm so sorry in advance #not a happy ending #i live for angst

[effervescentdragon]

sewis + hugs that linger for just a second too long 🥺💜

katie beloved im so sorry xD im feeling cunty these days and your prompts are just too good for it 😅 dont read this one either, maybe ❤️

Nico watches Lewis.

Of course he fucking does. Some habits can't just be kicked easily, especially when the time spent doing them was longer than the time spent not doing them. And it doesn't matter how much time passess, or how many times Jenson calls him out on it, or how easy it was for him not to reach for cocaine every time he felt down in 2017. You don't spend over twenty years with Lewis Hamilton, half of those being his teammate, without getting into the habit of watching him.

Lewis was good at hiding things from everyone. He's had to be. Any weakness was exploited, and if he showed any hurt, it doubled back on him three times worse. Nico knows this, because by the end, he was the one who caused it. But Lewis was very good at hiding things from people, except if those people knew how to read him. Then, sometimes, one could find out if Lewis' car specs weren't to his liking by the way his face scrunched before the race and use it, or see when a comment affected Lewis more than he let on and press on the already tender flesh to distract him enough to make a mistake. But those things only happened if one knew where to look, and Nico always knew.

Namely, Nico used to watch him for other reasons too, but those reasons haven't been relevant for a while. And even if they were relevant, it wouldn't matter, because Lewis refused to look back.

Nico sometimes thought it was his greatest victory, making Lewis go out of his way to pretend Nico didn't exist.

Sometimes, though, it just felt like his biggest defeat.

So Nico watches Lewis in the paddock sometimes. It's hard not to, when he's so sure of himself, walking around with an easy expectation that the path before him will clear itself. The annoying thing is that it does, always. It makes Nico smile every time he sees reporters scatter, aware they won't be getting anything from Lewis, except some good pictures if they position themselves right.

It's happening now, too. Lewis is walking through the paddock, Angela in tow, and Nico has to admit that his styling today is good. Sometimes Lewis missess in his fashion expression, but as more time passess, the less it happens. These days, his styling is almost impeccable. A Sky reporter goes to intercept him, but Lewis doesn't even register him. He just walks past, unbothered, an easy smile on his face. The reporter's face sours. Nico knows he's been aiming for a soundbite about the latest war, hoping to provoke Lewis into saying something stupid, like only a rich sportsman can. It's fouble points if it's Lewis, though, because of course it is, and now they will have nothing.

Good boy, Nico thinks. Give them nothing. They'll make something up anyway.

Lewis' smile widens suddenly, and Nico looks ahead at what has caught his eye. He tilts his head when he sees Sebastian walking towards Lewis, Britta talking at him rapidly as he nods.

Nico leans back on the column and fixes his sunglasses. This will be good.

Sebastian doesn't spot Lewis until Britta elbows him almost imperceptibly. The moment he sees Lewis he grins, and they do the handshake-then-a-half-hug thing befor ethey separate and start talking animatedly. Except; Nico knows Lewis.

Lewis lingers for just a moment too long after the hug.

Nico grins. He can spot how off Lewis will be in his time after not hitting the curb right up to the thousandth of a second. He can damn well spot when Lewis lingers too long in a hug.

He leans his head back as he watches Lewis and Sebastian. He thinks they are talking about the GPDA meeting, if the way they're standing close and speaking lowly is any indication. The biggest giveaway is the subtle anger in Sebastian's face, though. It's been a long time since that expression was caused by racing; human rights it must be, then. He shakes his head and tucks a stray curl of his too long hair behind his ear. Nico thinks how he should get a conditioner, but that doesn't prevent him from seeing the way Lewis' fingers twitch.

"Oh," he gasps. "Oh, Lewis, you idiot."

It's good that nobody's near him, because that was a slip he can't afford. Not for his sake, and not for Lewis'. He shakes his head. He'll berate himself later; he has to watch now. He has to know for sure.

It's really in the small things, that's the fact. How Lewis doesn't stop smiling. How he brushes some non-existent lint from Sebastian's sleeve. How he mirrors Sebastian's posture. How Britta looks at him without him noticing, with pity in her eyes. How Angela doesn't, looking everywhere else to see if anyone is watching.

Nico pulls out his phone and pretends to type when Angela looks in his direction. He gives it ten seconds more before he looks up again than he would if it was anyone else looking, because Angela doesn't trust him, and she never did. He respects her a bit for that. Not much, but a bit.

He keeps looking until they part ways with a clasp of hands and wide smiles. Lewis' back is turned to him, so Nico can't watch him anymore, but Sebastian's face is now fully visible as he turns to Britta and continues talking.

It hits Nico immediately. Sebastian doesn't know.

That's... not quite surprising. Sebastian was always very good at ignoring certain things that were very obvious to people around him, always focused on racing first and foremost on race weekends. With the way his career has been going, Nico is pretty sure Sebastian has no time to think about anything else. Nico can't help a small smile at that. He's pretty sure Sebastian won't be racing for much longer. Nico doesn't know how to read Sebastian that well anymore, but some feelings are universal, and once you see them in the mirror, you never forget them.

What Nico doesn't know is how long has it been like this, and that bothers him. He has to know; has to figure out when it happened. He's missed it somehow, the moment Lewis' feelings changed, and that doesn't sit well with him. He doesn't know when it happened, but he knows Lewis.

Lewis is competitive. Lewis doesn't like to lose. Lewis likes a challenge. Lewis doesn't go for the easy option. Lewis leaves enough room on track to avoid collisions. Lewis doesn't back off, except when he does. Lewis doesn't trust easily anymore. Lewis will overtake first before he allows himself to be overtaken.

As Nico watches Sebastian, Charles Leclerc steps into his path with his media officer. The smile on his face is the perfectly polite, Monegasque born-and-bred blandness that still shows off his dimples. Sebastian stops, and says something that makes Charles laugh, and then pulls him into a hug.

They both linger just a moment too long.

Nico can't help but grin.

"Well," Nico mutters to himself. "Yes. That would do it."

#this is. i dont know what it is #i wrote it in 40 minutes bcs it wouldnt leave me alone #let me see #mean prompt thing #f1 rpf #effervescentdragonwrites #my writing #sewis #unrequited #brocedes #past #sebchal #implied #SORRY KATIE ILY