#reader isnert

Before he can question that further, you’re already standing, tugging him gently closer by the sleeve of his coat. He allows it without protest, because he always does. Because it’s you.

You lift the hat—soft, handmade, a little uneven in the stitches—and settle it carefully on his head.

Castiel freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“…Is this a human ritual?” he asks after a moment.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “No, Cas. I just need to see if it fits.”

He looks at you very seriously. “I do not require headwear. My vessel regulates temperature efficiently.”

“I know,” you say, adjusting the brim. “But you look really cute.”

That makes him pause.

“Oh.”

He glances down at himself, then back at you. You can see the processing happening—angelic grace clashing with the simple fact that you’re smiling at him like he just handed you the moon.

“If this makes you happy,” he says slowly, “then I will wear it.”

Your heart melts instantly.

“Yeah?” you tease. “Even if it’s pink?”

“I have worn blood. This is preferable.”

You laugh and press a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping back to admire your work. “Okay, turn your head.”

He turns—precisely ninety degrees.

“No, babe,” you giggle, guiding his chin gently. “Just a little.”

He lets you move him, obedient and patient, eyes soft as you fuss over him. When you’re done, you nod approvingly.

“Perfect. You’re my favorite model.”

Castiel blinks. “Model?”

“Mmhmm. I make things, you try them on.”

He considers this. Then, very quietly: “May I keep it?”

Your chest aches.

“Of course you can.”

He reaches up, touching the yarn with careful fingers, as if it might vanish. A faint smile tugs at his lips—small, private, just for you.

“I will wear it,” he says, “when you are not here. It reminds me of you.”

You absolutely lose it, throwing your arms around him, yarn be damned.

Castiel stiffens for half a second—then relaxes, arms wrapping around you, hat slightly crooked.

One year later...

Y/N leaned her elbows against the kitchen island, taking some of the pressure off her feet and aching joints as she talked with Jensen. He sat on the other side of the island, sorting through the mail he'd just picked up.

"Come on, why don't you wanna go?"

"No one likes going to their high school reunion, Babe."

"But you're you. You were popular, and you're still popular. I don't see the problem. Isn't it like something to look forward to for people like you?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Fine, I'll go. But only if you come with me," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist, which was growing harder as her stomach expanded with their soon-to-arrive child.

Y/N groaned and rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Come on, your last reunion wasn't so bad," he teased, pecking her lips. She smiled up at him, remembering standing like this with him when they danced at her reunion, where they'd met. "And I'll get to show off my smokin' hot wife," he added, kissing her hungrily. She knew she'd do anything he asked; she just liked to tease him or make him work for it sometimes.

-

The reunion was lovely, much like her own, held in a local hotel, and decorated to the theme of their high school era. It was easier for her to attend, since she didn't know anyone and didn't have to worry about bullies and others from her past. Just as she'd suspected, everyone was friendly and excited to see Jensen. He was loved then and still loved now, and she was more than happy watching as he socialized and charmed those around him.

She was surprised, however, to have her ogling of her husband interrupted by none other than Amanda, who had been her high school bully, among others, and had made her uncomfortable at their reunion.

"Amanda?"

"Hey, Y/N," she greeted with a small smile.

"What are you doing here?"

"My husband, Adam, went to school with Jensen. Since he came to my reunion, it was only fair I attend his," she shrugged. Before Y/N could say anything or escape to hide from another altercation, Amanda surprised her once again. "I just wanted to apologize for how I was back at the reunion and back in the day."

That was something she never thought would happen, but Amanda had her undivided attention now as she wrung her hands and blushed, clearly uncomfortable but trying nonetheless.

"I don't know why I did that. It just felt like we were back in school, and I had to act a certain way," she sighed, and Y/N offered her a gentle smile. "And I'm sorry about Glenda. She took pictures of you two and posted them online, saying horrible things. Anyway, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for all of it."

"Thank you," Y/N responded, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders.

"So, you and Jensen are married now?" she asked, moving on from the tension and easing into more casual conversation. "And expecting! Congratulations!"

Y/N grinned and ran a hand over her large, protruding belly. "Yeah, just a couple of months and we'll get to meet them."

"I'm really happy for you," Amanda said, waving over to a man across the way. "I have to get back to Adam, but it was really good to see you again."

"You too," Y/N smiled as Amanda walked away. 

"Everything alright?" Jensen asked, his arm coming around her lower back as he whispered to her, his eyes lingering on a retreating Amanda.

"Everything's fine," she promised, pecking his lips.

"You wanna get out of here? Maybe get something to eat?" he asked. 

Y/N grinned, thinking of her reunion and that first night that felt like a date. Her stomach grumbled, and they both laughed as he said his goodbyes and ushered her to the parking lot. He stopped to pick up burgers and fries, just like before. However, instead of driving out to nowhere, Jensen drove her back to their hotel for the night, knowing that being pregnant often made her uncomfortable.

He knelt and removed her shoes, helping her to get undressed and settled in the large bed. Once comfy against the headboard, she moaned, grateful to have the added weight and pressure off her sore feet. He handed her a burger, and she dug in, always feeling like she was starving, moaning around the large bite she took.

Jensen chuckled, "I know how to please my lady," he teased, and she nodded, taking another enormous bite. Jensen grinned and joined her, enjoying her every reaction.

He was always attentive and caring, but since she began showing, he became a mother hen. Always at her side, making sure she ate, going out at all hours to fulfill her every craving. Once they were done eating, they settled into bed and Jensen rested with his head on her chest, a large hand rubbing over her swollen stomach.

-

"How was the honeymoon?" Y/N grinned into her phone.

"Absolutely blissful," Lana responded, her face lit up and dreamy on the video call, before her brow furrowed as she searched over Y/N's video. "Are you in the hospital?"

"We had the baby," she answered, giggling at Lana's shrill shriek of joy.

"Oh! Oh! Can I see the baby?"

Y/N turned the phone, holding it up to show a grinning Jensen holding a tiny pink-wrapped bundle in his arms.

"It's a girl?! She's so tiny!" Lana swooned and cooed over the small child. "Lookin' pretty good holdin' a baby there, Jensen," she teased.

Y/N let her eyes roam over her husband, and she couldn't agree more. He was handsome as ever, a blush and grin on his face that had been there for hours. He was steady as a rock when she went into labor, having planned out everything as he usually did, and grabbing her and her bags, getting them to the hospital in record time. He never left her side, holding her hand, praising and encouraging her as she gave birth. Seeing him now, holding their small child, sent her heart into new heights of love and adoration. She always knew he’d look great with children, and she was confident he’d be the best father.

"What are you gonna name her?" Lana asked. Y/N turned the phone back to herself as Jensen sat beside her on the small bed, their daughter safely in his arms.

"Lana," Jensen responded, laughing at her shocked gasp. "You're the reason I even have these two beautiful girls in my life."

"I'm gonna cry," Lana sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

After promising to call and send a ton of photos, they ended the call. Y/N turned to Jensen, accepting Little Lana from his arms, snuggling into him as he wrapped his arms around her. He leaned his chin on her shoulder, his eyes unwilling to leave the tiny, squirming child that was his. His and Y/N's.

"I love you," Y/N whispered to her daughter, smiling as the girl played with her fingers. "And I love you," she added, turning her head and pecking Jensen's cheek. High school reunions and meddling best friends weren't so bad after all.

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HIGH SCHOOL REUNION:

@deansimpalababy 

However, you also saw that Meg and her siblings had deemed that to be a rather serious theme to decorate in, so here and there you found some more, handcrafted of reusable materials, generic halloween decorations. Except for carved pumpkins. There were so many pumpkins, but they were all uncarved. You guessed they didn’t want to show actual body horror to the dryads. There was some old-timey Halloween music playing, although you were unable to find any speakers. Guess the trees to really speak to you if you listen.  

As you saw Leo and Jason’s costumes you just knew that Leo had bribed Meg to know what the theme of the party would be like. He must have, why else would he think of these costumes? You had to admit, you didn’t know Leo owned a hat this tall, but you didn’t put it above him to have crafted it himself. 

“I don’t think the Onceler’s hat was that big?”  You walked up to the duo, “Or the Lorax’s mustache that big.”  

“I am lucky to not have to deal with the orange paint,”. Jason grimaced. Leo elbowed him. 

“Say the line Jason!”  Leo whispered, loudly. Jason sighed and deadpanned. 

“I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees!”  Jason tried to make a more spooky sound at the end of the sentence, after which Leo jumped forward, borderline belting.

“How ba-a-a-ad can I be?” Leo’s ‘be’ ended, somehow, on a S-tone so it rhymed with Jason’s phrase. He was grinning proudly. Jason tried to hide it, but he did seem to get amusement out of his friends' behavior. You laughed. 

“Jace, I have to be honest with you,” you looked at your friend, “I had a bet with Nico that you would be a tree. Will won though, he guessed the Lorax.”  

“You had a bet?”  Jason shook his head, “Let me guess, you do have a spare tree costume and want me to put it on so you win?”  You laughed again. 

“I wish,” you turned to Leo, “How is your hat staying up when it’s this tall?”  

“Support beams made out of metal rods and foam!”  Leo’s eyes sparkled, “carton in between, I can show you after the party, I swear it’s so structurally sound. Annabeth would love to know the skeleton of. this hat.”  Leo pouted,“ It’s too bad she has been so busy with school lately, she would have loved to work on this thing together.”   

“Everyone was suffering under me indeed,” you sighed dramatically, intentionally showing off your outfit. 

“Wait, you’re-“ Jason got up real close to one of your sleeves, “That’s my English essay! How the fuck did you get your hands on that!” Jason shivered, “I still haven’t heard back from it, I sure hope I passed.”  

“I shalt not say, dear Grace, whether you passed or not,”. You smiled, “However, I have my sources and thankfully an amazing artist who hand copied all of your work.” 

“Luckily I do not have anything on here,” Leo laughed, “Dying was the best decision for that.”

  —- 

You found two sheet ghosts with cowboy hats a bit further out, talking to each other. 

“But you’re so cute though!” Hazel exclaimed, “I’m sure Nico meant no harm.”  

“I know it was just weird seeing that.”  Frank sighed, “Hedge seemed really happy though.”  

“Boo!”  You yelled and the pair jumped up. After a second Frank leaned back. You couldn’t see his face underneath the sheet, but you figured he looked upset. 

“That’s our line (Y/n)!”  He faked exasperation. 

“Yeah! We’re the cow-boos after all!”  Hazel snickered while saying her phrase. 

“Cow-boo? Oh- I get it,”. You smiled, “Yeah that is funny.” 

“It doesn’t seem like that when you say that,”. Hazel sighed, “Well, what are you then?” 

“Oh, for you I have my left leg,”. You smiled deviously, “Praetor's have a lot of paperwork after all.” You held out your leg. Frank and Hazel moved their eye holes to see more clearly as they bowed down to take a look.

“Uh Frank,” Hazel hesitated, “I think we forgot something.” Hazel pointed at your knee, “I did not fill out this document which we had to hand in yesterday.” 

“I did uh, I did not either.”  

“Fuck” they said in unision. 

“Also how did you get these?” Hazel sounded panicked, “These are classified documents!” You laughed.

“Look, most of my costume is deadlines,” you added a spooky ‘ooooooohhhhhh’ to the last word, “but for you two I also choose to be a security breach. I can give you the name of the one who gave Calypso the files.” 

“That would be great.” Frank said, “Uh, Hazel, maybe we should quickly IM someone at Camp Jupiter about the deadlines we missed.”  

“Yeah, also (Y/n) you better hide your legs or we will steal your pants.” Hazel glared at you. You slowly backed away. 

“How about dinner first?” You joked, as you ran for it. 

——

You quickly weaved around the crowd, trying your best to get away from Hazel and Frank. You stumbled into what seemed to be the heart of a gathering. On one side of the circle you had Rock, Paper and Scissors. On the other side you had The Argo II, together with the seven demigod heroes who defeated Gaea. 

Except that Will was just standing on the side. You joined him quietly. 

“This was Nico’s plan?” You asked him and he sighed, 

“Yes and he stood on me being Percy.”  Will looked at you, “As if he wanted to rub in that Percy was his first crush.” 

“You look nothing like Percy though,” You laughed, “You’re blonde.”  

“Nico wanted to force me to wear a wig,” Will shook his head, “I opposed him, wigs are itchy.” Will smiled softly, “Although the Cocoa Puffs are adorable, and it warms my heart to see Hedge in his element like this.” 

“I look nothing like Will!” Percy’s voice sounded loudly. He seemed offended, “At least Frank looks really cute.”  Percy pouted. One particular Cocoa Puff puffed out their chest in pride. Nico stood in the middle of it all, dressed at what you assumed to be a Reyna costume, as Reyna stood next to him, dressed in Nico’s clothes. Nico could hardly stop smiling at the reactions to the Cocoa Puffs. You were about to ask Will something when

 “BAM!” Hege yelled as he hit you from behind with a blow-up bat, “YOU JUST GOT ARGO’ED!” 

“Amazing,” you looked Hedge up and down. He was wearing a boat around his middle, and on his head was a … Festus Hat? Hedge looked like an excited child. 

“Whatcha think, huh? Valdez even delivered on the hat!” Hedge let out an excited bleat, “Although it was all the kids idea,” he pointed at Nico, “I’m really happy to be included though! It’s been a while since all my cupcakes were in the same spot with me! And now I even got two batches! OH! I see Zhang over there, gotta hit him too!” And Hedge ran off. 

After a moment of silence Will and you locked eyes, and both started laughing. 

“He’s having a blast,” Will smiled, “Nico was right to get Hedge involved. How’s the scaring going?” Will turned to you. 

“Hazel and Frank are panicking about some forms they forgot and the security breach,” You grinned devilishly, “Jason is just mostly disappointed, and I still have to show the Rock, Paper Scissors trio my outfit.” 

—

Annabeth hated your outfit. Whether it was the fact that you got her only failing grade paper on the back, or the fact that she did not want to think about the last minute mistakes she made in two of the other papers she would not tell you. However, she did say she would find Leo to, and you quote, ‘definitely not set fire to your costume and ruin Calypso’s hard work’. Percy held in his laughter until Annabeth was out of earshot. 

“So where’s my work?” Percy eagerly looked around your jacket, and you pointed him towards  the sleeve. 

“Sally was eager to give it to me, she seems proud of your grades, even if they aren’t that high.” you said, and Percy had a bit of an embarrassed blush on his face. 

“Whenever I get a passing grade she keeps it,” Percy explained, “to remind me what I am capable of.” He was still inspecting your arm, but suddenly stopped, “Wait, is this- I wrote this when I was 7!” he was now a mess, “Please don’t tell me you read it.”

“I did, Percy.” you cackled crazily for a moment, “Percy Jackson or should I say Aqualad!  I am your embarrassing past!” Percy glared at you. 

“Just because I wrote a Aquaman and Little Mermaid crossover does not mean I wanted to BE aqualad (Y/n).” 

“I think it does,” Piper spoke up, “Also I appreciate the effort but I will not be looking for my work, thanks.”

“Aw, Pipes, come on,” you begged her but she shook her head. 

“Deadlines cannot be scary unless you face them, so I am procrastinating.”

“Unfair!” you glared at her, “Piper Mclean I will come for you! You can run, but deadlines always catch up to you!” 

After a moment of silence all three of you laughed. 

Your moment was interrupted by Meg calling for attention. She was dressed as Gollum, while Apollo stood next to her in a Frodo outfit. A bit further in the back stood who you guessed to be Grover from the satyr legs, dressed as Gandalf. 

“It is time to announce the winners of tonight's costume contest!” she yelled, and everyone cheered, “We have seen many amazing costumes, but one duo certainly blew us away.”

Percy, who still stood next to you, breathed out a soft ‘dam’.

“What? You really thought you would win with ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’?” you whispered and he just looked at you.

“I could dream okay?”

“Please come forth!” Meg paused, “Gideon Nav and Harrowhark Nonagesimus!” After a moment, filled with cheers, Calypso and Thalia took the stage looking absolutely stunning and creepy. Calypso was dressed as Harrowhark, with intricate face paint and basically wearing a skeleton around herself. Thalia was Gideon, with more shabby facepaint, the iconic sunglasses and with a six feet claymore on her back. They both bowed, looking up smiling. 

“By my rules,” Meg continued after a moment, “You get to decide where to host next year, so where will it be?” 

Thalia and Calypso looked at each other and Thalia shrugged, “I don’t know where I will be with the hunt, so it’s up to you Calypso.” Calypso looked a bit panicked, before taking a deep breath. 

“I guess it will be at the Waystation then!” she announced, and there were loud cheers from the crowd. 

As the party resumed, you hoped Calypso would be earlier with the invitations than Meg had been. After all, working with deadlines was pretty scary.

Lockwood gives him a dejected look. “George. We talked about wearing no pants outside of your room.”

“I see you brought her back,” George replies, ignoring Lockwood. His small, dark eyes seem exceptionally sharp behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Why did you bring her back?”

Old retirees whose lawns you’ve trespassed on have greeted you more kindly. But as with any building you enter, the rule is not to hesitate at the threshold, so when Lockwood and Lucy walk inside, you follow right after them.

Portland Row at the edge of dawn was enticing like Sleeping Beauty. Now at evening it is something else entirely: a waft of warm, spicy smell engulfs you: tumeric, onions, safran. Roasted chicken, a lemony tang—the whole mix is mouth-watering and for a moment you get dizzy from hunger. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten; your stomach growls more horrifying than the rumbling of a Raw-bones at night.

“Look alive, George, this case is far from over!” Lockwood announces. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack, shaking out his wet hair. Cold water is trickling down the back of his neck, dampening his collar. A sudden shower has surprised you on the way back, making the ride back in the cab even more uncomfortable in addition to sitting squeezed next to Lockwood and making sure your knees don’t touch. “And she’s kindly agreed to lend us a hand.”

George eyes you, from top to bottom. His nose twitches a little as though he’s smelling a wet dog, but then he gives a twitch that vaguely resembles a shrug before he ducks into the kitchen. “I’ll get another plate out.”

“Oh, I can get take out—” you start.

“Nonsense.” Lockwood waves in the general direction of the wooden floor, signalling you to leave your bags in the hallway. “George’s food is something you have to try. Zereshk Polo, isn’t it, George? This will also give us an opportunity to decide on what to do next, and share everything we know.”

“Where’s she staying, Lockwood?” Lucy asks. Her wet hair sticks to her forehead and cheeks, and she brushes it impatiently behind her ears. “Last time I checked, we don’t have any spare rooms.” She narrows her eyes at him in a certain way that suggests she doesn’t want you bunking in her room. Not that you mind. You’re not too keen on sleeping in the same room with someone else either.

“The library was fine,” you say, dropping your bags where Lockwood has shown you. “And it’s only for this night. I’ll try and find another place first thing tomorrow.”

Lockwood purses his lips. “I would rather you stay here until we find whoever is out there thinking that you have the key. You have become an essential resource for this case, one I’d rather not put in danger.”

There’s a profound silence, only disturbed by the sizzling in the kitchen and George’s quiet, off-tune humming.

Responsibility. Lucrative agent. Resource. It seems everyone is happy to fit your whole existence into one word; put you inside a cardboard box, slap a postage stamp on your forehead as though you’re some ghastly parcel to be shipped off when taking up too much space; being too inconvenient. Looks like even Lockwood and Co. is no different from the other agencies, a sobering revelation that is surprisingly disappointing.

A flash of bitterness passes over Lucy’s face, but it fades quickly. “Lockwood—” she begins, drawing herself up. Her voice seems dangerously sharp like the edges of broken glass, and standing between them, you’re surprised that your head is not immediately razed off by the laser sharp intensity of whatever weird staring contest Lucy and Lockwood are currently engaged in.

Lockwood’s response is his dark eyebrows drawn together in a puzzled frown. But before he can say something, you speak up, voice sweeter than saccharin, “Your resource would love to take a shower first before we start. Is that OK?”

That’s when Lockwood realises. All colour drains from his face, then comes back as two crimson spots high on his cheeks. “I—”

“Yes.” Lucy’s eyes are still on Lockwood, her voice oddly distant. “I’ll jump into the shower myself, but the boys’ bathroom is just upstairs.” When she brushes past Lockwood, she sends him a glare that is sharper than the rapier she pulls out of her holster and stuffs inside the umbrella rack. “And Lockwood will wait for his turn.”

Suits you just fine. You leave your kit in the hallway and take the bag with your clothes upstairs, past the masks and curios mounted on the wall, wooden-framed pictures and newsletter pages showing a younger Lockwood wearing a full-body fencing suit and grinning into the camera like the Cheshire Cat after winning a fencing tournament. It must be from the memorable day when Kipps got his ass handed to him, one of his less favourite subjects to dwell on from his past. Your chest twinges at the sight—Matthew would have attended too; he had been the best with a rapier out of you three, making it almost look as easy and graceful as dancing.

You draw your shoulders together and follow after Lucy, banishing the thoughts and echoes from the past before they can rise to an awful noise in your head. A shower, some food. A plan. Brick by brick you can rebuild yourself.

Lucy drops you off at the threshold of a small square bathroom, simply gesturing into the room with an awkward wave of her hand. It’s completely white-tiled with simple furniture and a few dried out plants at the windowsill. The blinds are drawn shut and with the sun setting the room is turning darker by the minute. A few dark heaps of clothing lie scattered on the ground, hiding a square vine-patterned rug.

“Thanks,” you say, fumbling along the wall in search for the light switch. Lucy hesitates a moment, and you think she might say something. But then she turns on her heels and stalks another floor up, already starting to peel out of her soaked-in, woolly sweater.

You turn to the bathroom, standing still for a moment just to test how wild your thoughts run, how loud that creature inside your head howls. What a mess you dragged yourself into—or got dragged into, more likely. You’ll have to see Kipps soon and tell him what happened, and look out for a new apartment. You stand there, unmoving, shivering like aspen leave in high wind. One thing at a time. Rome wasn’t built in a day either.

Deposing your bag in a corner, you begin unpacking what you need. A cough from the door has your head whipping around. Lockwood is leaning against the doorframe. He seems to do that a lot, you think. Some guys are just meant to loom.

“Sorry we can’t give you proper accommodations. I’m sure you’re used to different things from the Rotwell dormitories.” His eyes glide over your head as though he’s taking in the bathroom for the first time. He’s playing with the ring on his right hand, twirling it around his thin finger. You force your eyes away from his slender piano-fingers and how hot they felt around your wrist this afternoon.

“Let’s be honest, all that Pomp and Circumstance means nothing.” You return pulling clothes out of your duffel bag. “They didn’t hesitate for a second to throw me out the moment I became an inconvenience.” The confession pries something open within you: an age-old chest of memories you’ve kept firmly locked and tucked away in the recess of your mind, now yielding in his presence. The same thing has happened at the first agency you worked for, shortly after Matthew’s death. Nobody wanted to deal with the broken girl, the grieving girl who wouldn’t leave her room, who was suspended from work and then released. Had it not been for Kipps and someone else, someone very important and influential, you probably would have kept wandering in that darkness forever.

Not wanting to see the pity on Lockwood’s face, you sort your things and move towards the shower, pushing the flowery curtains aside.

After a moment, Lockwood’s voice comes again from the door. “You might want to wait until Lucy’s done upstairs if you don’t want to use the shower George and I use,” he says, but it sounds a little wrong as if those aren’t the words he wants to say but doesn’t know how to get the right ones out.

Wondering what it is he can’t say, you reply without thinking, “It’s OK. I had a brother, I don’t mind sharing with boys.”

Lockwood is very still for a moment. His face has changed. “Had?”

Only then your brain registers what you’ve said. You keep your expression blank when you look at him. “Mind if I take one of your towels?”

Lockwood answers your look alike. Something passes between you in that moment, but you don’t have the words, or insight into him, to understand what it is. He slips past you and pushes a pile of towels off the toilet seat with the tip of his slippers. “Not those. They’re George’s.”

From a bottom drawer, he pulls out a fresh towel. “Here, I, ah … hope you don’t mind.” He hands it to you and immediately, you notice it smells like him—lavender soap and clean cotton. A little like … sunlight. Clean and warm. You quickly snatch it from his hands and turn your face away, afraid he can see what you think.

When there’s nothing left to say, he shuffles out of your way. “Well then, good luck.”

You snort. “With taking a shower?”

“Imagine slipping and breaking your neck on a shower tile. I wouldn’t want a Visitor like that in my house.”

“Fair point.”

He gives a little awkward smile.

You feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

Lockwood pulls the door shut behind him, and you wait until you hear him disappear downstairs before you peel out of your sweat-stinking top and sliced pants. The water is hot on your skin but a welcome change. During those ten minutes your head is blissfully empty and silent, granting you a moment of respite as you focus on how the hot drops pelt on your skin. After another ten minutes, you step out before they assume you managed to drown like a turkey.

You quickly scrub yourself dry and slip into some comfortable clothes. It’s a wonder what a little cleaning up and a set of fresh clothes can do to make you feel like a normal human again. Now, if Karim’s food tastes as good as it smells, you might sleep like a baby tonight.

The steam follows in wispy tendrils out onto the floor when you open the door. The sound of clattering dishes and voices draws you downstairs where you pause at the kitchen’s entrance, unsure if you should step in. It feels as though you’re about to intrude into their sacred space—their safe haven.

Before you can think of sneaking off and getting take-out, Lockwood spots you. He’s taken off his tie and opened the first buttons of his shirt. When he moves, you see the elegant curves of his collarbones, like the frail wings of a small bird. “Come on in,” he says. “You’ll love George’s cooking.”

You blink, dazed. Step in. The smell of exotic spices engulfs you. Your mouth waters at the sight of the colourful dishes—fresh tomato and onion salad, fluffy steaming rice, an assorted cutting board with nuts, olives, feta cheese and Gouda. It is a feast fit for royalty.

As they settle around the table, you take the seat at the other side of Lockwood. Someone’s already piled an enormous mountain of rice with a beautiful golden chicken leg on top on your plate. You prepare your stomach with some strong herbal tea and freshly backed garlic naan before you dive for the main course. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a home-cooked meal, not to mention something this delicious.

“So, what did you guys find?” George asks with his mouth full. “I doubt she’d be here otherwise.”

You hardly care about his flippant attitude—not with the savoury, and slightly spicy rice dancing on your taste buts. So you just slide over the coin towards the table’s centre. Three heads lean forward. You keep chewing, blissfully relishing in the taste and texture.

“George, do you know what kind of coin that is?” Lucy asks, her lips curled around a straw as she drinks orange juice.

He picks it up, a piece of naan tucked between his teeth. In an instant, he is out of his chair and moves out of your sight. You hear a door to your right swing open, leading down to the cellar, you think, as you watch George disappear downstairs. The few minutes he’s gone you spent in polite silence, too engrossed in eating your way through the assorted finger food plates George has prepared. When he returns, he’s already inspecting the coin through a bronze magnifying glass.

“It’s not a coin, for starters,” George says. “I think it’s a … a badge? But the pins broke off, that’s why you mistook it for a coin.”

“And the symbol?” Lockwood leans closer to George, exhibiting more interest in the small object than his dinner plate. You’re already halfway done with yours. “Any idea what it could be?”

George chews on his bottom lip. “Hard to say. I mean, the symbols by themselves are pretty clear. The infinity symbol was first used mathematically in the 17th century, but it’s much, much older, dating back to Viking Age. In modern mysticism, it’s become identified with a variation of the ouroboros, that’s my closest guess. The cross is a lot more straightforward, but I doubt you want to listen to me going into Christianity in front of your salads.”

“You think you’ll have more luck finding something in the Archives?”

“The problem’s not the lack of books on symbology—it’s the opposite. It’ll take weeks to go through all and find what we might need. And for whatever reason there are even more in the restricted section; I know because Bobby Vernon doesn’t shut up about it whenever he thinks he has to be especially annoying.”

“I’m surprised he can reach the door handle.” Lockwood pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “And we’ve got no luck yet getting the access permit for our agency.”

Lucy leans over and helps herself to more rice. “Any specific reasons why?”

Lockwood scowls, and quickly glances your way. “It seems that we are too small an agency to have access to the restricted sections,” he explains, clearly unhappy.

Lucy presses her lips into a flat line. George keeps his eyes on the badge, his free hand draws the same symbol on the table cloth, his food forgotten for the moment.

“I could always ask Kipps to task Bobby to find out what this is,” you offer. “Kipps, remember him? The guy you were supposed to work with on this case.”

“It is easy to forget him, why with his little to no contribution to pretty much anything,” George replies.

Lockwood clears his throat. “Well, since technically the case is solved because we’ve contained the source, I don’t necessarily need him.” He pokes around his plate. “And since he’s paid his debt to me, I’d prefer not owing him in return.”

You shake your head. Men and their fragile ego. “In that case, I might have something for you.” You grab a handful of nuts from a small bowl and move to the hallway. Your kit is still where you’ve left it and a quick search gets you what you need.

Back in the kitchen, you flick the library pass in front of George, and relish in noticing his standoffish attitude wiped away by genuine surprise for a moment.

“Rotwell has its own research department for cases,” you explain. “We field agents don’t get access to the restricted areas, but someone didn’t pay attention when I applied. I’ve always had permission to enter.”

George touches the edges of the little plastic card as though it is a golden credit card. “You mean, I can just take it? And use it?” There’s a sparkle in his eyes, vibrant and strong and very much infectious.

“Unless you want me to ask Bobby—”

George beams at Lockwood. “I’ll go to the Archives first thing tomorrow.”

“There seems to be just one problem,” Lucy points out, tapping the plastic card with a black-polished finger. “Unless you’ve got a surprise prepared for us, George, you are not a girl.”

Everyone looks at your name in bright red letters on the card.

George scoffs. “Gender is just a social construct—”

“Luce, go with George and see if you two can find anything about that symbol,” Lockwood says. “Be discreet and cautious; don’t let anyone know what you’re looking into. Maybe you’ll find additional info on the case we have tomorrow. You know, the one for that man who looks like a rat. Best take your kit with you.”

Lucy hesitates for a moment, sharing a quick glance with George. “What are you going to do?”

Lockwood’s eyes find yours—you’ve had an idea about how to proceed next when he offered you to stay at Portland Row. Knowing what will come puts a damp on your appetite.

“We could go back to where we found the key,” Lockwood says to your surprise—something completely different than you have expected. “See if there’s anything where it could fit.”

“Who gave you the job?” you ask. “I want to know more about that Visitor. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing.” George goes back to wolfing down his food.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Lockwood repeats severely.

“You’re joking.”

“Last time I checked, we’re agents,” Lockwood says mildly. “Not comedians.”

“Kipps would usually say you’re more like clowns.”

Lockwood clears his throat. “It was supposed to be an easy job. Secure the source, stop the Visitor. DEPRAC had the job available for agencies but everybody gave up on it at one point. We read the file, so we knew what would wait for us. It got to one Dullop and Tweed operative, ghost-locked him. Another one died, unlucky fellow.” For a moment, Lockwood pauses and watches a drop of condensation run on the inside of his orange juice glass. “The client’s the Abbey Mills Pumping Station. About five months ago, they started undergoing reparations on their flooded C Station Pump House. We think that’s what laid the Source bare, it must have been submerged in the water until they started draining the station because that’s when the workers began reporting a permanent chill in one area. They started avoiding that area owning to feelings of faint depression and nausea, followed by strong miasma, ghost-chill, the feeling of being followed and watched while working. Some felt horrible anger towards their colleagues. Up to the point where they would be consumed by it, started beating each other with spanners and shovels. They found the first victim drowned, though it wasn’t clear if it was another employee or the ghost’s fault. Gave DEPRAC quite a headache, figuring out it’s a ghost problem, then finding an agency that can find the source. They dubbed him the Phantom of the Sewage Cathedral.”

You pull up your nose. “Quiet a title. That Visitor must have died there then,” you wager. “Have you checked the station’s accident log?”

“Of course not, we’re bloody amateurs,” George says drily. You bite back a sharp retort. “Nothing in the log stood out. Of course it had its fair share of accidents. It finished construction in 1868 and we all know they didn’t care much for worker’s safety back then. But during the flooding two years ago, there we no fatal accidents. No one died. And when we located the Source, there was no body.”

“You think the key got in there at some point? From where?”

George shrugs. “Anywhere? The pumping station lifts sewage from the London sewerage system into the Northern Outfall Sewer and the Lee Tunnel, which both run to Beckton Sewage Treatment Works. They key also doesn’t look like it’d fit anywhere in the pumping station. I assume it’s older than that. I’m talking 16th-century older.”

“But the thing is,” Lucy says, her hands pressed flat against the table. Her eyes are wide open, glinting. “The ghost we saw is nowhere near that old. The clothes he’s wearing are from the modern era, and he wasn’t decomposed or rotting. I don’t think he’s been dead for that long. It’s sad, isn’t it? He died and to this day, nobody knows he’s gone … nobody is looking for him.”

“Yes, yes, very unfortunate.” Lockwood waves her concern away with an impatient wave of his hand. “I am more concerned for the living though. Not only have we a dangerous Visitor on us. Whoever is looking for the key isn’t afraid of using violence to get it.”

“Maybe the ghost would find his peace if only someone brought him justice,” Lucy shoots back. You notice the anger flashing in her eyes when she looks at Lockwood, hear the impatience in his voice when he brushes her concern for the ghost off like that. Interesting.

“That’s not much to go on,” you say into the silence of Lucy and Lockwood glaring at each other. Your eyes trail around the kitchen, set on the window. Through it you see part of the garden, unkempt and overgrown. Somehow you can’t imagine them sitting out there and drinking apple juice from the apple trees, Lucy in a floaty knee-length skirt and sandals, and Lockwood with a blue cotton shirt, an enormously baggy pair of shorts with flowers on them, and sneakers. “We don’t have a name, no history, and the Visitor might not have any connection to where you found his source.” You chew slowly, cogs turning in your head. When your eyes catch George’s, he is watching you, calm but with intention. You lower your spoon, appetite ebbing away.

“Oh, but we do have one last thing that might help us.” George leans forward, brown eyes gleaming behind his spotless glasses. His face is predatory but his voice is gentle. “Our psychic Talents.”

The bottom falls out of your stomach. It’s like putting a foot wrong on a frozen creek, the crack of ice, the sudden stop, the knowledge that there is nothing beneath but dark water.

“So that’s why you guys really want me here.” Your accusation bears no malice, just the chill and composition of a sniper routinely loading a rifle before making her hit. “Did it ever cross your mind I might say no?”

George falls back into his chair, a deceptively relaxed posture but from the way he flexes his hands on the table it looks as though he’s gearing up for a fight. “It’s the best lead we got. A psychic connection to the ghost might give us a hint on who murdered—”

“We know who murdered him,” you snap. “The same person who wants to put me six feet under next.”

“Would be the logical conclusion, but we’ve made the same mistake once. It’s never that simple.”

“George.” That’s Lockwood’s voice, calm yet firm. You wouldn’t describe his posture like George’s, slouching in his seat; Lockwood is leaning back, fingers steepled. He holds your gaze, purposefully, and you have to look away from its intensity. “No more experiments with psychic connections, we agreed to that.” His brown eyes slide lazily toward Lucy who has her mouth open in what seems like protest, but immediately closes it. For a moment you think her gaze sets on the ceiling as though there is something beyond the brick and mortar, an area or room in this house that would underline her point.

The question mark must be evident on your face. “My speciality is Listening,” Lucy explains. “Touch amplifies it sometimes, but I didn’t get much except sounds from the key, rapid footsteps, shouting, a gunshot—”

“Yeah,” you quickly say before the tang of stale water and foul soil can spread on your tongue. You try and wash it down with tea, welcoming the scalding heat in your mouth. Absently, you rub the spot on your chest where you know the Visitor was shot. “Yeah, I know, it’s uh … not a pleasant source.”

“I’d like to deal with a pleasant source for once,” George mumbles. He’s finished his plate, fingers tapping now on the edge of the table. He flicks impatient looks at Lockwood, who pretends not to notice. “So basically, the only thing we can do now is trying to find something in the Archives, at least regarding that symbol. Oh, and hoping whoever’s after that key doesn’t break in here next. That would be annoying, since it wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m quite fond of our new rug.”

“I know what you’re trying, George,” Lockwood says, with the annoyance of a man who’s already said this often enough, and who also wants to move past this specific topic but can’t. “If this were our last resort, I still wouldn’t force her—or anyone to do something this dangerous.” He’s crossed his arms, eyebrows furrowed. The fact that he’s mindful of your discomfort using your Talent comes as a genuine surprise.

“You didn’t seem to mind the first time I did it,” you throw in, watching him intently. Lockwood’s shoulders draw together.

“Technically, it was Kipps who brought you in,” he says. “I do want this case solved, but I am against getting involved with ghosts in any way.” His eyes rest on Lucy for a moment, heavy and contemplative. She makes an impressive job of not meeting his gaze.

You look down at your hands as though the answer of all your problems lies within your gloved palms. Either you stick to Lockwood’s plan, keep your hands away from the key, or you stop running from your own Talent. If what you interpret correctly between the unsubtle allusions of Lockwood, Lucy’s Talent doesn’t appear to be your run-off-the-mill Listening either.

A muscle in your jaw clenches, as though you’re chewing on your words before you speak. Finally, you breath, “OK. Let me do it.”

Lockwood stirs in his seat. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I hate sitting around and doing nothing even more.”

“All right,” he says slowly. “That means you two stick to the plan and go to the Archives tomorrow. I’ll meet up with you down at the factory for our case.” Lucy and George nod. Lockwood turns to your next. “And you and me will try and see what else the Visitor can show us.”

“Are you sure it’s going to be OK with just you two?” Lucy asks.

“We should start right after dawn breaks,” you say, “when the ghost is at his weakest. What can go wrong?” It will turn out later the answer to that is simple: everything.

A while had passed with no change in the wind, but you soon heard footsteps interrupting the sound of the breeze. The zipper of the tent came undone, and in stepped Kite, the love of your life. Unfortunately he brought the wind with him and you shivered violently when it blew past your face, watching the wind whip at his cloak before he sealed up the tent again and saved you from any more of that bitter breeze. When he finally laid his eyes upon you and saw only a sliver of your head poking out from a mound of blankets he laughed, all his features softening immediately.

“Is there any room left for me? I’m cold too, love.” He asked innocently, removing his cloak and tossing it into a corner.

“Mmm… If you’re cold then I’ll end up getting cold too…” You mumbled reluctantly.

“Too bad. I’m coming in.” He snorted.

Kite got down and forced himself into your bundle of warmth, earning a shriek of surprise from you. His entire being was cold thanks to the weather outside, and he defiantly slid into the sleeping bag behind you and rewrapped the blankets around both of you. He had a tight hold on you, and you shivered again.

“Eek! Get out of here! You’re too damn c-cold!” You chattered as his arms snaked around your torso.

“I know. That’s why I’m using you to warm up.” He hummed, sliding his hands under your top. “Mmm, you’re warm~.”

When his fingers came into contact with your skin you got goosebumps instantly. You inhaled sharply as he held your sides, using you to warm his frigid fingers.

“C-cold! K-Kite, you scoundrel!” You scolded, knowing you wouldn’t be able to escape his chilling grip.

“Aw, and here I thought you liked my hugs.” He joked.

Both of you laughed at the situation, finally relaxing into the position you shared. His hands soon became warm again and you were no longer opposed to feeling them against your bare skin. You rather appreciated his gentle squeezes as the moments passed, listening to the wind kick up and threaten to take the tent down. A sigh of disappointment left your lips and you leaned back into him, a greater warmth washing over you.

“I don’t think we’re gonna be able to get a fire going tonight.” You sighed.

“Nope. Those winds are too strong.” Kite nodded in agreement.

“Ugh. Nature is cruel sometimes.” You mumbled, placing your hands over his under your shirt. “... I should get you some gloves. Your hands would stay warm and then you wouldn’t give me wicked goosebumps.”

“I’d like that, actually~.” He chuckled.

“I’ll do it then.” You said with a smile. “In the meantime though… I suppose we’re going to have to wait this out.”

“Indeed. It’s too cold and windy out to finish the exact data set I was working on.” He agreed.

“Perfect. C’mere then.”

You turned yourself around in his grasp and pulled him down deeper into the sleeping bag with you, snuggling up close. You nuzzled into his chest with a content sigh while the blankets trapped all your warmth, keeping you cozy and happy.

“It seems you’ve warmed up to me now haven’t you, love~.” He teased.

“More like the other way around.” You scoffed, failing to hide your laughter.

His chest rumbled with laughter of his own, his grip on you tightening into a warm and loving embrace. Despite the wind outside, the cuddling brought you warmth that stopped your shivering in its tracks. As you lied across his chest, you turned your neck up a little and placed a gentle kiss on his jaw, drawing his attention down to you.

“Hey. We can try again tomorrow when the wind isn’t as bad.” You said softly.

“We can indeed.” He replied, returning your gesture by placing a kiss back on your forehead. “By the way, I love you _______.”

“I love you more.” You mumbled.

Damian was extremely protective, and Jon knew that even if he couldn’t help it, Damian would never forgive him for being your soulmate. So, he’d kept it quiet, only he didn’t need to, Damian knew and had come to the decision that so long as the Kryptonian didn’t act on the soulmate thing, then everything would be fine. Besides, Damian was busy enough with his own darling, he didn’t have time to worry about something that Jon knew better than to let happen.

To make matters worse, finding out you were his soulmate had brought up memories of Jon’s late mother. When she’d first disappeared, his father had told him that she’d been sick and that his mom was getting help, so if they were lucky, she’d be home with them soon. Jon had believed him, but as it turned out, his father was a liar, his mother wasn’t going to be back with them soon, no, she’d die in some medical mishap.

At least that’s what Clark had told him, it wouldn’t be until much later that Jon found out the truth, but that wasn’t to come not for a few years at least.

Suddenly, Jon had the urge to make you his and keep you that way. Jon hadn’t really had a conversation with his father since his mother died, maybe it was wrong of Jon to blame Clark, but he really didn’t care, his mother was dead, and his father had let it happen.

The possessiveness was because of Kryptonian instinct, at least that’s what the computer in the fortress of solitude had said, Jon would have asked his father, but he found himself avoiding home these days unable to look Clark in the eye without feeling some level of rage.

Jon fought his instincts for as long as he could, but when you were fourteen, and he was sixteen, suddenly he couldn’t anymore. According to his research into mate bonds, this was normal for someone in his situation, he was nearing the age of maturity, and it would start to affect his behavior with his mate. There was no fighting his instincts entirely, so he gave into them in small ways like lending you his jacket when a sudden cold breeze blew by, it helped him control the worst parts of him, the ones that really wanted to keep you by his side forever no matter the cost.

Jon loved the way you looked in his jacket it was like you were basically drowning in the fabric, but more importantly, he loved that it told the world you were his, but then he’d have to remind himself that you weren’t, that you couldn’t be, and that he couldn’t have you because that would be betraying his best friend.

It hadn’t taken Jon long to figure out you liked the slight accent growing up in rural Kansas had gifted him. He found himself playing it up slightly when you were around, he really couldn’t help it, the Kryptonian part of him knew you found it attractive, and it wasn’t going to let a chance to win you over pass him by.

It happened with other things too, like how Jon kept waring that blue flannel you said brought out his eyes, whenever he knew you were going to be around, and how he kept his hair in the cut and style he knew you liked. Sometimes Jon felt like a damn animal nearly shouting, hay look at me I’m healthy and attractive, want to spend the rest of your life with me.

If Damian noticed his friend preening like a peacock for you, he didn’t say anything, then again Damian had been busy with his wife, so he could be forgiven for it, and besides, with Damian busy you’d been spending more one on one time with Jon, and he was living for it.

So much so that Jon kept having to remind himself to slow down, he may have been sixteen, and more than ready to start dating, but you were only fourteen, and Kryptonian instincts be damned he wasn’t going to hurt you by going too fast.

Jon had sworn a vow to himself to keep you safe, no matter the cost, if it meant your safety then Jon would gladly die himself, heck he’d kill the whole planet if it really came down to it. You were everything to him, and in a way, how much his world revolved around you scared him a little. It would be easy to lose himself down that rabbit hole.

When Jon was eighteen he tried to quit you like a drug, avoiding you at all costs, by the end of the week he felt like he was dying, by the end of the month, Jon felt worse than any form of Kryptonite had ever made him. Even the thought of moving hurt, Jon couldn’t see straight if he wanted to, and if he was a guessing person, Jon would say he was running a fever too, judging by the fact that he couldn’t get warm.

Of course, Clark knew what was going on, so long as you were alive, Jon wouldn’t be able to stay away from you, or his body would start fighting him, and if you passed before the two of you had children, Jon would surely wither and die himself. The only reason Clark had survived the death of his wife was because a piece of her still lived on in Jon.

So, wanting to keep that piece of his wife alive Clark did the one thing he knew would save his son, he made up an excuse to leave the planet and called Dick, Clark had told your father about you and Jon as soon as he figured it out himself. Of course, Dick hadn’t been happy about a Kryptonian loving his daughter because the only soulmate bond they had record of was Clarks, and that hadn’t ended well. Though in the end, Dick had decided that he wasn’t going to stand in the way.

Sure, that might have been because while Dick had Mary wrapped around his finger, he didn’t have you because you’d seen with your own eyes how your father treated your mother behind closed doors. Dick wanted you out of the way because you knew far too much, so he didn’t even question when Clark asked you to go to the Kent farm. If you never came back, it would just mean Dick didn’t have to worry about what you knew, or how you could take his wife away from him.

You’d been concerned when Clark called and asked you to look after Jon while he was off-world. Kryptonians were supposed to be immune to earth illnesses, but when you looked at Jon, you started to question that belief.

You pressed your hand to Jon’s forehead to confirm what you already suspected; he was burning up. According to Clark, he’d already tried all of the human fever reducers he could find, and none of them seemed to work. So you’d had to settle for the old school method of bringing down a fever, a cold washcloth on the forehead. After you’d placed it on Jon’s head, he grabbed your hand, pulled it to his cheek and nuzzled into it, you could have sworn you heard him slur the word mine as he did so.

Jon said a lot of things like that for the first couple of days, and you weren’t sure if he meant them or if he was delirious from his fever, but you kind of hoped for the former because over the years you’d fallen in love with him.

Loving Jon made you feel like you were living in some teen soap opera, Damian used to be like a brother to you until you found out that he knew what Dick was doing to your mom, but he did nothing to stop it, and Jon was Damian’s best friend, that was prime drama material. Still, you’d decided that if Jon ever gave you a clear indication that he returned your affections, you’d take him up on it.

Only you couldn’t tell if feverish ramblings counted as a clear sign, on the one hand, he’d rambled for twenty minutes about how pretty your eyes were at one point, but on the other hand that had been when he still had a fever and kept calling water earth juice. So you should probably have discarded anything he said during his entire illness, but you couldn’t bring yourself to.

Jon had been better for a few days now, and you really should have gone home, but this was a nice break from your life in Gotham. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that you were only sixteen, you might have never gone home.  As it stood, you were still under eighteen, and eventually, you’d have to go home, but today was not that day. Until Clark came back, you were going to enjoy your little domestic heaven with Jon.

“Breakfast smells good,” Jon mumbled as he stumbled down the stairs, obviously still half asleep. You hadn’t expected Jon to come up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist as you cooked, but he did. It was at that moment that you decided to throw caution to the wind because you just didn’t hold someone like he was holding you if you didn’t have feelings for them.

You turned around in Jon’s arms and wrapped your arms around his neck to bring his lips to yours, the kiss was perfect just like everything else about the person in front of you. Jon would have been content to stay like that forever, but unlike him, you needed to breathe, so he didn’t fight you when you pulled away from the kiss.

Jon wasn’t sure what had come over him as you pulled away, but all he could think was mine, mine, mine, mine, to the point he found himself growling, “You’re mine.” As he pulled you right up against him.

“I’m yours,” You confirmed, as you pulled him in for another kiss, If you’d grown up in a healthy family the blatant show of possessiveness might have freaked you out, but you hadn’t, so honestly you found it romantic. Red flags might as well have been green lights to you, and in a way, you were lucky you’d fallen in love with Jon at least he wasn’t like Dick. Jon would never hit you like Dick did your mother.

It was later that night that Jon explained the whole soulmate thing, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly content as he slept because he had you in his arms.

It was a week later when Damian showed up, he’d been worried about both you and Jon, he was concerned about Jon because if you weren’t back, that meant there was a possibility Jon wasn’t improving. Still, Damian was also worried about you because what if Jon had gotten better and wasn’t letting you leave. Damian had seen how well those supposed soulmate bonds, worked out in the end.

Out of all the scenarios Damian expected to find, one of them hadn’t been you, and Jon snuggled up on the couch watching a movie. Damian had never felt so betrayed, his best friend and his niece together, he wanted to puke.

You smiled as you curled up into Jon’s side; part of you hoped that Clark would never come back because you’d been happier than you had been in years. That is until Damian kicked the door in and charged Jon with a sword and a shard of Kryptonite. Without thinking, you threw yourself in front of Jon, and in turn, Jon threw himself over you, shielding you from shielding him.

Damian found Jon’s willingness to die for you admirable; it still wouldn’t be enough to win him over, no it’d take a lot more than that, but maybe he was worth a chance. Damian put the Kryptonite away into a special lead-lined pouch on his utility belt after he’d done that Jon felt his strength return.

Jon shoved you behind him and glared at Damian. “If you ever hurt her, I can and will end you, do you understand me Kryptonian,” Damian said as he placed the tip of his sword to Jon’s throat.

“Yeah I do, and I would never hurt her, I love her.”

“Your father said the same thing about his wife, and yet he drove her to suicide.” Damian proclaimed venom dripping from his words.

After learning the truth about his mother's death, Jon sent you off with Damian, he called you every day only to ask you to return a week later, as soon as you set foot on the Kent farm Jon dropped down on one knee and proposed. You gladly said yes, and with your parent's permission, got married.

You never questioned why Clark hadn’t returned from space, and it was a good thing you hadn’t because Jon didn’t feel like explaining that his father had returned, but he’d died not long after.

Had Jon killed him? It was possible because, after all, it would have avenged his mother and secured a beautiful, peaceful life for the two of you. All you knew is that after you were married, Jon mostly retired from superheroing. Only going out when absolutely necessary, because he was content to be a farmer for the rest of his life, so long as you were by his side.

A/N I’m not even sure if Jon came off as Yandere in this tbh, Jon in my head is a much softer Yan then the rest, so overall, my usual amount of skin-crawling creep factor isn’t here, but shrug emoji. Also, Yes, Conner was supposed to be next, but that didn’t end up happening.

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