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badbatchposts · 5 months ago

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Quiet Corners of the Galaxy, Ch. 20

Fic Teaser: While on a routine mission for Cid, the Bad Batch encounter a woman fleeing from the Empire. Crosshair suspects her seemingly free-spirited, nomadic existence is actually a cover for something else, but struggles to keep his attraction toward her in check as their personalities and ideals clash.

Relevant tags/content warnings: Crosshair/Original Female Character, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Periodic Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use

Read the full fic so far on AO3

Read previous chapters on Tumblr: Ch. 1 l Ch. 2 l Ch. 3 l Ch. 4 l Ch. 5 l Ch. 6 l Ch. 7 l Ch. 8 l Ch. 9 l Ch. 10 l Ch. 11 l Ch. 12 l Ch. 13 l Ch. 14 l Ch. 15 l Ch. 16 l Ch. 17 l Ch. 18 l Ch. 19

Chapter 20 summary: Dara comes to on the Marauder, but her interrogation doesn't go as planned.

When Dara came to with a groan several hours later, the first thing she noticed was the rhythmic whirring of the Marauder’s hyperdrive. The second thing was how unamused Hunter looked.

“Start talking,” the Sergeant growled. She was sure he was used to that expression and tone being intimidating.

Dara said nothing. Instead, she tested the tightness of the binders that held her wrists behind her back and examined her surroundings. The cargo hold, which had served as her bedroom for weeks, was now their interrogation room. They would want to keep her as far away from the nav computer as possible—if they were still planning on going to Rex’s base, they didn’t want her knowing their destination. She wasn’t entirely sure why they would even risk bringing her with them, but the Batch often did things she didn’t wholly understand. In fact, she wasn’t sure why they had let her stick around for so long in the first place. Or why Crosshair had gone out of his way to intervene when the Imperials almost had her.

Speaking of which. Hunter and Tech were the only two in the hold with her, which gave her some relief—if it had been the sniper, she didn’t think an ex-Imperial would have as many qualms about what methods he used to get the information they were looking for.

Especially now that she’d learned the truth about him, that slimy—

“We are aware that you are working with Saw Gerrera,” Tech put forward. Dara remained impassive. She wasn’t sure what had given her away. Maybe Rex had finally remembered her, from when he’d trained them to fight back against the droids all those years ago on Onderon. She had risked a lot on the idea that he would have forgotten her by now, but even back then she had always kept a low profile, merging into the background, never standing out, and their contact had been minimal.

Hunter was now taking his turn. Dara wondered idly if they had practiced who would be good cop and who would be bad cop, or if they had just naturally fallen into their roles.

“We haven’t always seen eye to eye with Saw, but it’s a low blow for him to spy on us. Which means we aren’t feeling very kindly toward his spy. Especially after you shot Wrecker,” the Sergeant threatened darkly.

She rolled her eyes, finally deigning to respond. “It was on stun. He didn’t even go down. I doubt he has so much as a headache. I didn’t have to use stun blasts, you know.”

“I believe you did,” Tech replied. He was far less hostile than his brother, his eyes gleaming with something like intrigue behind his goggles. “Because you wish to be our ally. In fact, we could consider this to be an information exchange. As you are already aware, Rex has been organizing to help free and protect our fellow clones from the Empire. And as we are aware, your own organization likely has intelligence that could aid us in that endeavor.”

Dara clammed up again. Hunter leaned toward her, his eyes deadly. “Or, if you don’t want to talk, we could send Crosshair in here and see how things go then. Your choice. I’ll let you think about it.” The Sergeant exited the cargo hold, closing the door behind him, while Tech remained—to keep watch over her, she supposed.

She doubted Hunter would really let Crosshair do anything to her. Despite what happened with the Jedi, the clones had a code of honor.

Well. Most of them.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Tech working diligently on something on his datapad, before Dara spoke up.

“You shouldn’t be contacting Rex via holo. It’s bad infosec. Too easy to trace.” When she had first seen Rex’s face appear in the Marauder, she hadn’t just been surprised to find he was still alive; for most of their subsequent meeting she had been convinced the Empire was minutes from barging down their door. With the clones inside the warehouse, she had even taken up a position on the roof so that she would be able to warn them the moment any Imperial ships arrived.

Tech glanced at her, scoffing. “Perhaps for your organization. I encrypted and secured all communications for Rex myself.”

“Hmm.” Dara couldn’t help herself from looking a little impressed, and Tech took the opportunity to see if he could press her further.

“You have more stringent security protocols in your group?” he inquired. She didn’t reply, setting her mouth into a stubborn line, so he continued. “We are familiar with your use of the smugglers’ sub-space communications array on Ord Mantell. It is risky to put yourself in a situation where you rely on the discretion of criminals, but I suppose you do not have the capacity to replicate these set-ups on as many planets as would be necessary to make the network viable.”

He was right. It was a dilemma she had agonized and debated over, but ultimately they had decided it was the safest among a litany of risky options for their field agents to check in regularly. And, of course, there were the ways she had devised to make it safer.

The ways she had just ignored in her urgency to discuss the clones with Saw. But they shouldn’t have been able to listen in, not unless they were monitoring everything that passed through the smugglers’ comm network.

Then again, this was Tech. Maybe she shouldn’t put it past him.

When Dara remained silent, Tech shrugged and returned to his datapad, no doubt researching as much about Saw’s group as he could access to help him start filling the gaps. They knew too much already, in her opinion, but they would not be finding out more from her.

A few moments later, Tech peered up at her again. “You should know that, when we arrive, you will be left with Crosshair, as Hunter has stated. I will instruct him not to harm you, but as you are no doubt aware, his attitude toward you is extraordinarily hostile, and has only worsened upon confirming his suspicions. It may be best to speak with me before this occurs.”

Dara narrowed her eyes. Her voice betrayed every ounce of the violence and rage she had been repressing since she learned from Saw that Crosshair had been responsible for the death of her fellow rebel—her friend. Shot point blank, and the civilians she had been evacuating massacred.

“If you leave me alone in a room with that Imperial scum, only one of us is walking out,” she warned.

Behind his goggles, Tech’s eyes softened with sympathy.

“Dara… Crosshair’s actions against your comrades were terrible. But they were not his own. The inhibitor chip in the brain of all clones activated for him. We lost him for a long time. He was controlled, compelled to follow orders. It is very difficult for Crosshair to acknowledge his emotions—but I know he regrets it. I know he is sorry.”

Dara liked Tech, truly. She liked the whole Batch, with one obvious exception. But at that moment, she wanted to knock his lights out. She didn’t want his pity.

She looked away from him, resting her head back against the wall.

“Sorry won’t bring them back.”

***

Dara rotated her neck, trying to relieve the ache in her shoulders from sitting for so long with her wrists bound behind her. With the ship having just powered down upon landing, she was straining her ears to hear any activity out in the hallway that would give her a hint as to the Batch’s plans, but of course they knew better than to discuss them within earshot.

She had known this was a bad idea.

Her last mission had been a bad idea from the very beginning, in fact. Sneaking into an Imperial facility was always a bit of a risk, and going undercover for weeks with no backup ready to extract her if things went south was even worse. But she was used to working alone, and there had been no one else to spare for this operation.

She couldn’t arrive in her own ship either, had to leave it hidden near a spaceport and take a commercial transport to avoid suspicion when she began a position as a clerical worker under the vice-governor of some Force-forsaken desert planet. But she bided her time, familiarized herself with the facility, got the data they were after.

It had all gone fine, up until the moment she’d been caught in the act.

She’d barely made it to the hangar and onto a shuttle, and not without effort or injury. Only to crash-land right into another fever-wasp’s nest, barely getting out of it—surviving only thanks to that kriffing asshole.

She knew she should’ve just hopped on a transport back to her ship when they arrived at Ord Mantell, whether the Empire might have tracked it down or not. It was always pushing it, sticking with them for as long as she did, especially since Crosshair had been suspicious from the very beginning. But she had to lay low for a while anyway, and she thought that if she could recruit them somehow, find the clone network she had been hearing about, they’d mean everything for the cause. They were all good at what they did, she couldn’t deny that.

Even that asshole. If only she’d known he had been Imperial, if she’d known from the beginning what he’d done, she could’ve taken him out and disappeared before this whole thing got out of hand.

Speak of the sand demon—the cargo hold door opened to reveal the sniper, looking, even more than usual, like someone had pissed in his breakfast.

Maybe she’d still get her chance.

Dara schooled her expression into passivity as Crosshair approached. It was not an easy task; in normal circumstances she was a durasteel wall, blank, impossible to read. But her time with the Batch had challenged her. More specifically, he had challenged her, getting better and better at provoking a reaction. And now, she felt her righteous anger seething under every inch of skin as she was faced with him again.

Jolla’s killer. Her friend, gone, at the flash of a blaster. His blaster.

Crosshair’s eyes glittered dangerously, and Dara could imagine him doing it so easily. He was cold.

He was also still so painfully attractive, a small, traitorous part of her reminded. Her heart was beating fast, and she had to suppress a shiver, both reactions that, she insisted to herself, had everything to do with the danger she was in, and nothing to do with the memory of him crowding into her as she perched atop that crate only a rotation earlier. It didn’t matter that she no longer had that sort of reaction when under threat—not since early in the war.

Keep it together, she reminded herself. She could get out of this.

Finally, the sniper spoke. “I knew all along you were trouble, burk’yc.” His voice was a coiled whisper, a rock viper preparing to strike.

Should she rise to the bait or continue with the silent treatment? Dara knew that silence was often the prudent choice in an interrogation, but she had also learned that Crosshair’s presence kept her from acting rationally. In lieu of answer, she strained at her binders, focusing on the way they dug into her wrists, letting the pain ground her.

She was seated against the wall, and Crosshair’s tall, thin frame loomed over her. His gaze raked along her body, lingering for a moment on the binders. He leaned over and tucked one slender finger under her chin, tilting her face up until she met his eyes defiantly.

He smirked. “Although I can’t deny how much I like seeing you bound and at my mercy.”

The roles were reversed so quickly that he didn’t even see how it happened.

While Crosshair was distracted with his gloating—no doubt planning something heinous, Dara thought—she had found her contingency plan tucked behind a loosened panel in the wall behind her: a hidden vibroblade. In a single motion, never breaking eye contact, she had sliced her binders apart, leaping to her feet and pressing the edge to Crosshair’s neck. She backed him against the wall, watching his pupils widen as she allowed the knife to break the skin ever-so-slightly.

“Some of the others in our group think I’m paranoid, you know,” Dara began conversationally. “But it’s not paranoid to always have a back-up plan. Or two. Or three.”

Crosshair got over his momentary shock, glaring at his change in fortune. She could see in his eyes how he immediately set his mind to working at a way out of it, and she knew she had to be careful—he had enough height and weight on her that if she gave an inch, he could easily overpower her.

“Does Saw think that?” he growled. “He must have so little faith in you. Hasn’t he seen how good his little spy is at playing the whore?”

Dara laughed, full-bellied laughed at him. “You can do better than that pathetic attempt at riling me up. But I guess I shouldn’t expect much from Imperial filth.”

The sniper bared his teeth. “I’m not with the Empire.”

Dara leaned even closer. He could feel her hot breath on his face, and the knife stung a bit deeper into his skin. “You did plenty of damage while you were,” she hissed. “Do you even remember any of their faces, or have there been too many to keep track?”

Crosshair broke eye contact, his anger and bravado gone in a pained instant. He had known his actions would catch up with him one day, and now they were finally coming back to haunt him—at knifepoint, no less.

“I remember,” he croaked.

“Do you?” Dara spat out. “Do you remember the elderly? The children? My friend—” She broke off for a moment, took in a shaky breath. “You don’t even know what I’ve lost.”

They were both silent for a moment, breathing heavily, before Dara gained control over her grief and resumed her venomous tirade. “You’re not going to defend yourself, then? Blame it all on the chip, maybe? Say how sorry you are? Beg for your life?”

The sniper’s amber eyes snapped back to hers, and she immediately wished they hadn’t. She recognized the ache in them too easily.

“Go ahead and kill me,” Crosshair stated plainly. His gravelly voice began as a whisper, but gained in strength as he continued. “On Onderon it was the chip. But I still…deserve it. I did the same thing to plenty more…even after I had the chip out.”

This sudden admission had thrown Dara off, but Crosshair was no longer aiming to catch her by surprise or wriggle out of the situation. He had avoided thinking about it for so long, but now the floodgates were open, and he couldn’t stop as he heard the words spill out, tinged with desperation.

“You don’t know what it’s like, not to be in control. I remember all of their faces. I watched myself do it like my body wasn’t my own anymore. I tried to kill my own squad, my brothers. And when the chip was finally gone, I kept going. As if—as if doing the same things of my own free will would help convince me it was my choice all along.” He was begging now, but not for his life, or even for forgiveness. “So it was my fault. I deserve it. Kill me.”

Crosshair still didn’t look away as he waited. All he could think of was the irony, that the vengeance he was owed would finally be brought down upon him by her, of all people. The one he’d saved.

Dara eased up a little on the knife, but not enough for him to move. It was hard to read her turbulent expression, myriad emotions all flaring up and gone in seconds, like a series of flashbangs.

“I’m no executioner,” she finally choked out. “Not like the Empire. Not like you.”

With her free hand, she reached behind him to another panel in the wall and found her second contingency. He almost welcomed the darkness when it hit him.

Tag list: @stardusthuntress @skellymom @megmegalodondon @somewhere-on-kamino @morerandombullshit @zahmaddog

Thanks again to @cloneflo99 for the amazing banner!!!

Next chapter

#the bad batch #star wars #clone force 99 #bad batch #tbb crosshair #the bad batch fanfiction #clone wars fanfiction

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voxofthevoid · 2 years ago

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👀👀👀 17 catch your lady by her toes and 24. The tied to the tracks one??? ❤️❤️❤️

Hello, friend 💖

I typed up a whole response to this and then...Tumblr glitched. Fuck me.

Round 2

17. catch your lady by her toes [song here]

This one came into being because I, in my infinite wisdom, idly wondered if I'd be able to write femlash without risking triggers now that top surgery has eased the worst of my dysphoria, and my cesspit of a brain answered very loudly with "Gojou single-handedly turns Yuuji from an ass woman to a tit woman."

CW: teacher/student, adult/minor, genderbending of the cisswap variety, gratuitous use of the word tits

This is a slightly cleaned-up version of my initial notes:

Subvert the A-cup angst trope. Yuuji is staring at Gojou's tits (unconsciously), and Gojou goes "Don't worry, Yuuji, some girls are late bloomers." Gestures at Yuuji's chest. "These might surprise you one day." Wink wink nudge nudge. Yuuji, too startled to lie or hedge, blurts out that she's fine with her tits. Immediately clamps up and expects Gojou to disbelieve her the way girls at school usually did when this came up. But Gojou leans in and says, "Oh, so you just like looking then?" Yuuji blushing and denying it (failing to be convincing). Her control over the doll slips but Gojou deactivates it. Says she understands, they are nice, aren't they? Tells Yuuji to come closer and hugs her, Yuuji's face between Gojou's tits, and Gojou is crooning something like "It feels comforting, doesn't it?" but Yuuji's brain is just going TITS TITS TITS on repeat.

24. love's like the chug of a slow train coming (if we're tied to the tracks, we're bound to feel something) [song here]

I want it on record that this is all Hymn's (@thelionshoarde) fault. I am innocent.

CW: teacher/student, adult/minor, a/b/o ft. mating cycles, intense sex

This one's alpha!Yuuji/beta!Nanami/omega!Gojou. Most of the focus will be Nanami/Yuuji, I think, because this is Nanami PoV, but a fair bit of Nanami/Gojou/Yuuji and Gojou/Yuuji will also be there. I'll copy over the first part of what I typed up for Hymn; it's more coherent than my for-self notes usually are.

Nanami calling Gojou for damage control when Yuuji goes into rut after the Mahito mess because the kid's supposed to be dead and Shouko's left for an emergency in Kyoto and there's literally no one else to call, but Gojou still isn't in the country, so it's just Nanami who has to deal with a teenage alpha in his first rut. And pre-rut, Yuuji's mostly just miserable, and Nanami basically treats him like he's got the flu, but half a day later, it's a whole different beast, which Nanami finds out the hard way when he hears Yuuji groan and rushes in to find him jerking his dick harsh enough that it hurts even looking at him, and now he's a miserable, desperate mess, and Nanami, in a fit of temporary insanity, "helps out." Which escalates to one very long bout of insanity because it's not like any rutting alpha will willingly stop once they've got hold of a warm, wet hole, and Nanami keeps telling himself he'll knock Yuuji out or something after the next round—then the next round, then the next round. And he doesn't, even when it starts to hurt, even when his entire body starts feeling like one overexposed nerve. Yuuji's just so needy and an unholy mix of pitiful and cute about it, and Nanami keeps discovering softer spots in the soft spot he's developed for Yuuji. Maybe he even tells himself it's payback for Yuuji saving his life—least he could do etc. Next thing he knows, he's falling asleep on a knot— —and waking up to a very amused Gojou Satoru who's decided to let himself in when no one answered after one(1) knock, as one does.

#backwardshirt #ask game #tag game #goyuu #nanayuu #is that the fucking tag??#heh fucking tag #jjk snippets #nanaita #-->that be the tag

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wikifuck · 11 months ago

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Keep it fresh!

I have been struggling with a project of mine for ages now, and one of the many ways I have tried keeping it fresh has been this: I wrote a spinoff/fanfiction piece of my own work.

Considering that this is a piece based on a different writing project of mine I find it ironic that the temporary names I ended up giving these characters make it sound like Batman fanfiction.

Dear Tumblr, I call this one Office Work

“Sorry,” Joker said with a bothered voice as he quickly wheeled himself past Bruce as he held the door open.

“Don’t apologize.” Bruce smiled. “It’s no problem."

Joker held his gaze down and continued to the reception area. At least this time he didn’t respond with another apology. Bruce hurried after him.

“Wait.” Joker glanced up in surprise. Bruce came to a halt next to him. “I was thinking about going to the coffee shop down the road on lunch today…” He explained. Joker blinked up at him, perplexed. “Did you want to come with me?” Bruce continued, now a little unsure. To his relief, Joker gave him a quick smile.

“Maybe… I wasn’t thinking of leaving my office today, but sure.” With that, Joker gave him another quick smile and disappeared off to the elevator banks. Bruce watched in that direction, wondering if he had fucked up. He had thought helping Joker with going to physiotherapy had given him enough brownie points to ask him out, but the bothered look in Joker's eyes still haunted him. Should he have ignored Joker coming to work in a wheelchair again, had he asked too soon? With many questions repeating in his mind, Bruce wandered to his work desk on floor four. His fellow cubical slaves greeted him, some tried to start small talk, but Bruce barely noticed them, deciding to drown his worries in work.

It was 10 minutes before lunch when he awoke from his work-induced trans. He rubbed his eyes, making charts and numbers float in front of his eyes as he closed them. He tried to get some more work done when a message on his phone caught his eye.

Joker:

“Sorry, I can’t leave the office right now, a meeting is dragging on. I hope you have fun without me though.”

Bruce sighed. He shot off a quick response.

Bruce:

“np. I can still grab you something, what would you like?”

No answer. Bruce’s logical brain assured him that Joker was still busy in the meeting and couldn’t see the notification, but the louder, emotional side told him that it was just an excuse, obviously Joker had had the time to send the rejection text. Defeated, he thought of just going to the cafeteria in the same building, but the fear of seeing Joker there alone, or worse, with someone else made him go to the coffee shop anyway. The excuse he came up with greeted him as he entered the reception area, Leslie, the receptionist was still with her hands full as usual, probably dealing with some idiot's IT problems that the IT professionals didn’t have time for. She looked eternally grateful as Bruce promised to grab her a coffee and a sandwich on his way.

With that, he made his way to the coffee shop. The scent of fresh brew flowed through him when he stepped into the tastefully decorated shop. Black pipes and dark wood decorated the walls and all the seating and tables were assembled from different recycled materials. Behind the display glass sat everything from muffins to croissant sandwiches to burrito wraps. As he stood in line he started idly scrolling his phone. His subconscious got him to open his texts with Joker. As he scrolled up the messages, a picture he had sent of a muffin with dark and white chocolate chips on top, two weeks ago caught his eye. Joker's response read “Oh wow! I need to try that, it looks amazing!” A lightbulb went off in his head.

When Bruce got to the front of the line, the clerk greeted him by name.

“Can I get you the usual?” She asked with an upbeat customer service tone.

“Yeah, that, and couple other things.” He smiled back. The cashier packed his things into a to-go bag and soon he was out of the door. He quickly dropped off Leslie’s lunch and then made a beeline for Joker's office.

Praying that Joker was done with his meeting, Bruce knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Joker’s muffled voice called from inside. Bruce opened the door, pondering if Joker had sounded distracted or if he had imagined it. He froze when he saw Joker at his desk, with another man leaning on a file cabinet next to him. Both were sipping on coffee. Joker seemed positively surprised seeing him, that at least as positive.

“Um… I figured I would bring you a muffin and a latte…” Bruce started wearily. “In case you don’t get to the cafeteria on your lunch at all.”

Joker's eyes lit up. “My goodness, you shouldn’t have, thank you.” The string of sentences blended together as they escaped his lips. He thanked Bruse again as he handed the items over the desk.

Bruce finally noticed the orange cups the two had been drinking from were the weak stuff from the cafeteria, the cheapest coffee available. Joker’s expression was like that of a kid on Christmas as he pulled a pretty plastic cup of latte and the muffin out of the brown paper bag with the coffee shop's logo on it.

He held the muffin in the air. “This looks delicious.”

Bruce smiled coyly. “Yeah, you said you wanted to try one.”

“And here I was planning to get through the day with just coffee!” Joker laughed and looked to the other guy. The stranger forced a lopsided grin onto his lips. Bruce stole a couple of glances in his direction. Had he seemed disappointed by the intrusion? The man pushed off the cabinet and stood.

“I’m gonna head to my office now, have a good break.” He smiled to Joker and gave Bruce a nod as he passed. The genuine expression made him question if he had imagined everything earlier.

Bruce’s gaze followed the stranger as he disappeared out the door.

“You did get lunch for yourself too, right?” Joker's voice startled him back to reality.

“Yeah, of course, I always get a latte and a croissant.”

Joker gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Care to eat with me?” His voice had a hint of insecurity hidden in it. Without thinking, Bruce plopped down on the soft chair and spread his lunch on a free spot on Joker’s desk.

They shared a couple of bites of each other's lunch and before Bruce knew it, their break had stretched 10 minutes over time.

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divinemissem13 · 1 year ago

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Happy New Year, friends!

If you prefer to just read on tumblr, full text is below the cut :)

It’s late when Beverly gets home from the New Year’s gala, although she still managed to make her escape before midnight. It’s no fun to be at the party at midnight when you have no one to kiss. Or, more accurately, when the person you want to kiss is lightyears away on some dumb diplomatic mission.

Beverly sighs and kicks her high heels off, not really caring where they land. There’s no one but her to trip over them anyway. Even though they were both supposed to be on leave for the holidays, Starfleet had commandeered Kathryn shortly after Christmas dinner for an urgent mission to Q’onos that apparently only she could handle. Beverly has been in a funk ever since.

She could have gone to the Chateau, but somehow it feels even stranger to be there without Kathryn than it does to be here in the San Francisco apartment that they share.

She pads toward the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine and wonders if Kathryn’s ship might be in comm range and she’s so caught up calculating distances and speeds that she almost doesn’t notice the soft music coming from the living room.

It’s possible that she left something playing when she rushed out of the apartment earlier, running late as usual. But it sounds like Kathryn’s favorite holiday song, and that can’t be a coincidence can it?

“Kathryn? Honey?” Beverly calls out tentatively, afraid to hope. She’s not supposed to be back until next week, after all.

There’s no answer, other than the muted sound of Bing Crosby crooning “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.”

“Sounds about right,” Beverly mutters to herself and makes a quick detour to turn off the music that feels like it’s taunting her.

The room is dark but there is enough light coming through the window that Beverly can find her way over to the phonograph and lift the needle. For a moment, everything is quiet.

A low, sleepy sounding voice that Beverly would recognize anywhere breaks the silence. “Hey, I was listening to that,” the voice mumbles, accompanied by the rustling of blankets from the couch as Kathryn sits up so that she is lit by the soft glow of the stars through the window. Beverly thinks she looks like a dream - and maybe she is - but then Kathryn smiles sleepily and says “Hi, Bevvy” and she knows she’s real because no one in her dreams calls her that, only Kathryn when she thinks she’s being cute (and she usually is).

For a split second, Beverly can’t decide whether she is thrilled by her surprise or angry that Kathryn’s arrival had been kept a surprise in the first place… But joy quickly wins out and she launches herself toward the couch and lands right in Kathryn’s lap, grabs her face, and plants a big, sloppy kiss squarely on her lips.

It takes another moment for Kathryn’s nap-addled brain to catch up but when she does, she returns the kiss with just as much fervor, gripping Beverly’s waist and pulling her closer with one hand as the other toys idly with the curtain of dark gray curls that seals them off from the rest of the world.

Eventually, they have to come up for air, but they remain inside their cocoon with foreheads pressed together until Beverly starts gently demanding answers. “Not that I’m not happy to see you–”

“Yes, I noticed,” Kathryn teases as she tucks Beverly’s hair back so that she can start to nibble her ear. Beverly’s breath catches in her throat for a moment before she leans away from her distractor. Her curiosity demands satisfaction first.

“When did you get back? I thought you’d be gone another week! Why didn’t you tell me you’d be done early? I could have met you at the transport station. Would have gotten me out of that dull Starfleet gala tonight,” Beverly rambles on until a grinning Kathryn puts a hand to her mouth to shut her up.

“In order: Less than an hour ago; Things went much more smoothly than expected; I wanted to surprise you; I transported straight here because if anyone knew I was home, we’d both have ended up at that gala and we’d still be there now,” She ticks each answer off on her fingers as she speaks and then leans in close to nuzzle Beverly’s nose and conclude with a conspiratorial whisper. “This is much better, don’t you think?”

“Infinitely,” Beverly hums against Kathryn’s lips and then resumes kissing them, more delicately but no less passionately than before. “Welcome home,” she murmurs between kisses as she gently guides Kathryn back onto the couch cushions, her long hair cascading around them like a cage that neither wants to escape from.

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes midnight and popping fireworks welcome the new year. The fireworks light up the room in blues and reds and golds and if she were paying attention, Beverly might comment on how magical it all looks. But she is too busy enjoying her midnight kiss to notice.

#new years eve #kissing #femslash #beverly crusher/ kathryn janeway #beverly crusher #kathryn janeway #light angst #heavy fluff #star trek #star trek voyager #star trek picard #i wrote this #fanfic #ao3 link

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anderstrevelyan · 2 years ago

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Hi. It's Wednesday, so here's a WIP! (Thanks for the tag @mxkelsifer!)

(Does anyone want to be tagged in these when I post them? I'd love to be tagged in yours.)

I've shared chunks of this in different places, but not yet on tumblr and not woven together, so here's the tentative first part of Ch. 11 of Force of Nature. Anders is newly a Warden and really not used to this people being kind to him thing.

Am I going overboard with this newfound freedom of no space limit? Absolutely, here's 900 words or so:

When Anders first puts on the uniform, carefully pulling all the buckles into place and staring stock-still for a moment at the mirror, he isn’t quite sure what to think.

It had fit well enough at first, better than most of the robes the Circle had passed to him over the years—those always took the careful cinching of a belt and a determination not to wonder what had happened, to the mage who’d owned it before. But that hadn’t been good enough, apparently, for the woman charged with outfitting the new lot of them. She’d taken in the shoulders, found a pair of trousers long enough at the ankle, polished all the silver bits, insisted on taking his earring to do the same.

And now, after brushing out his hair and tying it back, after sliding the piece of gold back into his ear—well, now he looks like a Warden.

They treat him like one, too, as he winds through the keep at the break of this day, the first they’re set to travel into the city. Quick nods of acknowledgement, of respect, from whoever he passes, whether they’re hanging up fresh tapestries and polishing the decorative suits of armour, or heading outside with a serious face and a sword for training drills. Cheerful greetings that he tries to return in kind, reaching to remember such a long list of new names, still not used to the sound his boots make as they click against the oak floors.

He almost wants to just sit and watch, let the rhythms of the place wash over him as he memorizes their patterns and sounds and shape, but he has a mission this morning. One he’d assured Amell he wouldn’t forget.

It takes Anders a good fifteen minutes to find her, weaving through the halls and poking his head through doors, but the woman before him—grey hair primly pleated, eyes flanked with creases clearly deepened by holding this very same frown for far too long—this has to be her.

“Mistress Woolsey?” He takes a step into the small office, dimly lit with the curtains still half-drawn, and ventures a smile. “The commander sent me. For the treasures. From the treasury?”

“You mean the coin.” Her voice isn’t any friendlier. Matter-of-fact. All business. No fun at all, really. She unlocks and opens a drawer—Andraste’s flaming knickers, that’s more money than he’s seen in his entire life—and starts slowly counting some out. She’d been expecting him then, as Amell had promised. By the time she’s passed ten gold sovereigns, he can’t believe he’s being trusted with this at all.

“Soooo.” He flips idly through the ledger on the desk, then stops when she shoots him a look. Pushes a few spare coppers around through the dust instead. “What are the Anderfels like?”

“I was sent by Weisshaupt, I didn’t come from Weisshaupt. But aren’t you…you mean, you’ve never been?”

Oh. She knows who he is. Specifically, beyond the uniform. Well, he supposes it’s not too hard to keep four Wardens straight. “What makes you think I’m from the Anderfels?”

“Your features. Your colouring. The way you’ve named yourself for their people. I can’t imagine that’s a given name.”

“How would you know? Maybe my parents said the exact same thing about my tiny baby features.”

“…Right.” She doesn’t look up, watching herself work as she starts dropping the sovereigns one-by-one into a pouch, each with a satisfying clink.

She doesn’t ask.

“I was born in Ferelden,” he offers anyway.

Though he’s definitely not going further down that particular thread.

“And no, I’ve never been,” he adds. “The Circle of Magi doesn’t really approve vacation requests, I’m afraid. What about the Wardens? Do you think I could get permission to go lie around somewhere? I’m not sure the Anderfels would be my first choice, though, Maker. A little far. Maybe somewhere nice and temperate—”

“Alright, alright.” She seals the pouch, then adds a note to the ledger in perfect penmanship. “Take this. Tell Commander Amell there won’t be much more where this came from, if he’s going to keep dragging his heels on clearing that trade route.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says with a wink.

He swings through the kitchen then, the pouch of sovereigns clinking merrily in his pocket, on his way to the courtyard. They hand him a bowl of oats as he passes, warm and wonderful, mixed with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon, and he holds it close to his nose as he walks, trying to savour the sweetness and the anticipation. It’s the same as yesterday’s, much like many of the Vigil’s meals—probably the fault of that blocked trade route, if he were to ask Mistress Woolsey—but it has flavour, and they use garnish, and such beautifully fresh ingredients—

He devours at least half by the time he gets outside. He can’t help himself.

Nathaniel’s already in the yard, bag neatly packed at his feet, a full quiver of arrows leaning against the wall. He’s finished with his own breakfast, clearly impeccably and annoyingly early to their morning meeting point, but then Anders notices the other small bowl on the ledge beside him. Berries.

Nathaniel acknowledges him with a lift to his brows, then nudges the bowl his way. “They were almost out earlier,” he says. “I thought you might want some.”

“Oh, Maker, do I.” He dumps the fruit into his bowl, mixing them in with what’s left of his meal, entirely unsure how to respond to such a gesture. So he doesn’t.

#wip wednesday #my writing #dragon age fanfiction #anders #nathaniel howe #mistress woolsey #dragon age awakening #dragon age

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couldntbedamned · 4 years ago

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Til the Veins Start to Shiver

Bruce Banner/Reader

Summary: You decide to tease Bruce with some provocative photos while he's working. Bruce decides to tease you right back, and then some.

Warnings/AO3 Tags: Teasing, swearing, derogatory language, dirty talk, Bruce Banner has a filthy mouth, dom/sub undertones, orgasm delay/denial, oral sex, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, overstimulation, size kink, aftercare

Author’s Note: Written for the fabulous and talented @boop-le-snoot. Inspired by this post here on Tumblr.

Til the Veins Start to Shiver

- - - -

Bruce was about to lose it. He’d told you not to send him such provocative pictures while he was trying to work.

But you didn’t like to listen. You wanted him to lose it, wanted him to wake up and realize that as delicate looking as you could appear, you weren't breakable.

He wrapped up his work as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself and then stalked towards his floor. His sound-proofed, Hulk-proofed floor.

You were waiting for him, of course. Smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Smiling as if you’d won.

“Was it fun, baby, teasing me like that?”

You giggled. “Yes.”

“I hope it was. Because I like to tease, too. And I’m much, much better at it.” He pulled off his glasses and set them down on the dresser, began to unbutton his shirt.

“Get on the bed.”

“But what about my clothes?” Soft, pretty, lacy things.

“Do you really think I’ll let something like clothes get in my way? I thought you were smarter than that, baby.”

“It’s been a couple of hours, baby. How do you like teasing now?” Bruce asked. His face was wet from your pussy that he’d been eating off and on, forcing you up, up, and up but never letting you crash over. His fingers, also wet, drew messy little shapes all over your thighs and stomach.

“What’s the matter baby? Are you cock-dumb already? I haven’t even split you open on my cock yet.”

“P-please.”

You’d lost count of how many times he denied you, only knew that you needed to come more than you needed your next breath.

“But you like teasing,” Bruce chided, mock hurt all over his face.

“I guess there’s nothing else left then,” he finally said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You grab his arm before he can pull away, a feat of speed you had no idea how you managed. “Ple-ease, B-bruce. Fuck m-me.”

“Oh, you want me to fill that needy little cunt of yours? Want me to split you open and fuck you like a dumb little doll I can toss and throw around?”

You nodded, desperate. “Y-yeah. Use me.”

“Sweet, dumb little baby, thinking you can tease me like that, that you’ll win. But you know better now, don’t you? Sir is so much smarter than you.”

Bruce pulled you onto him, held you over his monstrously thick cockhead, tinged with green and so much bigger than he’d previously fucked you with.

“You wanted this,” he cooed in your ear before he forced the head inside of your soaking cunt.

It was a stretch. Holy fuck, even with the hours of finger-fucking and oral sex it was a stretch and so, so much. But he didn’t stop, used his strength to pull you down onto him and your thighs trembled and your cunt pulsed and you didn’t know how you were going to survive it.

“I’m almost halfway in,” he told you, raising you up just a bit before forcing you down until you could feel him hitting your cervix… maybe even feel him in your throat. The hair around the root of his cock and balls would have probably tickled if you could have felt anything other than every single pulsing veined inch of him inside you.

“Pretty baby, full of my cock just like a dumb little girl like you should be.” He didn’t thrust but with every slight movement, fire raced through you. It was too much it was too much it was too much!

“And what do you say to Sir, when he’s filled your pretty little cunt with his big cock?”

You whimpered, tears falling.

He jerked his hips up and your cervix shifted and you cried out.

“Well?”

“T-th-ank y-you S-ir.”

“If you can still form words, I’m not doing my job.”

He started to properly fuck you, pulling you up and down, pausing a few times to add some lube in an act of mercy you didn’t think you’d get. The lube helped to a point, but a cock half-way between Bruce and the Hulk was not meant to be taken by mortal cunts like yours.

The battering of your cervix started to… not quite change from pain, but kind of meld with a deep sort of buzzing that signaled an orgasm you didn’t think you could walk away from.

“Baby girl, finally being so good for me, letting me use her just like she needs. Just let go, baby. You’re too pretty to think, just empty that head and I’ll empty into you.”

His fingers started playing with your clit while he used you like a fleshlight and when your orgasm tore through you with a violence you had never felt before, you felt yourself soak his cock and then collapsed bonelessly against him.

He continued to work in and out of you, his cock leaving no micrometer of your cunt unclaimed.

When he finally came, it was with a loud groan-bordering on-roar. The spill of his release was hot in your womb. There was so much and it squelched out with every thrust as he continued to milk his orgasm with your cunt.

“Look at my pretty baby,” he said adoringly as he lifted you off his softening monster of a cock and laid you back on the bed where you laid useless and splayed-legged.

Bruce kissed you, stroked his hands all over you lovingly as if checking to see that you were still there with him.

He didn’t move to clean you up, but you were too tired, too… cock dumb to care. Instead, he slipped something up your hips, around your ass. Then something slid inside you and settled in place. Something else pressed against your clit.

“I hope you enjoyed that orgasm, baby. Because I’m not done teasing you, yet.”

Vibrations started, sent fireworks across your clit, and you realized he’d locked a vibrator in place with the belt he’d pulled onto you. The shaft inside of you began to vibrate, too.

“There’s my pretty, cock-dumb baby. You look so pretty when you come for me, especially when you’re needy and crying.”

He settled back to take in the sight of you. He stroked his soft cock, idly.

"It’s always so fun to see how you plan to keep me from working too hard, baby. I have to admit, this is more satisfying than the equations I was working on. I might just have to keep this up all night."

With a sobbing moan, you came, and feeling no retreat from the vibrators, sobbed some more.

“My pretty baby has some smart ideas sometimes,” Bruce said fondly. “Not as smart as mine, but I love her anyways.”

- - - - -

Much later, as you fought sleep while lying next to Bruce, wearing your coziest pjs and wrapped in your favorite fluffy blanket, after Bruce had reverently and gently cleaned you and held you in the hot tub filled with soaking salts and oils and had hand-fed you your favorite snacks and held water for you to sip all while telling you how brilliant and wonderful and precious you were, how much he loved you and your intelligence, you had to agree to disagree to a point.

Bruce Banner may have earned seven Ph.D.’s, but you had gotten want you wanted, after all.

#bruce banner x reader #bruce banner smut #reader x bruce banner #couldntbedamned fic

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braunbakery · 4 years ago

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salvation, maybe (ii)

☞ reiner braun x reader [fem bodied] [chapter word count: 2.5k]

☞ sfw, angst, fluff, post-season 3 [after 4 year time jump], season 4 spoilers

☞ cross-posted on ao3 (very much ahead on ao3, just wanted to bring it to tumblr)

☞ fic plot: you have walked these streets many times before. you have passed this bench many times before. you have seen this man (lost in his thoughts, always drifting, always looking lost) many times before. but this time, this time you take a seat.

prev. next

ii. company

the glass clinks against the bar counter and reiner shifts idly in his seat as the bartender slowly pours him another drink. he watches you bring your glass to your lips in the bar stool next to him, your other hand rested on the counter. the orange lighting of the bar reflects off of the two glasses and, even though the bar is filled with the lazy chatter of other customers, reiner feels like he can hear your every movement.

he doesn't know how a walk through the streets of liberio wound up with him sitting with you at a bar in the middle of the night. he doesn't know how his daily trip to the bench in front of the fountain wound up with him sharing a drink with a stranger when he had been isolating himself since his return from paradis. he doesn't know how the hours passed so quickly, or why you had decided to spend an entire day with him. he can barely remember what you had talked about, faintly recalling sparse conversation about your family, about his family (about gabi and how there was definitely no one in liberio who didn't know her with the way her voice echoed around the alleyways.) he remembers a calm quiet settling between you two, he remembers visiting an empty, overgrown park. most of all, he remembers the feeling of your company.

his chest doesn't feel as hollow, his thoughts don't race as rapidly. and, even though his eye sockets are still full and his muscles are still tense, there is a part of him that is happy to not feel alone. even if just for a day.

and this relief that you offer him eats away at him like a parasite. he locks eyes with you and you offer him a small, kind smile, fully content to sit in the comfortable silence you have both accustomed yourself to. reiner doesn't know why he's letting himself have an escape. he doesn't want to find solace, he doesn't want to feel at peace, he doesn't want the warmth of someone else being with him and not expecting anything of him. he is guilty. in his head, he should always remain guilty, no matter the pain or the agony. no matter how dark the circles under his eyes become, or how tight his jaw clenches.

but, at this moment, he brings himself to ignore his self-condemnation as he watches you raise your glass once more to your lips. he doesn't know if it's just because you are a person, if anyone would have done, if it's because you seem like you would like the company too or if it's something particular about you that makes him want to stay. that makes him feel like it doesn't matter whether or not he deserves to stay. but he can't believe he had gone this entire time without the presence of this other someone with him.

"are you okay?" you ask him, noticing him slowly losing himself in his thoughts. reiner snaps out of his conflicted daze and loosens his tight grip on his glass.

"yeah, thinking about how they're going to beat my ass for not showing up at HQ today," he jokes, offering a cheeky grin. you laugh, pretending not to notice his genuine concern over the issue,"i-"

"reiner," a soft voice interrupts. a woman with dark, raven hair and large deep eyes slowly approaches the two of you on crutches. she dons the same uniform as reiner (the same off-white jacket and red armband, reiner's jacket is currently bundled up on the stool next to him), and reiner feels his grip on his glass tighten again.

"pieck," reiner responds, suddenly aware that his earlier joke is probably the reality. pieck smiles softly at him, and he knows that she holds no contempt for his absence today. but, that doesn't make the bundle of anxiety brewing in his stomach any less.

"where were you today? everyone was wondering where you'd gone off to," pieck slightly leans on her crutches, her head tilting to the side as she questions reiner good-naturedly.

"i..." reiner trails off. he can't find the words. how can he say that, hours ago, he had unconsciously made the decision that spending an entire day mostly in silence with a stanger he had just met seemed like more of a pressing matter than his duties to marley. as he struggles to find the words to express himself, pieck spares you a glance, finally taking note of your presence. she doesn't introduce herself, instead content to offer you another warm smile in greeting.

"maybe you should get home, yeah?" pieck suggests. behind her kind voice and sympathetic eyes, reiner easily recognises the sense of urgency in her words. it's a warning. he should probably get an early night's sleep before his attempts to offer a multitude of excuses when he goes into HQ the next morning. also, knowing pieck is here, it would be safe to assume that porco isn't far off. reiner had already pictured his smug face when he sees him tomorrow, probably feeling like his superiority over reiner had once again been proven. if porco finds him here, in this bar, reiner would never hear the end of it. it would just be another reason for porco to assert the fact that between them, he was the warrior and reiner was the coward. and even though reiner doesn't necessarily disagree (he doesn't really have the energy to think about it anymore), it doesn't mean he's particularly looking forward to it.

"yeah," reiner replies, nodding thankfully at pieck. pieck nods back and raises a hand from her left crutch, waving goodbye before going back to her table. but, she stops in her tracks and turns her head back, "don't worry, by the way. porco hasn't seen you." with that, she turns back and makes her way back to her table. reiner is thankful for her decency.

he scrapes back the bar stool and begins to stand up, getting ready to leave. but, as he reaches for his jacket, his vision blurs. you watch as reiner slightly stumbles forward, grabbing onto the bar stool for support. how many refills has he had?

he seems fine enough to speak normally, but as you watch him rapidly blink his eyes to regain his composure, you stand up, grab his jacket from the seat, and tug at his sleeve as you make your way to the exit of the bar. he seems okay now, walking normally behind you and reaching for his jacket from your grasp. once you finally leave the busy bar, the chilly night air meets your warm faces and the glow of the orange lighting inside reflects off your skin. reiner quickly pulls his jacket on and turns to you. you let go of his shirt sleeve that you didn't realise you were still holding.

"you don't have to leave with me," he says. in truth, he doesn't want to allow himself to be in your company anymore. this was just a break. a day where he could forget everything that he had to do and be, and it took all of his will to reject the consolation your presence offered. the reality was grim and brutal, and even if it was a reality where he was condemned to eternal guilt, it was still reality.

"i don't particularly want to be left alone in a bar," you say, already beginning to slowly make your way down the street. reiner tries to ignore the small relief he feels in knowing that you won't leave yet. that you don't want to leave yet. it was starting to prove tiring having to drag himself back to the guilt he felt lost without.

"do you live far? i can walk you back first," he says, sidling up next to you on the footpath. god, he was pathetic. for someone actively trying to isolate himself, he sure did manage to find every excuse to spend more time with you.

"i live on just the other side of market square," you say, recalling reiner telling you where his family home was, "it's close to yours. i'm walking you back first." in reiner's stumbled state (even though he had all but regained his composure now), you don't feel right making him walk you home and then himself. at least, that's the excuse you were telling yourself. in reality, you don't want to be alone. you're not ready to say goodbye. when reiner hears your adamance, he can't help but smile. he's too tired to argue, instead just humming in confirmation.

"are you going to be in much trouble tomorrow?" you ask. reiner turns his head towards you, and even though he had looked at you many times already, he never seems to get over the initial shock of someone else being there with him.

"it'll be fine," he says (he hopes.) maybe commander magath will just chalk it up to another tired day of being a warrior? maybe zeke had offered magath some sort of excuse in reiner's absence? maybe porco had shut the fuck up and not encouraged retribution for reiner's slight insubordination? reiner knows that you can tell from his clenched fists that he's lying and that he has no idea what's going to happen. but, he's grateful that you don't make an attempt to address this. reiner wonders if you know that he doesn't regret it.

"i'm guessing you have an early morning then?" you say, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jacket as the temperature of the night drops.

"ha," reiner laughs drily, "it's always an early morning." he watches you laugh at his disdain, the corners of his mouth curling upwards, "you as well?"

"yeah. i think i'm delivering papers tomorrow," you respond. you had told reiner that you worked as an assistant for the newspaper. the manager was an old man. he was kind, but you often found yourself doing a bunch of odd jobs that were either his responsibility or the requirement of someone he had yet to hire.

"do you have a permit to leave the internment zone for that?" reiner says without realising. the words are tumbling out of his mouth as soon as he thinks of them, and it scares him. he had spent years in paradis having to carefully think of everything before he said it, and now the words were just escaping his mouth and he had no restraint.

"yeah, just for an hour on the specific delivery days. we only really get delivery requests from the marleyan soldiers living just outside the fence." reiner nods.

"you should deliver a paper to us," reiner feels that he basically blurted that out and tries to save himself, "to HQ i mean."

"i didn't realise the people the paper is usually about took an interest in reading it," you joke. you're already planning your route to the warrior unit HQ, already planning what you're going to say to reiner when you deliver. even though it's just a suggestion on his behalf, you can feel the delight rushing through your body at some sort of insinuation that he wants to see you again. reiner chuckles at your comment, knowing full well that he's probably not going to read that paper and he'll probably just toss it off to zeke (if he doesn't end up spending the whole day being reprimanded for his antics.)

god, he can't stand himself. how can he ask to see you again? what's wrong with him? is he seriously so pathetic that after one day of enjoying someone else's company other than the warrior unit and the candidates (who, even though he appreciates them, are just a constant reminder of his mistakes and shortcomings and everything he fails to be) he can't go on without it? even though you hadn't given a straight answer, he can't ignore the feeling of blood rushing to his cheeks at the thought of seeing you again, no matter how hard he tries to pull himself together and scold himself for being such a half-assed piece of shit.

before he realises, his vision is blurring again and he's stumbling forward. instinctively, you reach out and grab his upper arm. your hand wraps around it, steadying him in place, and you didn't expect him to be so...warm. is that a titan shifter thing?

reiner mumbles a quiet 'thanks' in embarrassment and continues walking on. but, your grip on his arm never loosens and reiner realises (rather embarrassed with the fact that this is something he considers worth realising) that, other than the odd tug to his sleeve to beckon him forward, this is the first time you have actually touched him. his muscles relax under your hand. and it scares him.

reiner slightly pulls away at your grasp, pulling down at the armband on his opposite arm as an excuse to distance himself. he doesn't know why he's doing this (yes i do, he thinks, coward. you don't deserve this.) without thinking, he shrugs off his jacket and places it around your shoulders, his hands slightly brushing against your neck. even though he's warm, goosebumps form under his fleeting touch and you watch as he puts his armband back onto his arm.

"you looked cold," he says curtly, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking away. he realises that, in an attempt to use taking off his coat as an excuse to distance himself from your grip, he managed to just end up being closer to you. you can't help but smile as he tries to avoid your gaze.

a few more minutes pass, and you both find yourself outside reiner's house. reiner turns to you, opening his mouth and about to bid you goodbye, ready to spend the night wondering how he let a simple conversation at a bench this morning get this far.

"reiner," you say, before he can say anything. "i..." as you look at him, you realise how bad you don't want to say goodbye. and maybe it's just the fact that he really doesn't know you that well, or that if you really wanted to, you could very well ignore him for the rest of your life if things went wrong. or maybe it's the fact that you had lied earlier, and you don't actually live on the other side of market square, but the complete opposite direction that you had started walking from the bar, and if you said goodbye now you'd have to walk back all the way by yourself. alone.

alone.

"yeah?" reiner says, hand on the door knob, eager to get inside. he doesn't want to leave. really. it seems like he does, but the longer he stays out here, with you wearing his jacket and struggling to make the words come out of your mouth, the more he has to think about a life he can probably never have. but, what you say next takes him a minute to register, and takes you a minute to realise has actually come out of your mouth.

"can i...can i stay?"

#attack on titan #aot #shingeki no kyojin #aot x reader #aot fic #snk #reiner x reader #reiner fluff #reiner braun x reader #reiner fic #reiner braun #reiner brainrot

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bigfrozenfan-fanfics · 3 years ago

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Chapter 05 - Elsa's excursion

Links: Chapter overview, Character list, Map, Glossar Rating: M over all Publishing cycle: each Friday on (link)

Remarks: all my chapters contain carefully selected music tracks. It’s your own decision if you want to use them or not while reading. The purpose is to musically support the respective mood of the plot. If you can please use a browser for reading (not the Tumblr app) due to the text formatting.

youtube

Joná went to his little boat and pondered what had happened. He just wanted to help and hoped that Yelana would do something about it. Instead, she asked him to keep everything secret. He shrugged his shoulders and bent over the edge of the boat to get his catch out. Still thinking she already knew what to do, he turned with his full basket and froze. Behind him some men from the village had gathered and looked at him piercingly.

“Um ... why are you standing there staring at me like that? Is something going on?” he asked and put the basket down.

“We were just about to ask you that,” said the one in front, who had obviously led the men here. “We noticed everything earlier and wondered if you would tell us what you had so urgently to tell Yelana.” He crossed his arms and looked at Joná waiting.

Joná swallowed. He remembered what she had told him and didn't know how to begin. “Um ... well ... I was just so excited because ... because the fish I had on the line today are so big. One of them almost pulled me over the edge of the boat.”

The man in front of him cast a telling glance at his basket and then looked at him again with raised eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

“Not that one, no. But the one fish I was going to pull into the boat was,” said Joná, who noticed this look. “Really, I did. They were just too heavy for me and were tearing the string.”

A few moments passed, and the man finally nodded, “Well, we know your fish stories good enough. But don't you think you might have overdone it a little today?”

Joná sighed and let his shoulders sink. “Yes, maybe you are right. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to scare anyone.”

“Let's go, men.” They all turned around and walked slowly back to camp, some of them looking disappointed. But the leader of the group said quietly, “There's something he's not telling us. I don't buy that story. Not that I ever did, but ... ”

“Did you notice his nervous look and how insecure he was this time?” one of the men asked quietly and looked at him from the side.

He nodded, “Indeed.”

~~~

Elsa had been lying quietly on her bed for a long time, listening to the noises coming in from outside. It sounded very busy and once she heard a loud shouting and a name. Yelana. She didn't know this person, but she seemed to hold an important position. After that it was quiet again and she only heard a few birds chirping. A ray of sunlight came in from above and blinded her. She turned her head to the side and her eyes fell on the bundle of clothes next to her. Somehow she had had enough of just lying around here idly. She wanted to get out and look around.

Elsa bent her knees to see how far she was able to stand up. It still hurt a little, but it worked surprisingly well. She pushed the fur to the side and did stretching exercises with her legs, slowly and alternately. After some time she carefully sat up and bent over to massage her thighs and calves. A long blonde strand of hair fell into her face. “Oh ...,” she said in surprise and reached behind her head to pull more of her hair forward. She felt and looked at it. “I'd love to know what I look like,” she murmured and then continued to put her plan into action.

Finally she turned and let her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. She stood up, or at least tried to, because her strength was not enough and she sank back onto the bed. But Elsa didn't want to give up so quickly and pulled the wooden stool in front of her to support herself. After two attempts, she finally stood there a little shaky and made a satisfied sound. Then she picked up her clothes and slipped the leather tunic over her head. She touched the material. It was a bit rough, but very soft and felt a bit cool on her skin. She looked at the pants and sat down again to slip them over her legs, slowly stood up again and pulled them up. Everything fit her perfectly. Finally she put on the belt and slipped into the boots. Now she was ready for her first excursion and started to move slowly.

~~~

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Honeymaren had nothing else to do at the moment and therefore shuffled around the camp a bit bored and lost in thought with her head lowered. Unconsciously she took the way towards Elsa's kota. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed how the flap of one of the huts was pressed open. She looked over and couldn't believe her eyes. Elsa stepped straight out and kept herself wobbly on her feet. She looked around curiously and their eyes met. Elsa smiled at her and took a hesitant step forward, but almost fell over and held on to the edge of the entrance just in time. Honeymaren did not hesitate for a second and rushed to her to help.

“Careful, you're still too weak and you might hurt yourself in the fall. Let me help you.” She took Elsa's hand and put one arm around her shoulder to support her.

“Thank you. I just couldn't stand it in there anymore and had to try to get out.”

“I can understand that. I guess that's what I'd do. Although ... nothing like that has ever happened to me, so I don't know what ...” She bit her lip.

Elsa looked at her and said, “All right, it hasn't happened to me either ... I think.” She put on a crooked smile.

Honeymaren nodded, looked down at her and then smiled and said, “The Northuldra clothes look pretty good on you.”

“Thanks. It feels very comfortable too. What's your name anyway?”

“I'm Honeymaren.”

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. “We know each other, right? I'm sorry if I can't remember anything about it.”

Honeymaren felt her heartbeat accelerate. Before all this happened to her, Elsa had always been so distant, almost unapproachable, and with her task as Fifth Spirit, she had rarely been seen in camp lately. Now would actually be the perfect opportunity to change this. But was she allowed to do that? It would amount to a lie. She hesitated.

“Yes, we know each other ... quite well.”

Elsa briefly squeezed Honeymaren's hand and sighed, “I hope I'll be able to remember this soon. Will you help me to look around a bit and explore everything? I am very curious.”

“I'd love to. I already know where we could go first.”

They walked with slow steps and she helped Elsa to keep her balance. She had never been so close to Elsa before; Honeymaren thought to herself. It was kind of exciting. Before Elsa promised to free the Northuldra from the impenetrable mist wall on that memorable evening, Honeymaren didn't know very much, trapped in this small world. She was born into this world as one of the few children and there were only a handful in her age with whom she could do something. The few of them were playful boys who were either too simple-minded or interested in other things. So she grew up, mostly alone with herself and her thoughts, only with her somewhat jumpy brother Ryder, to whom the reindeer meant more than anything else. Otherwise, it was their leader Yelana who had been her life anchor and she learned a lot from her, especially about the past of her tribe and its values.

At some point they finally reached the edge of the forest and stepped out onto a narrow strip of sand beach bathed in sunlight.

“This is one of the few beautiful places here by the sea, the rest is quite jagged and mostly full of big black pebbles,” Honeymaren said, and led Elsa to a smooth, almost white-washed piece of an old tree trunk that lay half buried in the sand.

They sat down on it and Elsa looked out into the distance. The sun sparkled on the softly rippling waves, which the gentle wind washed up and carried a salty scent. She took a deep breath, laid her head relaxed in the neck and closed her eyes. Honeymaren, on the other hand, did not care about the sea, because she had a completely different view in front of her eyes. She sat so close to Elsa that she could literally feel her and the temptation was great to gently stroke her long light hair. She felt the heat rising inside her, but she was not allowed to rush into anything and instead was content to admire Elsa's features, her light soft skin and the fine hairs on her gently curving neck. She sucked up every little detail and felt lost in time.

So she didn't even realise how Elsa finally opened her eyes again and noticed Honeymaren's behaviour out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and looked directly at her. “What are you doing?”

Honeymaren took a frightened breath and stammered, “I ... nothing, I ... I was just admiring your long hair. Sorry, Elsa, I ... didn't mean to ...” Her cheeks turned red and her eyes were wide open.

Elsa raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Tell me, Honeymaren, how well did we actually know each other?”

Honeymaren looked down somewhat bashfully, not daring to say anything. She thought feverishly about what she could answer instead. Then she simply changed the subject. She didn't know how Elsa would react and whether it was wise to mention it. Still, now they were sitting here already and the opportunity seemed appropriate.

“I don't know if I should say it ... but I guess sooner or later you'll find out from someone anyway. This is exactly where they found you a few days ago, unconscious and lying half in the water.”

Elsa didn't miss the change of subject, of course, and she wondered about it briefly, but the mention of her accident distracted her and she gazed thoughtfully out at sea.

“I'd love to know what exactly happened to me,” she remarked shortly after.

“Only Ahtohallan knows,” Honeymaren murmured, daring to look up again.

Elsa gave her a questioning look, “Ahtohallan? Who is that?”

“Um ... that's something we should probably talk about another time. Be patient, everything will be fine,” she replied, a bit unsettled, and placed her hand comfortingly on Elsa's arm. She glanced around her. “Dusk is starting to fall, and we should probably start making our way back. Don't want you to miss a root in the woods and trip.” She giggled and Elsa fell in laughing.

Then she stood up and extended a hand to Elsa to help her to her feet. The embarrassing moment from just now was over and Honeymaren was really glad about it. Both of them took one last look at the setting sun on the horizon and Honeymaren let herself be carried away to another remark because of it.

“I somehow knew you would love this place. I often come here myself when no one is around and the fishermen are all out at sea. Then I think about different things and have my peace. It's a really good spot to relax and enjoy nature.

“Yes, you're right, and that moment a minute ago really did me a lot of good. I thank you for it.”

“You're welcome, Elsa,” she replied with a smile.

“Tell me, Honeymaren, is there a creek around here with a quiet spot where you can see a reflection of yourself when you look into it? I'd like to know what I look like.”

Honeymaren looked at her in surprise, “As a matter of fact, yes, there is. Come, I'll take you there.” Honeymaren held out her hand and they both slowly and carefully made their way back.

~~~

Yelana sat on the furs on the floor in her hut and thought for some time. A Northuldra woman who wanted to know something she had sent her away again and said that she didn't have time at the moment and would visit her later. She saw Elsa lying on the beach in front of her eyes, shortly before all the spirits had disappeared and now this description. Of all people by this fisherman, who was known for his stories. But what he told was just too extraordinary this time and it all fitted in with recent events. However, Ahtohallan would never do such a thing, what could be the reason for that.

youtube

Except ... Yelana took a long scarf from one of her leather bags and put one end of it over her knee. Lost in thought, she stroked over the five symbols woven into it and stayed on the one in the middle. She had received this scarf from her mother when she was a child and has taken it out every time she has thought and searched for answers ever since. Maybe she hoped for some comfort and strength after her parents had died long ago. It was not unlike the shawl Queen Anna was carrying at the time, but it had a different colour and, of course, a different pattern on the edge that stood for the family that woven it for their descendants.

The fifth spirit before Elsa died during the events that ultimately trapped the forest for so long. She knew that for sure. But then who was it who had the powers of Ahtohallan and was responsible for all this today? There was no other fifth spirit, that much was certain. Could it be that ... no, that was impossible. Or could it? Could he have had a child? Then who was his mother? Someone in her tribe?

Slowly a certainty was forming in Yelana, one that she did not like at all.

~~~

He sat on the large rocky plateau near the river, far away from any Northuldra dwelling. Nobody dared to come here, because the earth giants slept here and did not like to be woken up. The place was perfectly chosen for his secret whereabouts.

He wore a dark, almost black fur coat, next to him were reindeer antlers, worked into a large fur hood. His eyes were closed, he breathed deeply and calmly in and out, and let his senses wander into the forest. He felt and he saw.

He could read their minds, at least of most of them. It was different from the nature spirits, where he never felt this limitation, but some people were strong-willed and it was as if he had to fight his way through a thick layer of snow. With very few of them he could only feel their emotions and nothing more ... like with this woman from the house of that hateful king, who was responsible for his father's death. Now, decades later, he still could see in his mind's eye that terrible image of how he found his father after the battle was over. As clearly as if it had been only yesterday. He was lying on the ground bleeding and not moving, peppered with half a dozen crossbow arrows.

His father had been his icon and was respected by all Northuldra, but also feared. For he had an ability that until now had only been considered a myth. He could change his shape. Therefore, some of the elders called him reverently Myandash, the reindeer shapeshifter, one of the centuries-old legends of his people. This legend said that his mother was a shaman and witch who could transform into a reindeer and that his father was a real reindeer. While Myandash was inside his tent he was a human, but he transformed as soon as he stepped outside. But the world in which he lived was that of the great reindeer spirit and not the realm of humans.

His father was therefore said to be the descendant of Myandash, who walked and protected among them. He had a great influence on the council of elders and his decisions were always taken seriously. But this was now in the past and he was alone. For decades he had hidden here and lived secluded from those of his people, learning, observing, training all his skills ... and planned his revenge. At least the king from the south was also taken to his death by someone from his tribe. But there were many of them, too many, and he hated them all.

He let his senses wander again and concentrated. Then he found a young Northuldra woman who had quite confusing feelings ... for another woman. He drew the corner of his mouth in disgust, but penetrated deeper into her mind and finally he saw through her eyes, saw what she saw, as clearly as if he would be present beside them ... a beach and that other woman sitting next to her. She was also wearing Northuldra clothes, but something was strange about her and different. Her hair, it was long and ...

He opened his eyes in horror. That couldn't be! How was that even possible? He had killed that blonde bitch, or at least made sure that she was doomed to drown in the dark sea and never appear again. How had she achieved her survival? He cursed. It hadn't been easy to take the magic away from her, or rather to make her forget all of it. It had cost him great effort and many preparations. To let Nokk dissolve under her was a piece of cake. After all, Nokk no longer had any connection to Ahtohallan, neither did the other nature spirits after he managed to establish the mist bell over the glacier.

It was all so well planned. But recently the Spirits had stopped obeying him and he assumed that it was directly related to Ahtohallan. But then he had been able to seize another of the secrets of Ahtohallan's power and outsmarted it. Only in this way had his plan become possible at all.

He would now have to try again. Then just by the conventional way. This time she wouldn't get away from him again, because now she had no magic and he was far superior to her both physically and mentally. It was just too bad that his father couldn't teach him to shape-shift anymore. He had simply been too young for that.

It was time to forge a new plan. One that was deadproof this time ... and he already knew approximately how he would proceed this time. It was time to act.

~~~

---

I hope you have enjoyed this chapter! Please leave a comment if you liked the story, I would be pleased to read your opinions, even criticisms. If you want to be tagged as soon I publish the next chapter please let me know.

Credits: Many thanks to HARU (@ xlayers) for the commissioned fantastic fanart!

Tagging: @karma26 @whether-near-to-me-or-far @annaofthenorthernlights @igotelsapregnanthelp

#frozen #frozen2 #frozen3 #fanfic #epic novel #the broken bridge #chapter 05 #bigfrozenfan

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monstersandmaw · 5 years ago

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Male werewolf x female reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This is a patreon tier reward, and I hope you enjoy my take on their big, dad-bodded werewolf OC, Lowe. It's been up on Patreon on early release and is now up on Tumblr for you to enjoy.

Content: playful banter, fluff, the briefest flicker of angst, some dominant tendencies in Lowe (it's not D/s though, for anyone who's not into that), and a reader who gives as good as she gets. Wordcount: 2792

___

As you yanked the door to the campus cafe open with about twice as much force as it needed, you caught a glimpse of Lowe working behind the counter. Of course, there was a massive queue at this time of day; at the midpoint of the afternoon when people were thinking about either finishing up early or knuckling down for a caffeine-fuelled all-nighter.

Engrossed as he’d looked in his work before, he glanced up as if he’d sensed your presence, his warm eyes flicked briefly in your direction as the door opened, and he offered you a quick, fond, twitch of the lips before turning back to the masterpiece of latte art in his hands. Even at that distance, you felt your body relaxing a little more around him. In the time since he’d made some playfully snarky comment about your Pokémon shirt a few months ago - which had, in fact, led to a joint outing on campus playing Pokémon Go together - you and he had fallen into an easy friendship.

You tried not to snarl softly to yourself as the woman at the front of the queue, old enough to be a post-grad perhaps, leaned on the counter and flirted openly with him, but at the end of the day, what claim did you have to him anyway? Lowe was your friend, and as much as you’d like to think you might be the tall, long-haired guy’s type (he was certainly yours, with that ‘powerful-yet-soft-around-the-edges’ dad bod he had going on, and that self-assured confidence that tipped just pleasantly shy of being arrogance), you couldn’t really be sure. After all, you’d seen him getting pretty close with a guy friend of his, so for all you knew, he wasn’t even interested in women, but you’d never really discussed that. The most personal things had got so far was Bloodborne bosses and beloved DnD characters, which was also fine.

The queue slowly dwindled in front of you, and when you stepped up to the counter, Lowe turned from the machine on the far counter and plonked a large cup down before your lips had even opened to begin your order. His grin was positively wolfish, all teeth and glinting eyes.

You pouted and snapped, “And what if I wanted a chai latte with soy milk today?”

He raised one thick eyebrow as he popped the takeaway lid onto the cup with a distractingly big hand, and said flatly, “You hate soy milk. Drink up, grumpy-guts. You’ll feel better…”

You huffed, took the cup off the counter, slapped the cash down just hard enough to make him chuckle and twitch another smile - damn the bastard looked pleased with himself and double-damn, if he didn’t look extra-specially good wearing that expression - and he announced to his colleague that he was going on break.

He joined you outside, tugging out one of the heavy, metal chairs for you without a word before taking a seat on the other side of the table.

Lowe closed his eyes, tipping his head back a little to feel the chilly late-spring breeze on his face. He looked good as he relaxed like that, with his long, thick, nut-brown hair tied back off his face with a few fluffy bits escaping at the front, and his big arms folded across his chest and resting on the slight paunch he had at the waist. Something about the thick, almost russet-brown scruff on his jaw made you want to touch it. Instead, you sipped your drink and sighed.

“Good?” he asked without moving or opening his eyes.

“You know it is, you cocky little shit,” you laughed. Banter with him was always so easy, and you gave as good as you got. “Thanks, by the way. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m a complete brat…”

He snorted and cracked an eye to look at you. The sun caught in his golden-brown iris and glinted softly like polished amber, and it honestly stole your breath for a moment. “How’s the course going?” he asked instead of teasing you any more. “You were pretty stressed about that assignment last time we talked.”

You rolled your eyes and puffed the air out of your chest, swiftly following it with some inarticulate grunt of despair. “It would be going a lot better if my roommate wasn’t also being such an inconsiderate asshole,” you snarled. “Seriously, I don’t think I can take the smell of weed or the late nights any more.”

He frowned. “Can’t you talk to someone about it?”

“Have done. Not sure I’ll have a roommate for much longer though… Missing classes and being constantly stoned must equal tanking grades, right?”

Lowe nodded but didn’t say anything for a while, watching as a gnoll and her girlfriend strolled past, hand in hand. The gnoll nuzzled her nose against the human’s ear and elicited a squawk that made her giggle in return. Eventually he said, “You free this weekend?”

Cocking your head to one side, you shrugged. “Hand-in is on Friday afternoon, so… yeah? I mean, I had just planned to sleep all day… why?”

He looked uncharacteristically apprehensive and chewed on the inside of his cheek before answering. “I was going to head up into the woods for the weekend. Camping. Wondered if you wanted to come too?”

“Camping?”

“Yeah…” he said, looking like he was regretting mentioning it now. “But if you don’t want to, it’s fine. I mean… you’ve earned your rest, and camping under the stars isn’t for everyone. Don’t feel like you have -”

“Shut up for a second, will you?” you laughed, and he drew up short and blinked, staring at you before laughing fondly. “I’ve actually never been camping. I’d love to go, as long as you don’t make me go for a ten mile hike as well…”

“Would I treat you like that?” he crooned and you rolled your eyes again and muttered something which you didn’t think he’d catch. Somehow, however, he did, and he barked a loud laugh, startling a cervitaur walking past with his grocery shopping in each hand. As Lowe turned to look at the cervitaur he’d surprised, you watched his eyes flare gold, almost unnaturally so. Perhaps it was just a trick of the sunlight at this angle. When he looked back at you, you missed what he said, staring at his eyes, which were now back to their normal, warm brown.

He murmured your name, sounding a little concerned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not a brat… not really…”

“Shut up,” you retorted, your tone carrying no venom. “And you know full well know I can be.”

That Thursday afternoon, your roommate moved out, finally expelled for drug use and selling to other students, and you fumigated the room as best you could, relieved at last. The second after you’d finished deep-cleaning everything, you texted Lowe and said, ‘So… I’m down a roommate now.’

‘You need me to help hide the body?’ he sent back immediately and you burst out laughing.

‘I love you, but no. It was expulsion rather than murder. I was kind of hoping you might want to move in instead?’ you sent, your heart in your mouth. He’d mentioned he was looking for a place closer to campus, and this could be perfect for him. If he was willing to have you as his roommate, of course.

‘Definitely interested. Can I think about it and let you know this weekend?’

That wasn’t a complete rebuttal, you figured. ‘Of course.’

‘Cheers. I’ll pick you up at ten on Saturday.’

True to his word, Lowe didn’t take you on a ten mile route march. He drove you up to the start of a wide, easy looking trail that was apparently only three miles up to the campsite, along a winding, inviting, grassy path. Despite looking maybe a little towards the less fit end of the scale, Lowe was four strides ahead of you in a matter of seconds. Realising this, he slowed, and you nudged him with your elbow.

“Thanks,” you said and he gave you one of his soft, secret smiles that you didn’t see very often.

He wasn’t particularly talkative as you made your way up the path, but the silence between you was easy, relaxing even.

“You’re such a cliche, you know that?” you laughed a little while later as you paused on a rock for a drink and to adjust the laces of your shoe.

Lowe scowled. “How?”

You stared pointedly at the penknife in his hand and the stick he’d picked up and had idly begun to whittle into a howling wolf in his big, strong hands, almost as if he’d not even realised he was doing it. Again, he surprised you by just shrugging a shoulder and turning back to it while you enjoyed the scene. He seemed a bit distracted somehow. When you moved on, he stashed it in his pocket.

Lowe carried literally everything, stowing your water bottle for the way up in the side pocket of his backpack, and even a two-person tent, food supplies for that evening and breakfast, and more water than you probably drank over the course of three days, and yet he still managed to arrive at the campsite as if he’d just strolled the length of one city block.

He impressed you again by lighting a fire and cooking a veritable feast for you both on a little makeshift grill, and he looked more than pleased with himself when you complimented him. “Don’t let it go to your big fat head,” you snickered and he growled playfully at you.

Quite literally growled.

The moment he’d done it, he went still, eyes wide, and even looked a little sick. “Shit,” he hissed.

“What?”

“I…” then his huge shoulders slumped despondently and he let out a long breath. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you. I mean, I’ve been meaning to tell you for… well, since we kind of became friends, really. But it never seemed… convenient…”

“Convenient to tell me what?”

He shuffled a bit and poked at the embers of the fire. Your stomach felt uneasy, and it had nothing to do with the inordinate amount of amazing food you’d just finished. “I…” he began, and then whispered, “Fuck it.” He looked you in the eye and said, “I’m not human. I’m a werewolf.”

You blinked. It didn’t totally surprise you, if you were honest. “Well, that… certainly makes one or two things add up…”

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

He turned his golden eyes away from you and poked a bit more at the smoldering, grey wood, making it crumble to fragile ashes. He did look a bit easier now though. “I figured… maybe you wouldn’t… that if you knew that I’m not human, you might not want me as your roommate anymore… It was stupid though, I know.”

“Lowe,” you said, more gently this time, reaching for his bare forearm where he’d cuffed his tartan sleeve up to his elbow. His skin was warm and his muscles tensed, hard as the earth beneath you as he waited for whatever you were going to say next. “You’ve become probably my best friend… There’s no one I’d rather be roommates with than you. Besides, who else is going to tolerate your Soulsborne marathons and hipster lumberjack wardrobe?”

A long, low growl emanated from him but it dissolved into laughter when he saw your expression and he shook his head. “I can’t believe I was so chicken about you knowing…”

“I can’t believe you looked like you pissed yourself a minute ago!”

His eyes flashed openly gold now and he huffed, “I did not…”

“You totally did. Anyway, I’m glad you told me. But you know that means I’m going to want to know all the details.”

“I think I’ll save that for another day,” he said as he reached for the s’mores beside him.

‘Another’ day turned out to be a week after you’d helped him move all his boxes into your room. He was lying on his back on his bed, his arms folded up behind his head, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out, foot dangling off the end of the mattress. You glanced across the room at him from where you had your laptop on your knees and your headphones on, working on the last tweaks of the next assignment due. He looked tense, even though he wasn’t really doing anything in particular.

Removing your headphones, you murmured, “Lowe? Everything alright?”

“Mmm,” he half growled. A moment later he heaved out a huge sigh and said, “No. Full moon’s tomorrow night. I always get kind of… cranky around now.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Whatever you’d thought he’d say, you hadn’t expected the long, low moan that escaped him. It was not an innocent noise. Breathing through his mouth in soft, quiet pants, he didn’t look at you, but you sensed that his eyes were glowing.

“Lowe?”

“No,” he said. “Not unless you want to take whatever this is between us somewhere else…”

You bit your lip. “You mean…?”

“It would probably take the edge off if we slept together, yes,” he said bluntly. “But if you don’t want that, then I’m hardly going to push…”

“I like it when you’re pushy,” you countered, setting your laptop aside and staring him in the eye.

His pupils blew wide and he raised his nose. “Fuck,” he cursed. “Oh… fuck, you’re beautiful.”

With a smile, you crossed the room to him as he sat up, watching your every move with unwavering, lupine focus. “Let me help you out, big guy,” you crooned playfully and he twitched his lip in a possessive snarl, eyes golden and locked on the curve of your neck.

“Last chance,” he said. “I don’t want you regretting crossing this line with me.”

“You’ve got super-human senses, Lowe,” you said, playing with the hem of your shirt. His gaze darted instantly to the movement, transfixed by the glimpse of skin beneath your top. “You must know how I feel about you by now…”

“Yes, but lusting after someone and doing something about it is different when they’re your friend… I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting pressure on you…”

In answer, you reached out and trailed your fingertips up his neck, scratching him a little bit and making him growl again, and as you finished with a single finger drawing a line up his throat and under his chin, he shivered, as if barely holding himself back. “Why don’t you put just the right amount pressure on me… here?” you said, licking your lips as you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs and running your palms over the softness of his stomach.

His jaw was soft, mouth open as he panted openly, and beneath you as you ground your hips to emphasise your question, you felt his hard cock.

A heartbeat later, he’d clamped his hands under your thighs and stood up. Lowe dropped you onto the bed with the perfect mix of recklessness and carefulness and lunged for you. He peppered and mouthed kisses down your neck, tugging at your skin with his canines, biting at your earlobe, his short beard burning and scratching your skin deliciously, and all the while he ground his cock against your thigh through his jeans.

It clearly wasn’t nearly enough, and it wasn’t long before you were both naked on his bed, and he had his mouth on you, his hands spreading your legs wide as he used the strength in his arms that his softer body belied. “Don’t come yet,” he rasped between strokes of his tongue. “Not til I say…”

“Oh,” you gasped, fighting the rising wave of heat that swept up your body, tingling under your skin, at that command. You tried, you really did, but in a mere few strokes of his tongue, you came with a cry against the heat of his mouth, bucking while he held you down and pulled you against his mouth to press his tongue tight against your throbbing clit.

When he pulled back, looking extremely smug about himself and his talents, you saw that his canines had lengthened and his features had become a little less… human.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, clearly still enjoying the taste of you on his lips.

“Will you hurry up and fuck me?” you pouted, and he snarled.

“Such a brat,” he laughed, but he didn’t waste any time either.

—

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#werewolf #male werewolf #werewolf x reader #exophilia #monster boyfriend #male werewolf x female reader

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 42: Sasha

Tim’s going to wear a hole in the floor of Rosie’s office if he’s not careful, Sasha thinks, pacing back and forth like this. Rosie watches him with undisguised interest. Martin watches too, his face pinched with concern and arms folded tightly over his chest, although Sasha doesn’t know if he’s more worried about Tim or Jon or both. She probably could Know, with a little effort, but she decides it doesn’t matter right then. She also doesn’t want to pry into her friends’ heads like that.

God, she wants a shower. She feels like she’s covered in some sort of thin, viscous oil, soaking into her skin and making her itch all over. Like just being in proximity to Elias Bouchard makes her dirty.

The worst of it is, he’s not wrong, exactly. Not about her, anyway.

She wonders if he regrets choosing Jon now. He’ll never admit it out loud, of course, but if it’s true that the only reason he chose Jon was because Jon was already marked by the Web, he must be looking at the four of them and wondering if she would have collected more marks faster had she been in charge.

You’re like Gertrude, she thinks idly, staring at the closed door between Rosie’s office and Elias’. She never hesitated to use the people around her, even the ones she cared about, if it served her purpose…

She blinks. Where did that come from?

She turns her attention from the door to Tim, his shoes squeaking on the floor as he turns at the end of his nineteenth cross of the office. Resolutely shutting the Eye out—which is a lot harder than it is anywhere else, and she wonders if that’s because the Head’s office is the locus of its power or just because she’s a little frayed right now—she studies his face and tries to decide if he’s angry or upset or some combination of the two. He definitely looks like he’s close to tears, but she can’t tell if it’s from frustration or from rage…or maybe guilt.

There’s guilt mingled with the worry in Martin’s eyes, too, and Sasha doesn’t need the Beholder to know why. I thought I heard you telling Jon you…smote it. Probably what Martin actually said was Jon Prime smote it and Elias, thankfully, didn’t hear properly or wasn’t paying enough attention. Or he can’t actually hear, per se, he just reads the lips of those around him and pieces it together from there. After all, he has Jonah Magnus’ eyes, not his ears or his tongue.

Still. They’ve got to be more careful.

Tim is passing the door for the twentieth time when it opens and Jon steps out, shutting it behind him with a tad unnecessary force. He looks tired and upset and slightly cranky—in fact, he looks exactly like he did the first few weeks in the Archives, when he was trying to be professional and irritated, or pretending to be irritated, at everything Martin did. Martin and Tim both start towards him, then stop, probably out of deference to Rosie’s presence.

“Let’s go,” he says shortly. “We have work to do.”

The other three fall into step behind him, like something of an honor guard. Fortunately, the only person they encounter on the way down to the Archives is Manal, who offers them a tentative smile as they pass and seems relieved when Martin, at least, automatically returns it. They reach the Archives without a word being spoken and cluster around the assistants’ desks, all of them seemingly at a loss for words.

Tim finally breaks the silence. “Now what?”

Jon looks down at his feet. Sasha thinks he’s embarrassed or ashamed or something until he says softly, “I hate to ask, but could one of you run home and get me some shoes?”

Sasha glances down, startled. She’s not sure how it didn’t occur to her that Jon is barefoot, but he doesn’t even have a pair of socks shielding his feet from the ground. Walking around the Institute is probably only possible because of the diligence of the cleaning crew, but no way will he be able to make it home if Tim didn’t drive today, unless the other two carry him. And his feet must be cold.

Martin and Tim exchange looks. Sasha doesn’t have to be able to read minds to know that neither of them really wants to be away from Jon right now. Rather than force either of them into martyrdom, she says, “If one of you will lend me your keys, I’ll do it.”

The surprise on Tim and Martin’s faces is only equaled by the sheer gratitude on Jon’s, which makes Sasha realize that I hate to ask didn’t mean I hate to impose but rather I don’t want either one of you out of my sight right now. Instead of commenting on it, she just holds out her hand.

Martin recovers first, reaches under his shirt, and pulls out a well-worn lanyard that was probably once a vibrant neon rainbow with a key on the end. He lays it in her hand. “Thanks, Sash.”

“Sure.” Sasha loops the lanyard around her hand and smiles. “Be right back.”

The sun is making a pathetic attempt to come out, but for the most part, it’s the same as it’s been all day. There aren’t many people about, which is probably a good thing, because Sasha uses the opportunity to test the range of her Knowing ability—seeing how far away from someone she can be and still pluck a secret from their minds. It’s extremely invasive, which Martin will probably ream her out for when he finds out, and it’s feeding into the Eye, which Tim will probably ream her out for, and honestly both of them should. But she does it anyway. Partly because she’s hoping that if she does it, she won’t have so much of an urge to read her friends’ minds—it seems ruder to steal from them than from strangers, and she knows that’s not a good sign—but mostly because it keeps her mind off of thinking too hard about Jon’s current state, or what Elias might have said to him when they weren’t there, or the implications of Martin still wearing a single key around his neck the way he probably did when he was a small child left to fend for himself by a father who cared too much and a mother who didn’t care at all.

Despite the fact that she’s still wearing kitten heels and a pencil skirt, she manages to get to the house, retrieve a pair of shoes from Jon’s room, and get back to the Archives in about forty-five minutes. She enters to find Jon sitting on the edge of Martin’s desk, cradling a steaming mug of tea; Tim sits backwards in his chair, arms folded and chin resting on them, while Martin sits more or less normally. They’re talking quietly, but break off and look up when Sasha comes in.

“Hope these are actually yours,” Sasha says, handing Jon the pair of trainers she brought and a pair of socks. “Everything in the closet looked too small for them. And here’s your key back, Martin.”

“Thanks.” Martin slips the lanyard around his neck and tucks it under his sweater again.

“Martin and Tim have just been catching me up on your research for the last two weeks,” Jon tells her, setting down his mug and contorting to put on the socks. “I—I am sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Not like you asked to get kidnapped,” Sasha points out. “And it’s not like you haven’t made sure we know our jobs.”

Jon snorts. “Tell that to Elias. He seems to think you need…guidance.”

Tim’s eyes spark. “He said that, did he?”

Sasha purses her lips in thought for a moment. There’s a lot they need to discuss, but they’ll never be able to be sure, now, that they aren’t being watched. She knows it takes effort for Elias to actually see what’s going on in the Archives, and she’s pretty sure that up until now he’s mostly focused on Jon and ignored the other three, but she doubts that’s the case any longer. Unless they can time their talks with his schedule, to be sure he doesn’t have the attention to spare them…

Curiosity, a desire to experiment, overcomes caution for a minute, and she casts her mind up into the Institute, reaching for that buzzing feeling she gets when there’s a secret to be known. And she aims it at Elias’ office. She doesn’t expect it to work, not really, but—

Ah.

Sasha gasps. Her knees buckle with the sudden rush of energy leaving her, and she catches herself on the edge of the desk. Tim and Martin both jump to their feet, but she waves them off. “Fine. I’m fine.”

She had it. Just for a second, a momentary brush, a quick surface skim, withdrawn hastily before his attention can be caught and focused, but she actually did it. She’s amazed at her own audacity and astonished at her good luck…and aware that, while she still has to be wary of the information she just obtained, there’s a good chance it’s accurate.

“Tunnels?” she suggests, pointing at the trapdoor. They may not have time for a longer discussion.

Thankfully, the boys don’t object or question her. Jon finishes tying his shoes and slides off the desk, and the four of them hasten down the steps to the tunnels. Sasha gets the usual queer, dizzy feeling of being cut off from the Eye—worse than usual, but then, she is pushing the boundaries of her abilities—but it’s a relief for once, because it does at least mean Elias isn’t watching them.

At the foot of the steps, she stops and turns to look back at the others. “Sorry for being so abrupt, but we didn’t have much time. I figured you could get their statement down here without Elias overhearing, and…we can talk.”

“Probably wise,” Jon admits. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Bit tired.” Sasha isn’t about to admit that she needs Tim and Martin’s statement, probably as much as Jon does. Not yet. “Come on, let’s see if the Primes are awake.”

She leads them to the room the Primes usually stay in and knocks on the door. “It’s us. Are you decent?”

“Come in,” Jon Prime’s voice calls back.

Sasha pushes the door open. They’ve obviously been having breakfast, which Sasha almost feels guilty for interrupting, but it does appear they’re almost done. Jon Prime looks wary. “Is everything all right?”

“Yep. Look what the cat dragged in.” Unable to hold back a grin, Sasha steps into the room and out of the way, exposing Jon.

Jon Prime makes a noise somewhere between surprise and relief. In an instant, he’s up and wrapping Jon in a hug. Jon looks momentarily startled, then hugs him back.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t—I couldn’t See you.” Jon Prime takes a half-step back and studies Jon anxiously. “Are you—never mind, I know how you’ll answer that. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Jon answers. “On edge. Scared to hell and gone. You know, the usual.” He pauses. “But glad to be back.”

At the sound of Jon’s voice, Martin Prime smiles, looking relieved, and gets to his feet. Jon’s a little more hesitant to accept his hug, to Sasha’s eyes, but he does anyway. “When did you get back?”

“Oh—an hour ago? Hour and a half?” Jon shrugs. “Two at most. Michael—well, not Michael anymore. Michael tried to kill me but couldn’t…I’m sure you know that story.”

“Intimately,” Jon Prime confirms. “So Helen took over, did she?”

“Yes. Brought me back to the Archives.” Jon sighs heavily. “I had maybe five minutes of peace to enjoy being home and—and safe before Elias called us up to his office.”

Martin Prime’s smile melts immediately. “What did he want?”

“To be a smug bastard,” Tim says.

Jon Prime looks from one to the other. “Why don’t you explain?”

“No need.” Sasha leans over and reaches into Jon’s pocket. Before he can do more than flinch, she pulls out her tape recorder and waves it at them with a smirk. “Say hello to my little friend.”

“What—how did you—” Jon stares at it.

“I still had it on hand from lunch. Didn’t end up using it, the guy didn’t have anything helpful, he just wanted an excuse to flirt, so I knew there was nothing on it. I figured if Elias talked to anyone alone, it would be you, so I slipped it in your pocket just before we went in. Just, you know, in case we needed evidence later. Figured if it was important, whatever’s behind these things would switch it on.” Sasha peers through the window at the tape. “Looks like I was right.”

“You, Sasha James, are positively devious.” Tim’s slight frown indicates he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Sasha starts the tape rewinding. “While we wait for this to spool back, Jon, do you want to try and get their statement about Friday? You know, so Elias doesn’t find out about these two?”

Martin Prime tilts his head to one side, then turns and hesitantly reaches out with a foot, kicking something hard and plastic on the floor. “I think that’s a yes.”

Sure enough, a battered tape recorder sits and waits. Jon sighs and nods. “Can’t hurt, I suppose.”

They settle down in a lopsided circle, and Jon Prime slides the tape recorder over so it sits between Jon, Tim, and Martin. Jon takes a deep breath. “Statement of Martin Blackwood and Tim Stoker, Archival assistants at the Magnus Institute, regarding the thing that was not Diana Caxton. Recorded direct from subjects—” He hesitates.

Sasha realizes Jon has probably lost track of time. Softly, Martin says, “Seventh of March, 2017.”

“Statement begins.” Jon takes Martin’s hand on one side and Tim’s on the other. “Whenever you think you’re ready.”

It’s so much more than the bare-bones description they gave her first thing that morning, and Sasha listens intently, her own recorder forgotten. Martin’s remembered fear—for himself, for Tim, for the two students—is an almost tangible thing, like hot liquid running down her throat, filling her. When Tim describes Jon Prime overpowering the Not-Diana, it suddenly gets so much more intense. Her whole body thrums with energy.

It’s intoxicating.

“Statement ends,” Jon says, once Tim falls silent. He squeezes their hands tightly, seemingly without being aware he’s doing it. “God.”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees. “It was—it was a lot.”

“I’m impressed you managed to not tell Elias about any of that when he asked,” Jon mutters.

“Well, I mean, I didn’t lie. Not really. I did have my eyes closed the whole time, so it’s not like I saw any of that.” Martin cocks his head at Tim. “And we didn’t really talk about it over the weekend or anything.”

“I spent most of it passed out,” Tim tells Jon. “All that…it took a lot out of me. We ended up listening to one of the tapes—uh, it was Mr. Skinner’s statement, about the forest in Wales, actually.”

“I suppose it was inevitable,” Jon Prime murmurs. “I am sorry, Tim. I didn’t—I’ve never been around anyone else with Beholding powers, not really, so I had no idea how me using them would affect any of you.”

“It didn’t affect Martin,” Tim points out. “It’s just because mine relies on being able to see the marks and the—I guess it’s the power of the fears, too. There was just so much energy being drawn on, and I was so strung out I couldn’t stop it. Honestly, I don’t normally—we’re cut off from the Eye down here, I didn’t think my abilities would work.”

“I should have warned you that they do. Just…not always as well. They’re a bit easier to control, I suppose.” Jon Prime runs a hand through his hair. “Are you all right now?”

“Yeah,” Tim says softly, but he’s looking at Jon, not at Jon Prime, and Sasha knows with a surety that has nothing to do with the Beholder that he can only say that because Jon’s back. The expression on Martin’s face says the same. He clears his throat and adds, “Like I said, I spent most of the weekend sleeping. We took it easy on Sunday.”

Martin nods. “We were mostly okay today. Little bit of a headache when Helen brought Jon back, but that wasn’t so bad, really. Not…you know, not like actually being in those corridors.”

Jon shudders. “God, that was…”

Martin Prime hums in agreement. “Trust me, not being able to see it doesn’t make it that much better.”

Jon Prime wraps his arm around Martin Prime’s shoulder; Martin Prime responds in kind, and the two lean into each other, as if they know they’re going to need the strength from one another in a moment. “Sasha, has that tape rewound all the way yet?”

Sasha starts. She’s honestly forgotten about it, but glancing down, she sees that all the buttons are popped out. “Oh! Yes, it’s—it’s ready. Are you?”

“As we’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Sasha pushes the PLAY button and slides the recorder to the middle of the circle, and their boss’s smooth, oily voice oozes into the room. As the conversation continues, she watches the Primes’ faces. Jon Prime goes steadily more ashen, while Martin Prime’s goes from red to purple to nearly black. Tim and Martin are largely silent, but when they get to the part none of them were in the office for, all the color drains out of Martin’s face and Tim covers his mouth with his free hand and turns away.

The tape clicks off. There’s a moment of silence before Martin Prime chokes out, “That bastard.”

“God,” Jon Prime whispers. “I never—I didn’t—” He closes his eyes and turns his head, half-burying his face in Martin Prime’s chest. The simple movement seems to drain a lot of the rage out of Martin Prime; the color recedes in a blotchy fashion from his cheeks, and he wraps both arms around Jon Prime, cradling him protectively. It almost makes Sasha smile—Jon Prime is objectively one of the most powerful beings in the world, and Martin Prime still feels like he needs to protect him, or even like he can. Then again, from the way Jon Prime curls into him, it’s pretty clear that Jon Prime feels that way, too. “He never directly threatened any of you. Not to me. I-I don’t think he—when he told me to consider people things to be used, it wasn’t to my face. It never occurred to me that he might have hurt you to get me to comply.”

“Jon, why do you think he dangled me as bait in front of Peter Lukas?” Martin Prime sounds bitter and angry, but he softens when Jon Prime flinches against him. “Of course he knew you cared. It’s why he told you not to bring Tim to the Unknowing, because he knew that would spur both of you into letting Tim go, and he could play on your guilt over whatever happened after. Everything he did, at every turn, was directly targeted at getting you to step up and get marked, because he knew you would do anything to save us.” He sighs heavily. “I just—never expected to hear him say it.”

Tim snorted. “I should have just shot him when I had the chance.”

“No,” Sasha and Jon Prime say in unison, Jon Prime’s head jerking off Martin Prime’s shoulder, eyes wide with fear.

“You believe him, then?” Jon says quietly. “He really is—killing him will kill all of us, too?”

“I still can’t Know that,” Jon Prime admits. “But—it’s not a risk I would want to take. Not until—I mean, we have a plan. It just…needs work. I think. But I’m still not sure if killing him would actually trigger some sort of supernatural dead-man switch.”

Sasha shifts a bit. The urge to keep her secrets is still strong—but Elias’ taunt rings in her ears, and she knows she has to push past that. She can’t be what he expects her to be. What he groomed her to be, in a sense.

“Actually,” she says, “according to my research, it won’t.”

Five heads snap around to look at her in surprise. Martin Prime is the one to finally speak. “What do you mean?”

Sasha smiles mischievously. Now that she’s said the first part, the idea of sharing the rest of it seems…positively gleeful. Because in a way, it’s spilling a secret Jonah Magnus thought could never be known. “I’ve been looking in to the heads of the Institute, you know that. Trying to figure out how he picked his successors, what the criteria were for it, that sort of thing. And the one that bothered me most was Thomas Fitzwalter, the fourth Head. He was only in charge for a few months—he became head of the Institute in September of 1940, then was killed in a bomb attack in March of 1941. It always struck me as odd that the Eye didn’t warn him about the bomb.”

“It can’t really see the future,” Jon Prime says, but he sounds a bit uncertain.

“No, I know that, but then I learned something else interesting. The previous head of the Institute, Virgil Warrington, was found dead in his office, by Fitzwalter, who just sort of assumed the position of Head because nobody else really wanted it at that time.” Sasha runs a finger over the edge of her tape recorder. “It took me a while to find the details. I mean, it was the middle of the Blitz, there was a lot going on, and obviously it was a lot easier to bury details and destroy records back then than it is now. But—well, I actually got Basira and Daisy involved. I didn’t tell them why, obviously, but I’d mentioned to Basira what I was looking into, and it turns out she really likes that sort of stuff. And since she’s not police anymore, I reckon she needed a project, something to focus on to keep from going mad. Anyway, point is, they were able to find a police report that escaped destruction, deliberate or otherwise, and it turns out Warrington didn’t die of heart failure or a stroke or anything. I mean, it was probably what they told people, he was quite elderly, but…”

“But?” Jon prompts.

Sasha’s grin broadens. “He was murdered. Shot, actually. According to the report, it was a Luger P308, which was a primarily German model, so the official unofficial report is that he was probably killed by a fifth column agent. But there was never any evidence, any proof. Even the type of gun used—they didn’t exactly do ballistics reports at the time, they would have just said he was shot with some kind of pistol. The information on the exact model came from Thomas Fitzwalter.”

“So you think—” Tim begins.

“I think he killed Virgil Warrington. Who knows, maybe he was a German spy. Maybe he killed Warrington because the Germans had decided that the knowledge in the Institute was too dangerous to be allowed, or because Fitzwalter figured out that Warrington could read minds, or maybe Warrington tried to blackmail him knowing Fitzwalter was a spy and Fitzwalter killed him to keep him from talking.” Sasha’s mind is racing, and she’s getting more and more excited as she talks. “Or Fitzwalter was exactly who he seemed to be and just got frustrated and angry with Warrington, or the whole situation. It’s probably telling that Thomas Fitzwalter, before he became the Head, was actually an Archival assistant.”

“Which means he was trapped, too,” Martin says, realization dawning in his eyes.

“Mm-hmm. But anyway, my theory is that Fitzwalter killed Warrington, and since he was the only one around, Jonah Magnus’ eyes…somehow got transferred into Fitzwalter’s head. I don’t know how that works.” Sasha looks quizzically at Jon Prime.

“I don’t know, either, and I have no desire to,” Jon Prime says, running a hand over his eyes. “But—that’s actually not a bad theory. And you think that’s why he didn’t last long?”

Sasha nods. “Yes. I think Fitzwalter wasn’t his choice for a successor, Richard Mendelson was, but Fitzwalter was there when he died, so the transfer was automatic. And for whatever reason, he couldn’t just do the transfer from there to Mendelson. Maybe he just wanted it to look natural. Which means he probably did know the bomb was about to hit, and he deliberately held back from going into a shelter.”

Tim looks like he’s about to be sick. “So if I had shot him…”

“He’d have claimed one of us as his new body. Don’t know which. I don’t know if he can direct it with that few people in the room or if it’s just whoever is nearest or what.” Sasha digs her fingernails into her palms to keep herself grounded. Trying to pluck that from their boss’s brain probably won’t work, and it will be far too risky anyway. It might overload her own brain to the point of killing her, and the surge of power might hurt the others, too. But oh, she almost hurts with the desire to try.

“But nobody else would have died.”

“I doubt that,” Martin Prime says. There’s still residual anger in his voice. “If you’re right, then no, he’s not a literal dead-man switch. I’ve kind of had my doubts about that anyway, ever since Jon mentioned that Archival assistants can leave if the Archivist dies. Especially since staff outside the Archives can quit. Nobody is actually bound to the Institute. Most of the staff can come and go as they please, and the Archival assistants are bound to the Archivist, or maybe to the Archives. Doesn’t quite matter, they’re technically the same thing. But killing Elias probably wouldn’t cause a—a mass extinction event or anything. Especially if Fitzwalter murdering Warrington didn’t wipe out the whole Institute staff in one go.” He takes a deep breath. “But you really think Jonah Magnus would have let the rest of you live? Especially if he gets the memories of whichever body he inhabits? You’d all know too much. Plans or no plans, you’d have to die.”

Jon Prime inhales sharply and covers his mouth with one hand. “Oh, God.”

Jon shakes his head firmly. “No. Absolutely not. Not happening. I won’t let it.”

“It won’t,” Martin assures him. His face is paper-white, every freckle and scar in stark relief, but his voice is firm. “Because we’re not going to test this theory, right, Sasha?”

Sasha flinches, but honestly, she’s glad Martin knows her well enough to call her out on it. “I…might need some redirection if I start getting antsy, but no. No testing it. Maybe once he’s dead we can find out for sure.”

“Can you kill him, though?” Tim asks. “Without…you know, getting possessed?”

“I—I think so. It’s—we have to kill Jonah Magnus as well as Elias Bouchard. Or at least Elias Bouchard’s body,” Jon Prime adds, his voice soft and a little ragged. He leans more into Martin Prime, who gathers him somehow even closer and rests his chin on the top of his head. “I don’t know how much of the original Elias is left, if anything. I think destroying his eyes ought to do it.”

“So, what, stab him with a couple screwdrivers through the eyeballs, Jonah Magnus dies and Elias Bouchard is free?” Tim swallows. “I can try that.”

“He won’t let you get close enough to do that,” Jon Prime says. “Even if you all master the ability to hide things from him completely, he’ll never let you within arm’s length. The gun would have been your best bet, but you’d have had to shoot both eyes out instantly.”

Tim shakes his head. “I’m not nearly that good of a shot.”

Jon worries at his lower lip. “I think we need help with that. W-with learning to hide things from him, I mean. We’re trying, and I think we put him off a bit, but…the more we learn, the more I’m worried we’re going to let something slip and the whole thing will be up. I-if he finds out about the two of you…”

“The whole thing goes awry,” Jon Prime completes.

“I’m more worried about what he might do to the two of you. I know you can handle yourself,” Jon adds quickly, “but if he catches you off-guard, you might not have a chance. O-or if he…I don’t know, floods the tunnels with gas or something. I just—I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

He says this last bit so softly that it probably wouldn’t be audible at all if the tunnels didn’t echo. From the look he gives Tim and Martin, Sasha is willing to bet that he’s thinking about how he would feel if either of them got hurt because of him, and how much worse it would be for one of the Primes to lose the other now.

For just a moment, Sasha wonders what it’s like to feel that way about someone else. She knows what it’s like to care, of course, she’s fond of Jon and Martin and Tim, and the Primes. She’s beginning to rather like Basira as well. And there’s her Uncle Wade, who was the one constant in her life for years and for whom she’d do just about anything. But the kind of bond the Primes have, or that it’s becoming increasingly clear her boys have, is beyond her. She’s long over the oh my God do people really feel like this attitude she took towards sappy love stories in her secondary-school days, she understands the concept of romance, but she’s also long ago realized that it’s not something she’s ever going to experience herself. And, honestly, she doesn’t feel like she’s missing anything. Usually.

But right now…right now she almost wishes she could experience that. She’s not sure how much of it is clinical curiosity and how much of it is an actual desire for herself. It doesn’t change the fact that she almost wants, just once, to look at someone the way Martin is looking at Jon right now and know what that feels like.

“I’ll do my best,” Jon Prime says, and it actually takes Sasha a second to remember what they’re talking about. “It’s mostly instinct, though, so I can’t make any promises. But I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask. Anything to—” Jon breaks off and tightens his hands around Tim and Martin’s. “Anything we can do.”

“Not right now,” Sasha says, looking around the room. “I don’t think any of you are up for it right now. You all look knackered, especially you, Jon.”

“Yes, but I don’t know if we can risk coming down here again any time soon. He’s going to be watching us for a while, I’m sure.” Jon sighs. “He probably knows we’re down here now.”

“No, we’re safe. He had to take a phone call from Peter Lukas and that had his attention,” Sasha tells him. “If we knew his schedule, we could work around it. I bet it’s all in the computer.”

Martin Prime frowns in Sasha’s direction. “The phone call wouldn’t have been. How did you—Sasha. You didn’t.”

“I just wanted to see if I could,” Sasha says, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “I didn’t think it would actually work. I mean, I was sort of practicing on the walk when I went to get Jon’s shoes, to see how far away from someone I had to be in order to get their secrets, and Elias’ office is kind of at the edge of my range, plus there are so many walls in the way—”

“Sasha.” Jon sounds upset, almost scared.

“I know. I shouldn’t have done any of that, but—” Sasha sighs. “It’s like I told Tim and Martin earlier. It’s happening more and more without me trying, and it’s harder and harder for me to stop it.”

“God, was that only today?” Martin murmurs. “Feels like forever ago.”

Martin Prime’s mouth flattens into a thin line, but it’s Jon Prime who speaks. “Trust me when I say that at this point, you can stop it. You just have to want to. It’s an addiction, Sasha, just like any other kind, but that’s only for now. The more you lean into it, the more it will progress beyond that and into an actual, literal need. And when you get to that point, you won’t be able to stop. And it won’t be easy to subsist on what’s…acceptable. I-I have a hard time living on nothing but old statements.”

Sasha squirms a bit guiltily. Jon takes a deep, careful breath. “Sasha, if you promise you’re just going to look in the system—”

“I promise.” Sasha means it, with every fiber of her being.

“Then…okay. I think you’re right. I don’t know that I’m up to much right now.” Jon looks down at his lap. “I got a statement off of Michael before—well, before—and then this on top of it…I’m a bit overwhelmed. And I could use a good night’s sleep.” He sighs heavily. “Besides, we’ve got to try and dig up Gertrude’s notes. Anything she had going about the Unknowing. I-it’s not that…I know we know what you’ve told us, but we have to—”

“No, I understand,” Jon Prime assures him. “You might start with her laptop. It’s hidden in your office. You’ll know where to look, I think.”

Jon looks up, then slowly smiles. “I think I have an idea.” The smile droops slightly, and he adds, “But that can wait for tomorrow. Today, I think we—we call it a day early. Go get a drink or something. After all, what’s Elias going to do—fire us?”

“That sounds good,” Martin says. “Will you two be all right?”

“We’ll be fine. We’ll see what we can unearth that might be helpful for you tonight,” Jon Prime says. “Go. Get some rest. You deserve it.”

“Be careful,” Martin Prime says.

He’s still looking in Sasha’s direction, more than at any of the others. And as she pushes herself up from the floor, Sasha finds that she can’t meet his eyes, even if he can’t see the look in hers. She knows his caution is meant more for her than the others. They’re going to keep each other from falling too far, and they’ll try to help her, but in the end, they’re weaving a safety net and she has a knife up her sleeve. It wouldn’t take much effort for her to surreptitiously cut the fibers and fall through.

About the only thing stopping her right now is the knowledge that, if she does that, they’ll assume they just didn’t weave the net tightly enough and it’s their fault. The trouble is that, deep down, she’s pretty sure that eventually she’ll get to the point where the lure of the pit is stronger than the need to make sure her friends don’t blame themselves. She needs something a little bit stronger than a net to keep her grounded to humanity.

She wonders what Basira is up to right now.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #serious misuse of Beholding powers #mentions of violence #mentions of murder #mentions of war #mentions of emotional abuse #aro!Sasha rights

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talltree-writes · 5 years ago

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Art History, Philosophy, and Scientific Periodicals // K.NJ

Y/N is a senior in college and works part time at the library near her apartment. RM is the leader of the powerful Wings gang. Despite knowing his dangerous reputation, Y/N can't help but be interested in the sweet man who borrows vastly different books and talks with her for hours.

Genre: Fluff, slice of life, mild angst? (there's a brief fight between reader and her brother), f2l

Pairing: Kim Namjoon/(F)Reader

Warnings: Reference to sexual assault (it doesn't happen, but it's implied it could have), swearing, guns (make an appearance, but they aren't used in the story), fighting

Word Count: 7.2k

Author's Note: Inspired by Close to You by hollyhomburg on Tumblr (I just checked, and I think she might have deleted, so if anyone can find a link, that’d be really cool!). A really cool concept that I obviously enjoyed, haha! Also I intended this to be a little warm-up piece that was maybe 2k, but uhhh, that obviously didn't happen (it was still a bit of a warm up, it was just a warm up that lasted about 2 weeks...)

Photo isn't mine!!

-Kim Namjoon had always intrigued you.

-You had seen him for the first time at the local library you worked at part time, earning a bit of cash to help pay for the last bit of tuition that your scholarship didn’t cover.

-It wasn’t the best location, but it was close to you, you enjoyed most of the people who came, and most of all: you loved books. And, well, the enigma of a man who came in during your shift didn’t hurt

-Namjoon stood out in most ways from the normal visitors.

-For one, he checked out odd combinations of books. Usually, the books were philosophy or art history combined with a scientific periodical, often adding a book on a certain language (it changed every once and awhile), or one on music theory or history.

-Secondly, the man, with his blonde hair, piercings, leather jacket, and copious tattoos were far cries from most of the library’s usual visitors

-Lastly, he always came alone. Most of the regulars at the library brought someone at least occasionally, a child, a wife, a friend, someone. But never Namjoon.

-Curiously, instead of finding what he needed and either occupying one of the couches or arm chairs in the back, or even simply taking it home, he always sat at the table closest to your desk

-After a while of reading, he’d ask you a question or bring up a topic. Sometimes your day, or your classes, sometimes he’d ask what the oddest thing someone had checked out was, or, on particularly slow days, he’d leave his books and come sit on the counter next to you, where you two would chat about your lives or philosophy or mythology or art.

-He checked his books about thirty minutes before your shift would end, flashing you a dimpled grin and tucking his books into the beat up backpack he always had before waving on his way out.

-Now, you weren’t dumb. You knew Namjoon was RM, leader of the Wings, and that you should absolutely be scared of him. He sold drugs, he threatened people, hell, he killed people.

-But he was also Namjoon, the dork who showed up at the times he knew it would be slow (street reps were important), the dimple-cheeked guy who teased you about your love of dramas (before secretly confessing to enjoying a few himself). He was the guy who would help you put returned books away before he left, laugh brightly at your dumb jokes or confused face or ruffle your hair affectionately when you did something cute. He was the guy who made butterflies flutter in your stomach and your heart thump wildly.

-So, against all logic, you couldn’t muster up any fear for him.

-However, you did fear your walk home

-Normally, you went unbothered, but that didn’t change the fact that you were walking through a bad area of town at night. You carried a small switchblade and pepper spray just in case.

-One night, everything had been going normally. You had finished closing up the library, waving goodbye to your coworker as you both set off in different directions.

-For the first half, everything seemed normal enough. You stopped at a small shop on your way, grabbing a few essentials that your brother had asked you to get before continuing on your way.

-A few of the street lights were out ahead of you, but you shrugged, it happened sometimes, and would probably be fixed in a few days’ time. Still, you were more cautious as you walked, conscious of the shadowy alleyways along the street.

-You palmed the small blade in your sweatshirt pocket, tensing as the area around you grew darker. Just a few hundred feet, you reassured yourself. Just a bit more and you’d be back in the light, in safety.

-A few feet from returning to the light, you were passing an alley when the shadows started shifting.

-Before you could react, foreign hands reached out to grab you, pulling you towards them. You screamed as loud as you could, but a hand wrapped around your mouth, another pressing something sharp into your side.

-“Shut up, bitch.” A man hissed into your ear.

-You whimpered as he dragged you backwards, the point of what you assumed was a knife digging further in, a silent order to comply. His hot breath in your ear sent spikes of fear through your body, and you felt tears drag down your face.

-The sudden cock of a gun forced both of you to freeze.

-“Let her go. Right. Fucking. Now.” A familiar voice commanded. Your eyes widened when you looked up and saw Namjoon standing at the alleyway entrance.

-The hands on your body shifted, and for a moment you thought he might let you go, but your heart fell when the hand at your mouth just shifted down, grabbing the knife from his other and bringing it to your throat. Your captor arranged your positioning to where you were acting as his unwilling shield, any shot your savior tried would risk your injury.

-You saw Namjoon’s gaze shift slightly to the area just behind you, and you heard another gun cock. “He said let the girl go, asshole.”

-Slowly, the hands around you released and you stumbled away from him, towards Namjoon who already held an arm out to catch you.

-You buried your head in the chest of the familiar man, one of his arms holding him to you comfortingly.

-“L-look, I didn’t know she was your girl. I-I just wanted a little fun. I’m sorry”

-You gulped at his implications, burying yourself impossibly closer to Namjoon.

-The other guy with a gun growled “It’s not fun if she isn’t willing, you piece of shit.”

-“JK, take care of this guy. I don’t want to see him around here any time soon.” You felt the rumbling of his voice through his chest.

-The arm holding his gun lowered, reaching back to shove the weapon in his waistband. He lead you out of the alleyway and back the way you were going. Faintly, you wondered how he knew, but were still too in shock to think too much about it.

-It wasn’t until you were standing outside a well lit shop that your emotions finally hit you.

-Honestly it’s not pretty.

-We’re talking snot, tears, all of it.

-But he just hugs you to his chest and rubs your back, letting you cry away your fear and horror before you got home

-“It’s going to be okay, you’re safe now. I won’t let that happen again.”

-You realized he was whispering soothing things to you and you just gripped his jacket tighter.

-Finally, after you had cried yourself dry, he leads you into the store, nodding once at the owner, and telling you to get some candy

-He left you to choose, always being careful to stay in your sights, and to keep you in his. He wandered to the drinks, grabbing two bottles of water and, after a moment of hesitation, a chocolate milk.

-The two of you met at the counter, you with a bag of assorted mini chocolates and him with his drinks.

-You started to take out your wallet to pay for all of the items (afterall, he saved you, you kinda owed him a lot) but he beat you to it, throwing down a few bills and telling the owner to keep the change.

-He gathered up your purchases in one hand, grabbing yours with the other.

-Outside, he offers you your choice of water or chocolate milk and gives you your candy.

-You choose chocolate milk, because you haven’t had it in forever and it just seems so comforting

-It is, in fact, very comforting and you smile a little at his thoughtfulness

-As the two of you walk, you don’t do much talking. You’re still pretty rattled up from the alley, but you offer him some of the chocolate from the bag you’ve put in your sweatshirt pocket. He doesn’t accept, and you just shrug.

-You don’t realize that he actually really wants some chocolate, but he refuses to let go of your hand and his other hand has water bottles in it.

-He forgets he’s carrying a backpack and can just put them in there, because wow you’re really pretty and distracting and your hand is so small and delicate and soft and he will absolutely Not be letting it go until he has to

-Eventually, you speak up.

-“Thank you, by the way. For the chocolate and for the… alley. I’d have been in much worse shape if you hadn’t shown up.”

-Your voice is quiet and scratchy from crying, but he catches every word, always so very aware of you.

-He shrugs, as if saving you was a given. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Especially like that, no girl should be treated like that.”

-You squeeze his hand again in thanks.

-You idly chatter to each other, but he seems a little more distracted, scanning the area.

-He glares at several people. Some cross the street with their head ducked, others pass with glares of their own. If they glance at you, Namjoon’s hand tightens around yours and pulls you closer.

-When you get to your apartment building, he only hesitates about walking to your door a moment, encouraged by your hand tugging him along with you.

-Honestly, you’d kind of forgotten his hand was wrapped around yours, only becoming conscious of it when he would squeeze it.

-He doesn’t squeeze it when you start to drag him into your building

-At your door, you look back up at him and send him a shy grin.

-“Thank you, again, for saving me. And for comforting me, and walking me home, and… yeah. You didn’t have to do most of that and I’m really grateful.”

-His eyes are soft and tender as they meet your gaze, nothing like the man who aimed a gun at someone not 45 minutes ago.

-“I’ll always do my best to protect you, Y/N. I re-”

-He was cut off mid word by your door swinging open

-“Y/N! Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?” Your brother’s gaze zeroed in on your red, puffy eyes and the small dribble of blood on your throat caused by the small cut the knife had made. You hadn’t even noticed until now

-Namjoon had. Namjoon was going to help you clean it up when you got back to your apartment if you let him.

-Namjoon, assuming the guy was your boyfriend, dropped your hand quickly and cleared his throat

-You really hated the lack of warmth honestly and had to stop yourself from reaching for it again

-Your brother’s eyes shifted to the large man standing in your doorway, noting his appearance and drawing his own conclusions

-“What the fuck did you do to her, you son of a bitch?”

-Namjoon was ready to knock your “boyfriend” out for insinuating that he’d ever lay a hurtful hand on you but you stepped in between the two guys first

-“What-- No, Jordan, he saved me. Someone attacked me. I’ll tell you the whole story later, but I’m fine now, and that’s mostly thanks to him.”

-Your brother’s jaw clicked shut and stayed tense. His words were clipped and cold, almost as if he didn’t believe you.

-“Well. Then, I suppose I should thank you. (Y/N)’s safety is very important to me.”

-Namjoon’s voice was equally as tight in his response.

-“It was no problem. I’d hate to see her hurt, too. I should head out, though. You guys have a good night.” You glanced at his retreating form curiously. You had seen RM, the gang leader, you had seen the Namjoon from the library, but you’d never seen this version. This one was standoff-ish, and nowhere near the passionate and boyish guy you knew.

-It unsettled you a little.

-Your brother gently gripped your forearm and pulled you into your apartment, shutting and locking the door firmly once you were both inside.

-He met your eyes with a searching gaze, but waited a moment before speaking.

-“You can tell the truth now, did he hurt you?”

-You recoiled in shock. Namjoon? Hurt you? Sure, you knew who he was and what his reputation was, but you felt safer standing next to Namjoon than almost anyone else.

-“No, Jordan, he didn’t hurt me. I know him, he wouldn’t do that.”

-You made to turn away and go to the bathroom. You wanted to shower and wash the last few hours off your body. But your brother wasn’t done.

-“Wha- Know him? (Y/N), do you know who that is? How in the everloving fuck do you know him?” He practically shouted

-You shushed him, conscious of your nosy neighbors and the thin walls separating the apartments.

-You rolled your eyes, though. “Yes, I know who he is. That’s RM, formerly known as Rap Monster, and he’s my friend. He comes into the library a lot during my shift and we talk.” You bit back a soft smile at the thought that he might be back tomorrow.

-Your brother sees this though-- he’s way too good at reading you

-“No, absolutely not. You cannot be friends with him. He’s dangerous and I don’t trust him or his gang members.”

-He crosses his arms and stands straight, as if the extra inch and glower will force you to conform.

-But you weren’t 14, and he wasn’t your father.

-Anger washed over you, and you nearly forgot about your nosey neighbors and the thin walls.

-“Jordan, I am not a child! In fact, I am a fully fledged adult woman who can make choices for herself! Now, I have been getting to know Namj-- RM for a few months now, and I’d like to consider us friends. Not to mention, he and one of his gang members just saved me from a rather fucked up experience, so I’d be pretty damn grateful for him right now. Tell me, though, how exactly would you stop me from being friends with him? I met him at the library, you know, the place I work? Are you going to make me quit my job too?”

-You’d started to say Namjoon, but figured he didn’t want too many people knowing his real name.

-“I know you are not a child! But you’re my baby sister, and I promised to protect you always. I’m grateful he saved you tonight, but maybe you should consider quitting. You only need a few more credits to graduate next spring, maybe you should focus on finishing up and looking for a big internship, you know?”

-You glared at him.

-“Oh yeah, because we can really afford to lose my income.”

-He didn’t have a leg to stand on and he knew it. But he kept going.

-“Ok, so maybe it would be tight for a while, but if it got too bad you could get a new one, maybe closer to campus, just until you could start using your degree.” His voice started edging on desperate, but you just rolled your eyes and turned your back.

-“I’m not quitting my job or avoiding RM, end of story. Now I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. I’ve had a long night and I just want to move on.” You, once again, started for the bathroom.

-Your brother stepped forward and caught your arm again, his touch gentle despite the argument you’d just had, and when you turned his eyes were soft and concerned.

-“What did happen tonight, (Y/N)? Are you okay?”

-You swallowed and nodded. “I’m okay now. A guy grabbed me as I was walking and dragged me into an alley. He had a knife and a hand over my mouth so I couldn’t do much, but RM and one of his guys threatened him and he let me go. RM took care of me and brought me home.” You gave him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. Honestly, you were still pretty rattled by the whole experience.

-His eyes searched your face again, and your expression must have been convincing, because he just nodded and let you go.

-“Get some rest.”

-“Thanks”

-The next morning, your brother was up and gone before you, as usual, but he had prepared breakfast before leaving for work. There was a note left on the counter beside it.

-‘(Y/N), I’m sorry about last night. Have a good day and call me if you need anything.’

-You smiled a little at his apology.

-The day dragged on; you had one class in the morning that ended around 11 and your first afternoon class started at 2, so you used the time between to get a headstart on homework. You usually tried some at the library, but got distracted by Kim Namjoon more times than not.

-Your shift at the library started like any other. You saw some regulars, some people just there on a whim or because they needed a reference. You checked books out occasionally, checked them in when you needed to, but all around, had a quiet shift.

-When Namjoon walked in towards the end of it, though, you were surprised. He’d been there yesterday, and he didn’t usually come one day after another-- even he couldn’t read the books that fast.

-Even more surprising, he didn’t even go look at the books. Instead, he sauntered over to the desks, settling himself next to you. His grin showed easy confidence, but his eyes were guarded in a way you hadn’t seen in months.

-“You doing alright?” He asked

-You shrugged. You’d kept your mind preoccupied enough today, but you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t affected you.

-When a classmate had run up to catch you after the lecture to get last classes notes, you’d noticeably jumped, your heart rate increasing far more than if it had been a normal scare

-You kept checking over your shoulder as you walked to class, despite knowing how safe your campus was and the fact that it was broad daylight

-You really weren’t looking forward to the walk home tonight

-“I’m still spooked, but I think that’s a little justifiable given the circumstances.”

-He bit his lip, looking like he was trying to figure out whether to ask something. Something must have won, because he asked

-“Are you walking home alone again? I mean-- is your boyfriend coming to get you or are you going by yourself?”

-You cocked your head. Boyfriend? “What boyfriend? Is someone telling people that he’s my boyfriend?”

-Now it was his turn to look confused.

-“The guy last night at your apartment? Jordan or whatever, wasn’t he your boyfriend?”

-You stared at him for a second, trying to gauge whether he’s joking or not. “Jordan? You mean my brother?”

-A look of shocked understanding took over his face briefly. “Your brother, oh. Okay. Cool, cool. That’s cool.” He had never been this awkward, and you had to bite back a smile.

-But when a bright smile broke through his guarded eyes, you let your own loose.

-Namjoon stayed for the rest of your shift, helping you shut everything down and walking out with you.

-You expected him to wave and head off on his own after you locked up, but he stood for a second.

-“You never answered my question about whether you were walking home alone earlier.”

-You’d thought about calling your brother, really, you had, but every time you had the opportunity to do so, Namjoon did or said something that distracted you

-He didn’t know he was doing it, of course. How could he know you were thinking of calling your brother to bring you home after your shift?

-“Oh- um, well no. I don’t. I can call my brother, though, and he’ll come get me.”

-“But you’d still have to wait for him to come get you, right?”

-You shrugged, already opening your phone. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I’ll just wait here or at the shop down the block.”

-“I mean, I could just take you home.” He shrugged casually

-This man is absolutely not casual in his head, he is freaking the fuck out

-He has his bike, which he doesn’t bring to the library most of the time

-Mostly because that’s kinda conspicuous

-But also because he’s been trying to work up the nerve to ask to walk you home for a while

-But today he figured you might not want to walk

-You glanced up at him. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. It’s a long walk.”

-He shot you an easy grin, “I wasn’t proposing walking. I have my bike.” He gestured to the parking lot where a motorcycle sat

-Your resolve is already pretty low. The walk is long, and you’d have to wait for your brother and then do the walk yourself, and you’d honestly rather just get back home and go to bed

-So you nod and follow him to the barely lit lot

-He hands you the helmet hanging from the bars, and when you shoot him a questioning look, he shrugs

-“I’d rather I get hurt than you, and I don’t have another helmet.”

-He’s definitely buying one for you like tomorrow

-You put on the helmet and slip onto the seat behind him, loosely wrapping your arms around him

-He smiles a little at the feeling of your slim arms around his waist and kicks on the bike.

-Now, you’d been on motorcycles before, and you knew what it sounded and felt like. But that didn’t stop you from jumping a little and tightening your grip around him

-You feel the rumble of his chuckle as you cling to his back, only really relaxing once you had gotten on the streets.

-Truth be told, the way home wasn’t that long when you drove it.

-The ride came to an end far too soon. He walked you to your door again, and outside your apartment, you hesitated.

-You had been talking all throughout the end of your shift, but you didn’t want it to stop. You wanted to keep talking, about the books he reads, about his life, about your life, about everything. You were incredibly interested in the enigma standing before you and just wanted to figure him out.

-“Do you want to come in tonight?” You offered, very hopeful.

-He glanced at the door with an odd look. Almost as if he wanted to just as much as you did, but was nervous or scared.

-Which is odd. Because he doesn’t get scared.

-Right?

-RM, leader of the most influential gang in the city, hardly rivalled and with numbers unknown, didn’t get scared of going into a girl’s apartment right?

-He didn’t get scared of overprotective brothers, or of not being enough for them

-Not at all

-Apparently, he does.

-Because he shakes his head, and says “I don’t think your brother would appreciate it.”

-He shoots you a smile, and heads back down the hall.

-You slip into your apartment and frown at your brother, who’d obviously been listening.

-“What did I tell you about him, y/n?”

-You glare and shake your head at him

-“And what did I tell you? He’s a good guy, he was just bringing me home.”

-You brush past him and towards your room. He was always like this with guys, which made sense, but didn’t mean you had to appreciate it.

-You showered and ate dinner, but otherwise stayed in your room doing homework. Your classload the next day was light, so you could sleep in

-When you woke up the next day, Jordan was already gone, but today he hadn’t made breakfast or left you a note.

-‘Message received, dickwad.’ You thought, moving to grab a cup of coffee.

-Both your classes were after lunch, so you studied all morning, until you got a text from a friend in your art history course who wanted to meet up and study, since he’d heard you had a quiz that day.

-You agreed, and got ready, getting to a coffee shop near campus by 11:45, 15 minutes earlier than you had agreed, but you didn’t care much.

-Soonyoung got there early too, and you both quizzed each other on paintings and their years and artists. The quizzes weren’t exactly hard, they were just a lot of memorization

-You went your separate ways for your first classes, yours a basic bio course that you’d been putting off, and his some advanced math class for his major.

-Both classes passed as normal, and you felt you did well on the quiz, which was largely due to the studying and warning Soonyoung had given you

-You both walked out together, smiling and talking, and he offered to go with you to your job

-He needed some reference material for the paper you’d just been assigned

-And you were both from the same area

-You’d just met at the campus cafe earlier so you could study longer

-He also has a big ole crush on you

-Has for like a year

-Mans literally took the class to get close to you

-You have 0 idea and just think he’s a really good friend

-It’s kinda because you’re very focussed on this really nice gang leader who reads art history and philosophy books paired with scientific periodicals and articles.

-Agreeing, you both head to the bus stop, chatting just as easily all the way to the library

-That is, until you get there and see a familiar figure walking from the parking lot, a motorcycle parked among the few cars

-You notice that there are two helmets now

-And one of them is your favorite color

-Something you’d told him months ago when you were playing a silly 20 questions game to pass the last hour of your shift

-And he’d obviously remembered, or just gotten lucky and guessed

-The smile automatically lands on your face

-He very rarely comes at the beginning of your shift, he’s a very busy man, afterall.

-“Oh shit, y/n, RM’s here.”

-You haven’t stopped watching the tall man, and his gaze hits yours, and he waves, a smile starting to grow before it lands on your companion.

-He tries not to assume again, because last time he’d assumed your brother was your boyfriend

-“Yeah, he’s here pretty often.” You look over at Soonyoung in time to miss RM’s glare at the boy.

-Soonyoung, who hasn’t missed the glare, glances at you. “I’ll stay until he leaves.”

-He’s determined, and you can see it, and before you can tell him that you’d literally never been safer than when Namjoon was around, you’re walking in the doors and you have to go clock in.

-Soonyoung goes to look for his references, very obviously keeping an eye on RM

-Unfortunately for him, the references he needs are a few aisles away from him, so he can’t watch him forever, and, about 30 minutes later, he’s alarmed to see RM leaning against your desk, laughing and grinning

-You’d dissuaded his fear before he’d even voiced it this time

-“Soonyoungs’s not my boyfriend either, you know.” You’d said as he’d approached with the same guarded look. “He’s just a friend who needed a few references for a paper our professor assigned”

-He’d brightened again, and decided to try and play nice

-Even if the guy is a rival

-Soonyoung thinks he’s making inappropriate advances because you look a little scandalized, but he can’t tell that you’re also laughing at the smiling guy in front of you

-Your friend slides in, all cool confidence, doing everything he can to edge between Namjoon and your counter.

-“Hey, man, what are you doing here?”

-You watch as the smile slides quickly from his face and is replaced by the expression he wore when he’d seen your brother-- expressionless, mildly intimidating, cold.

-“I’m getting a book and talking to y/n. What are you doing here, Hoshi?”

-One glance over Soonyoung’s shoulder told Namjoon that you had no idea about your friend’s gang affiliation.

-Soonyoung, who didn’t want you to find out this way, but was determined to protect you, regardless, stood his ground, “Y/N and I are friends and I came with her.”

-He doesn’t want RM to know where you go to school, that could open up a whole world of trouble.

-RM looks Hoshi up and down, before cracking a smile. “Ok. I guess I’ll just go look at my books over here.”

-He doesn’t want to start a fight in the library, but oh boy does he want to start a fight with this guy

-So he’s making it very clear that he’s not intimidated

-He doesn’t expect Soonyoung’s next words

-Neither do you, honestly.

-“I think I’ll join you.”

-This man is trying not to scare you, but he’s gotta get the point across to the Wings boss that you are Off Limits and Protected™

-You watch, astounded, as your two friends go off together

-You still haven’t really put the connection together that Soonyoung is in a gang

-Why would you, he doesn’t necessarily look like a gang member.

-He’s pretty delicate looking, and he doesn’t have a lot of piercings or tattoos like Namjoon, and he’s never done anything or given you any sign that he might be affiliated

-You go back to your work though, occasionally glancing at the guys

-Namjoon is facing you and catches your eye to send grins

-Otherwise they glare at each other over their books

-You’re getting more and more confused

-What had happened?

-They both stay to the end of your shift-- neither leaving before the other

-So they both end up helping you close up

-Soonyoung fails to notice how RM knows what to do and has obviously done it before

-They both wait for you to lock up, staring at each other and daring the other to leave.

-When you turn around, their gazes don’t move. “Ok, I think I’ll leave you two to get a room…”

-It’s mostly a joke, but you still brush past them

-It’s a joke because you’re not ready to walk home alone yet

-And you were really hoping the second helmet meant that Namjoon was going to take you home again

-And you got paid that day so you were kinda hoping you could pay him back with a quick dinner

-The joke snaps them out of it and Namjoon reaches out to (gently) catch your arm

-But Soonyoung doesn’t like that

-“Get your fucking hands off her!”

-He shoves Namjoon and steps between the two of you

-But now RM is mad

-This is the second guy who assumed he’d ever hurt you

-And that’s pretty offensive given that he’d literally let you run a bus over him -When i say the guy is whipped

-The first was your brother, which he excused. Brothers are allowed to be protective

-But this guy is another gang member and has tried to stake a claim on you that he doesn’t have any right to

-Back off, Hoshi, you’re going to scare Y/N.”

-Namjoon keeps his voice level because he really doesn’t want to scare you, especially given the events of the other night

-A glance at you would reveal that you’re really not scared, you’re just confused

-“Soonyoung-”

-You don’t get to finish your sentence because the fucker interrupts you

-Now you’re kinda mad

-“I’m just trying to keep her safe. She didn’t appreciate your flirting earlier, so just catch the fucking hint, asshole.”

-He turns and grabs your arm this time. “Y/N, let me walk you home.” You just look at him. This man just made a lot of presumptions about your life without talking to you and you don’t really appreciate it.

-“Actually, Soonyoung, RM is my friend, and I don’t like what you’re implying about him.”

-You’re kinda glaring

-Namjoon thinks you might be referring to the part where Soonyoung said he was flirting

-He was definitely flirting

-He’s a had a huge crush on you for a while

-He’s still angry at Hoshi but now he feels a bit like a kicked puppy too

-Oh well

-More emotion to take out on Hoshi

-But then you’re really glaring when Soonyoung pulls you closer

-“Y/N, that guy isn’t the kind to defend. You don’t know him, not really.

-Let’s go, we can talk more on our way to your apartment.

-He’s never been to your apartment

-And you don’t necessarily think he’d do anything

-But you kinda get a weird feeling about him going there.

-You wiggle out of his grasp and step towards Namjoon

-“No, Soonyoung, it’s fine, you go on.”

-Soonyoung is very determined not to leave you with RM

-“Y/N, c’mon, let’s just go.”

-He reaches for you again

-“I’m pretty sure the girl said no, Soonyoung. Go on home, and tell the other Diamonds that she’s officially under Wings protection.”

-Namjoon’s voice is pretty deep, and he puts his hand on your shoulder

-Which means he feels you flinch when you hear about the Diamonds

-The whole interaction makes more sense

-And you know why Namjoon called him Hoshi earlier

-But damn are you pissed that he didn’t tell you

-You step closer to Namjoon, bumping into his chest, when Soonyoung steps closer to you again, his face very apologetic and obviously trying to make amends.

-You’re not afraid of him, he can’t hurt you when literally the scariest gang leader is standing right there and just blatantly said you’re under his protection

-But you definitely don’t want him to touch you right now

-He looks a little hurt but backs off.

-You put your hand on Namjoon’s and turn your head up to look at his face

-“Can you give me another ride home?”

-The look he returns to you fills your heart. It’s so tender, damnit.

-“Of course. Do you want to go wait by my bike?”

-You nod and start to walk toward the parking lot.

-That is, until Soonyoung yells very angrily

-“Oh! I see! You’re RM’s whore, that’s how you got Wings protection-”

-The fool doesn’t even finish the sentence before Namjoon is shooting his fist out to meet Soonyoung’s jaw

-The fight breaks out quickly, and you stand shocked for a second

-Obviously you had seen fights before

-But Namjoon, no, RM, is absolutely wailing on Soonyoung, who looks like he’s reaching for somethi-

-A gun

-He’s reaching for a gun

-And you look up at the security cameras

-And you really don’t want the police asking you questions

-Especially because you must seem very familiar with two guys who have gang affiliations in the footage

-You also don’t want Namjoon to get hurt

-Like you really don’t -So you start screaming at them

-“Stop! Jesus fuck, both of you, just stop!” You try to move in to pull one off the other, but a poorly aimed limb hits you instead (you’re pretty sure it was Soonyoungs, but you can’t be certain). “RM! Soonyoung! Stop!”

-When you spot the gun, your screaming becomes a little more frantic.

-When you said you wanted to return the favor, you didn’t mean patching him up after a fight

-“RM! RM! Stop! Soonyoung! Stop!”

-Neither seem to hear you, and you can’t get in to pull one of them off the other, so you try something else.

-Honestly, it’s a longshot

-And you’re hoping you don’t hurt either of them

-Because you’ve got some heavy books in there that could give them a concussion

-But you just need to shock them enough to get them to stop

-You throw your bookbag at them

-It hits both, thankfully, so they both get distracted

-They’re still locked in the same positions, but now they’re both staring at you, their chests heaving

-Your chest is as well, but that’s out of panic more than exertion

-“Both of you, stop it. I don’t need the cops at my door asking me questions because I openly interact with you and you kill one another. Nope, no thank you.” You take a deep breath because now that shit seems a little de-escalated, your heart needs to calm the fuck down. “Soonyoung, go the fuck home, and don’t ever talk to me again. Return your books during someone else’s shift, don’t talk to me during class, just, don’t ever fucking talk to me again. I’m no one’s whore.” You glare at him with every ounce of anger in your body

-Which, to be fair, is a whole lot

-He lied to you, didn’t listen to you, didn’t respect your boundaries or when you told him no, and then called you a whore.

-“Y/N, look I-“

-RM, who has let him go and moved to stand in front of you again, opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it

-“I said go, Hoshi.”

-He tosses one more glare RM’s way before turning around. He walks off and for a second neither you or Namjoon move.

-Then you let out a sigh of relief when his form disappears around a corner -Namjoon immediately turns to you, hesitantly reaching out a hand to cradle your face and check if you’re okay

-“I’m fine.” He still looks at you, very concerned. “Really, I’m fine. I’m not the one who just got into a fist fight.”

-You start scanning your eyes over his face. You couldn’t see much in the low light, but you caught a cut by his eye, where the skin was darkening already.

-Otherwise he looked fine

-You couldn’t see the rest of him though

-And honestly, if you saw the rest of him…

-You probably wouldn’t be looking for injuries

-Let’s be honest

-“Joon, your eye…”

-You reach your hand up to brush your fingers over the cut, and you don’t even realize that you’ve just called him Joon

-But damn, he did. He doesn’t realize it but he’s holding his breath, and he’s staring at you with wide eyes and oh wow he might be in love is this what love feels like? It has to be because he can’t be this excited about a nickname unless it’s from someone he loves

-A couple of other people call him Joon

-It’s not that complicated of a nickname

-But he doesn’t get this feeling when they call him Joon

-You notice that he’s staring at you after a second of him not saying anything and you give him a more concerned look “Namjoon are you okay?”

-He starts breathing again, but kinda only because little black dots start appearing in his vision and he doesn’t want to scare you

-“I-I’m fine, y/n. Um, what did you just call me?”

-You get shy

-You really hadn’t realized you said it, but Namjoon just seems so formal sometimes and you wanted to give him a nickname

-Also you’ve been calling him Joon in your head for a while

-But only sometimes, not all the time

-Only when you were thinking about how cute his dimple smile is

-Or when you thought about that one time he hugged you -It was the day after your birthday a few months ago

-He’d found out because he’d come in on your birthday (he didn’t even want a book, he literally just wanted to see you)

-But you had asked your coworker to cover so you could spend the day with some friends and brother

-The official excuse was that you had a doctor’s appointment and it was the only time they could fit you in for a few months

-He’d been pretty concerned (and very disappointed) so he’d asked your coworker

-She worked the shift with you sometimes and knew the two of you got on well

-So she just shrugged and said it was your birthday

-She figured he wouldn’t snitch on you

-Also she really wants you two to get together

-Because she can see how he looks at you

-It’s literally like you hung the moon

-This man goes out and panic buys chocolate and a little plushie that he thinks is really cute and that you’ll love

-You do. You love both

-When he gives it to you, you’re really shocked, though

-Because you didn’t know that he knew when your birthday was

-And you didn’t expect him to care that much

-You should have realized then that he was coming into the library just to see you sometimes

-You’re really shocked, though, and you kinda run into his chest and give him a hug

-And he just wraps his arms around you

-And it’s the nicest hug you’ve had in a while

-Because he’s so much bigger than you

-And his arms are so warm and gentle and strong and safe

-Anyway, so you weren’t really calling him Joon that often, right? Just whenever you thought about him...

-You step away from him and drop your hand, wrapping your arms around yourself

-“I called you Joon…”

-You’re silent for about .5 seconds before you start babbling

-“I’m sorry, it just kinda slipped out, but your name seemed so formal, especially since you just defended me again. I won’t call you Joon again if you don’t want me to, it could just be a one time thing if that’s what you want but I just- I- I’m sorry.” You finish lamely and look down, blush tinting your cheek

-He cradles your face tenderly, guiding your eyes back up to his. “Please call me Joon again, Y/N. There is almost nothing I’d like you to call me more than Joon. In fact, please forget you have ever heard any other name for me.”

-He gives you that soft grin you’ve only ever seen when he looks at you, and it’s your turn to freeze

-His eyes are sparkling with affection and mirth

-And his hand against your cheek is warm

-And are you crazy or is he moving closer?

-He’s absolutely moving closer

-Oh my god oh my god oh my god

-His lips are soft, and honestly, you’d hardly call it a kiss, more like a barely-there brush of lips

-There aren’t any of the fireworks or sparks you read about in all those romance novels

-But it raises goosebumps all over your body

-He pulled back just a little to catch your reaction, his eyes holding a little bit of anxiety about being rejected

-You blink up at him owlishly before raising yourself up to meet his lips with yours again

-You keep it soft, trying to transmit your feelings through the kiss

-You break away a moment later, smiling softly “Do you maybe want to go get some coffee or dinner or something? My treat.” You ask softly, aware of the bare amount of space between you

-He grins, straightening and taking your hand to walk towards his motorcycle

-“There’s nothing I’d like more in this moment, Y/N.”

119 notes · View notes

chelsfic · 4 years ago

Text

Devotions - WWDITS Fanfic - Nandor x Guillermo

Sequel to: Maybe One Day, My Love

WWDITS Masterlist

A/N: Quick note to let you guys know that I have been writing up a storm, but I’ve posted many fics exclusively to AO3. It is just so much work to format every story for Tumblr. AO3 is such a superior place to read and write. So, check that out to see what you’ve missed. Thanks to @sinaesthete for beta reading this fic for me!

Summary: Following a death in the family, Guillermo goes to the park for his weekly "visit" with his ex-master. After two decades of distance and one-sided conversation, Nandor finally steps out of the shadows.

Warnings: Smut, Religious References, Parent Death

---

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.” -Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

It’s nightfall once again.

Guillermo de la Cruz clutches a prayer card in his fist as he strides down the familiar path for the appointment he never misses. Not even tonight.

Puddles dot the paved lane; he carefully avoids them, not wishing to ruin his patent leather shoes. He’s still dressed in the clothes he wore to the funeral: a dark suit and tie that make him look somehow older and younger at the same time. Like a little boy dressed up in his father’s clothes. His rigid soles scuff against the cement. The scraping sound grounds him in time and place, pulling him back from the vision of the gleaming white casket heaped with flowers.

It’s early spring. The night is still chilly, but the park has begun to transform with the new season. Green shoots of grass peek out between moldy fallen leaves. Crocuses emerge in the flower beds that line the walk. The branches hanging overhead are heavy with verdant leaves whispering in the light breeze. Guillermo breathes in the damp, mildewy scent of new growth. Idly, he wonders if the funeral arrangements have started to wilt.

He rounds the well-known turn in the path, finally arriving at his forgotten little alcove with its dilapidated bench. The wooden slats of the seat give way to his weight as he sits; the wood is soft and worn. He recalls the hard, polished church pews and decides that this is a much more suitable place for worship. The laminated prayer card bites into the tender flesh of his palm and he releases it, taking his hands from his pockets and letting them rest on the well-loved bench.

Night sounds fill his ears: crickets murmuring in the grass, distant traffic rushing on the highway, gentle wind blowing through the trees. No matter how carefully he listens, holding his breath and keeping perfectly still, Guillermo will never hear his master’s approach until Nandor wishes it. Instead he begins his vigil, communing with the night, with this place, the setting for his devotions.

“Let us pray...

I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever live and believe in me shall never die.”

The priest’s words float back to him as if conjured by the night wind. Guillermo’s thoughts fix upon his lord. The one he’s worshiped since he was nineteen-years-old. He calls up Nandor’s image with ease, despite the years that have passed since actually seeing the vampire. Dark eyes ringed in fire, bottomless pits into which Guillermo has been falling for the last thirty-seven years. A body as cold and lethal as a winter’s night. Fangs that reap bloody sacrifices from his victims. Guillermo closes his eyes and Nandor is there before him--skin warm in the candlelight, lips relaxed in a rare smile, holding out his hand and beckoning Guillermo to come forward. In his vision, Nandor places his palm on the crest of Guillermo’s head in a blessing.

“Blessed are those who mourn,

For they will be comforted.”

The snap of a twig announces him. Guillermo eyes snap open; he stares straight ahead into the trees on the other side of the nook. He senses Nandor in the darkness behind him, a guardian or a devil. Both. But he doesn’t turn to look, though every fiber of his being is attuned to his master’s cold presence; though he longs to lunge at him and hold him and never let him leave this place. That is not their arrangement.

Just this once, though, he wishes it could be different.

Guillermo tries to speak; tries to perform their ritual as usual. But the words stick in his throat, congealing into a heavy lump that suffocates him. A shaky breath passes through his parted lips and becomes a sob. Suddenly there are tears spilling down his cheeks. He reaches into his pocket, removes the prayer card with Silvia de la Cruz’s beautiful portrait on it, and sets it on the seat beside him.

“She… died,” he explains in a shattered whisper, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with his fists. “Mi mam á . She’s gone, Nandor.”

For an instant the rest of the words stick in his throat: Guillermo’s not supposed to address him directly. That’s not part of their ritual. Now Nandor will leave; now he’ll never come back. But the grief soon scours away the fear of breaking their rules and Guillermo collapses down to his elbows, hanging his head and sobbing out his heartache and pain.

“It happened so s-suddenly, Nandor. I didn’t get to say good-bye or tell her I’m sorry.”

Guillermo crosses his arms over his chest, hugging and rocking himself in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. His sinuses are blocked; his face is flushed; his mouth tastes like bile and communion wafers and his t í a’s buñuelos. He’s desperate to get a hold himself, to salvage this evening somehow, but every time he nearly has the crying controlled his mind supplies him with a new torture. The stricken look on his amá’s face when he left home to work for Nandor. The smell of eggs and fresh tortillas in the morning. The sound of her clambering in the kitchen, cursing under breath. Her smile. Her hugs. The way she took him in, without questions, when he came back home covered in blood and hysterical after a decade of being a bad son.

Guillermo is so lost in memories, he almost misses the soft, hesitant touch on his shoulder. A hand--solid, strong, cold--closes around his shoulder and squeezes gently. Their first touch in twenty-six years. Guillermo’s breath stutters from his lungs. He freezes, terrified of breaking the fragile sanctity of this moment. He wavers on the threshold of action. Before he can summon the courage to cross it himself , Nandor does so for him. The vampire’s hands are suddenly clutching, pawing at his shoulders and chest; clawed fingers dig into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket and haul him over the bench. He’s dragged through the spider-riddled bush and then all at once he’s in his master’s embrace. As if it hasn’t been decades since the last and first time they held each other. As if a whole lifetime of experience--sadness, joy, yearning, hope--hasn’t slipped through Guillermo’s mortal fingers.

Nandor wraps Guillermo up in his cape, the rich fabric and gold embroidery are clean and well-maintained. Guillermo finds himself wondering if Nandor has himself a new familiar, quickly deciding he doesn’t want to know. He buries his face in Nandor’s strong, broad chest and breathes him in. He smells like rose water, argan oil, and Tide To-Go Pens. He smells like warm candle wax and brassy, spilled blood. He smells like dust and animal pelts and frozen decay. He smells like home.

“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.”

Guillermo never really left him, did he? Two decades spent building a human life, and with one simple embrace he is back on Staten Island, a nineteen-year-old boy knocking on a pagan god’s front door and offering himself in sacrifice.

“Nandor,” he cries. It’s a plea, a demand, a tribute, a prayer. Once the name falls from his lips he can’t stop. “Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nan--”

The vampire shushes him, bringing his hand up to cradle Guillermo’s head against his chest. That voice, rich and deep, rumbles through the fabric of the leather vest and into Guillermo’s tear-streaked cheek. “I am sorry, my Guillermo. Your mama… she was a good lady. She took care of you, kept you safe and happy after…” he trails off, clearing his throat uncomfortably. His arms tighten around Guillermo. “I am so very sorry.”

Guillermo clings to him, hands fisting in the cape, tugging at the material until Nandor is forced to stoop down. Guillermo closes his eyes, terrified of opening them to find that this is all a dream. Some kind of religious vision that will dissipate in a cloud of smoke if he breaks the spell. Nandor’s face is so close, he can feel the vampire’s cool breath on his cheeks. Guillermo presses forward, nuzzling his face into the whiskers of Nandor’s beard, gasping at the soft caress of long hair against his face.

“Is this real?” Guillermo whispers; his words are fragile, like moth’s wings fluttering through the air between them. “Master, is it really you?”

“Who else would it be, Guillermo?” Nandor chides in the same old amused tone that Guillermo has preserved in his heart like dried flower petals between the pages of the family bible. “Who else but me? It’s always me, Guillermo.”

Thumbs wipe away the salty, stinging tears from Guillermo’s cheeks and the human huffs out a sound that’s a laugh, a sob and a cry of joy all at once.

“It’s always you, master,” he agrees and seconds later he feels the cool, miraculous brush of Nandor’s lips on his.

“Almighty God, cleanse my heart and my lips that I may worthily proclaim your Gospel.”

Guillermo’s eyes fly open. Dark hair and pale, luminous skin fill his vision. Arms--powerful, undeniable--wrap around his soft little human form. He melts into Nandor, all the strength in his limbs bleeding away until the vampire’s strong grip is the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees. He’s resplendent, overjoyed to give himself up to the predatory angel before him.

The grief--a hollow, aching hole in his chest--is still there. But with it is a new sensation, at once well-known and utterly novel: ecstasy, fulfillment, completion. To be united with Nandor finally, after decades of pining, feels unreal and yet meant to be. It’s everything he’s dreamed of and denied dreaming of for so long.

Nandor’s lips slide against his own, cool to the touch yet soft and welcoming. Nothing like the hard and forbidding marble he’d always imagined. Nandor’s mouth is pliant and giving; it’s not unlike kissing a mortal man… as if Nandor isn’t the untouchable celestial being of his dark dreams, but flesh and--yes--blood. Guillermo flicks out his tongue and traces his master’s full, pouting lower lip. Nandor opens his mouth at once, granting him the entry he seeks. How can this be happening? After a lifetime of longing and supplication?

“Guillermo,” Nandor says his name like a plea, his lips brushing, the syllables melting into their kiss. “My Guillermo. You’re mine, still, aren’t you? Will you be mine?”

Guillermo mouth molds to his master’s. Nandor’s beard drags against the soft skin of his chin and cheeks. He pulls himself away long enough to answer. “Yes, Nandor. I’m still yours. If you’ll still be mine. Oh, God , please tell me you’re mine, Nandor!”

God. For the first time in eight centuries, Nandor feels no pain at the holy word. Instead it dribbles from Guillermo’s lips, melting into their kiss and tasting like sweet honey. Yes, he thinks, finally allowing his hands to roam down his human supplicant’s body. Yes, I am your god, little mortal. And you are mine.

The words spark in the night air, a spell that will keep them safe so long as they don’t stop touching. “I’m yours, Guillermo. Forever.”

They tumble to the earth, a tangle of grasping limbs, rolling hips and desperate, longing kisses. Nandor breaks their fall, landing in the dewy grass with a soft grunt and clutching Guillermo to his chest with reverent care. Guillermo is alight with sensation. Prayers fall from his lips, holy words that once would have sent his master hissing and flinching, but which now seem to feed him.

“Nandor, my god!” He pulses his pelvis with every repetition of the name. “God, I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Love . A word that should bring Nandor as much pain as the other and yet… Guillermo’s heartache, his abandon, his devotion have unlocked something inside of him. He lets himself free. His hands clench Guillermo’s backside and squeeze; he grinds their pelvises together in fervent desperation. Guillermo settles heavily on his chest, sinking his fingers into the vampire’s soft hair and raining kisses on his face.

“You will give yourself to me, won’t you?” Nandor whispers, an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “Finally?”

The weight of ecstasy and sorrow on Guillermo’s soul leaves no room for the exasperation that he should rightfully feel at those words. As if Guillermo has not given himself to Nandor every day for his entire adult life. As if he wouldn’t have gladly killed to be in this position decades before. But here, in this holy place, in the communion of their bodies and souls, Guillermo doesn’t scoff. He presses a gentle, wet, lingering kiss to Nandor’s lips before answering.

“You already have me, Master.”

“ Take this... and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you.”

They lay Nandor’s cape out on the grass like a blanket. It’s almost completely dark in the shadowy undergrowth, but Guillermo still blushes as he shrugs off his suit coat and begins unbuttoning his shirt, aware of the vampire’s heightened senses. The darkness presses up against Guillermo’s eyeballs; he strains to see merely the faintest outline of Nandor’s powerful frame. His face is a dark blur except for his eyes. Nandor’s predator eyes drink in every bit of ambient light and reflect it back at Guillermo. They glow. Hallowed, fiery rings in the night.

Guillermo is no longer a virgin. He feels a small, pitiful pang at the knowledge that he can’t give Nandor that part of himself. He’s slept with a few men over the years. But he’s never truly offered himself to any of them like he’s doing now. Guillermo takes off his shirt, his undershirt. He toes off his shoes and socks and undoes his belt. It’s cold and the cape is starting to absorb the dew and chill from the solid earth beneath, but he doesn’t shiver as he removes his pants and underwear. He lays on his back, nude, flushed, panting and achingly hard. He doesn’t feel the icy wind that raises goosebumps on his arms and hardens the pink tips of his nipples to little nubs. He is a sacrifice; an offering; a tribute. The cold can’t touch him now. Not with the fire of his lord’s eyes keeping him warm.

Nandor’s hands paint ribbons of freezing flame on his skin. They brush lightly, teasingly across his belly, his chest, his thighs. The vampire drapes himself over Guillermo and the human realizes that he’s also undressed. They both gasp as their rigid, leaking erections bump against each other. Guillermo bucks his hips in uncontrolled desire and he feels Nandor sink his fingers into the ample flesh of his thighs to hold him still. A huff of breathy amusement falls from the vampire’s lips. He grabs Guillermo up in another passionate kiss, nipping and licking his lips. A keening, vulnerable moan bubbles up from the vampire’s throat. He clutches Guillermo’s tender body against his cold,, cadaverous frame. Tears--frigid and laced with blood-- fall down his cheeks and mingle with Guillermo’s.

“Guillermo!” Nandor gasps, pulling back. His hands trace patterns on the pulsing hot skin of Guillermo’s neck. The human waits and listens to his master’s labored breathing. A plea hangs in the air between them. “Will you give me this as well, Guillermo? Your blood?”

“With faith in your love and mercy I eat your Body and drink your Blood.”

For the first time, Guillermo wonders if Nandor comes here every week with the intention of offering worship just as he does.

“Take it, Nandor,” he commands. His voice is strong, unwavering, loud in the solitude of their secluded grove. He reaches up blindly and takes Nandor’s face between his hands, guiding him down to the cradle of his neck until the vampire’s cool lips press against his skin. “Drink.”

Nandor whispers something against Guillermo’s neck before biting down. The words are an unintelligible susurrous. He recognizes them as Al Quolanudarese. And though he’s incapable of parsing them, they feel like secret magic words. Words that finally pulverize the last brick in the wall between them. Guillermo knows their meaning in his bones, in his heart, in his soul.

Nandor’s fangs pierce and bruise. His bite is brutal and honest. This is Nandor; no hiding, no subterfuge. He is violence and blood and frozen kisses. He is also the tender stroking of fingers along Guillermo’s tear-stained cheeks and the broken sob he makes an instant before the blood begins to flow. Guillermo’s eyes flutter shut and he fists his hands in the cape beneath him. Take me, take me, take me , he begs.

Blood and body.

He buries his hands in Nandor’s hair, cupping the crown of his head as nonsense prayers fall from his lips. He invokes every sacred symbol he knows. Nandor’s mouth; his tongue; his hands; his cock. The bedroom under the stairs. The candlelit crypt. The parking lot at the immigration office. The blood-stained robe from Celeste’s orgy. The ancestry reports. Wooden stakes and crucifixes. The claw-foot bathtub. Nandor’s hair oils. His coffin. Bubble gum and mason jars and flashcards and feather dusters and boot polish and ice chips and a portrait made from glitter: two men, impossibly hopeful, naive and in love.

When Nandor finally retracts his fangs from Guillermo’s neck, he laps at the spilled blood, kissing the soft, torn skin with a grateful, remorseful, worshipful reverence.

“My Guillermo,” he cries over and over again, rocking his hips subconsciously and panting as their cocks slide against one another. When he draws up on his elbows Guillermo can see his blood marring those perfectly cruel lips and staining his full beard. His voice is thick with tears. “Your blood, Guillermo. It’s…”

Guillermo nods, wiping Nandor’s cheeks even as his own tears fall into his hairline. “I know, Nandor. You’re mine now. Always.”

The vampire bows his head, pressing his lips to Guillermo’s soft chest directly over his rapidly beating heart. “Your blood is rushing, Guillermo. So eager to give me your life.”

Guillermo sighs, running his hands down the length of Nandor’s sides, squeezing his soft flanks and raising his hips to grind against him.

“And what are you eager to give me, Nandor?”

Nandor brings his hand up to Guillermo’s neck and catches the blood that still flows there. He hovers over Guillermo, balancing on one elbow as he moves his other hand between them and slides his wet, bloody fingers into the cleft of Guillermo’s backside. Guillermo feels the slick of his lifeblood against his sensitive skin as Nandor’s fingers probe and press into his entrance. A shiver wracks his frame at the utter indecency, the absolute sacrilege.

“Fuck,” Guillermo hisses as the first finger breaches the tight ring of muscle and enters him. “God! Nandor, yes.”

Nandor whimpers in gratitude at his human’s praise. He speaks absently, in the grips of religious ecstasy, “Let me show you, Guillermo. Please, let me show you.”

Guillermo writhes and nods his head, arching his back as another finger joins the first. “Show me you love me, Nandor. Show me you fucking worship me.”

A strangled growl fills the little grove and Nandor picks up the pace of his thrusting fingers, subtly rocking his erection against the tender skin of Guillermo’s thigh as he goes. His breath mingles with Guillermo’s as he leans in and presses their lips together in a slow, aching kiss. He inserts a third finger, stretching Guillermo out and swallowing the man’s groan.

“Now, Nandor,” an echo of desperation and sorrow tinges his voice. Nandor scrambles to comply. He removes his fingers, kneeling between Guillermo’s spread legs and placing shaking hands on the insides of his generous thighs, steadying himself.

Nandor doesn’t speak, but the sound of his breathing might as well be a love letter. He’s panting, there’s a hitch in his breath, a tremor in his fingers. Guillermo feels the tip of him against his hole and he nearly sobs with relief and joy and loss and guilt and exasperation. Why now? After all these years? Why on the night of his mother’s funeral when he is ragged and raw? Why couldn’t they have had this when Guillermo was still young and so pitifully in love with Nandor that he was willing to tarnish his soul for the vampire’s convenience? He thinks these things with regret, with melancholy longing and wistfulness; but never with anger.

This is his Nandor and Guillermo will take him and cherish him until he is buried in the ground. Nandor presses forward, entering him inch by inch. Stars burst in Guillermo’s eyes and amidst the furious physical sensations, a feverish thought flits through his head. When Guillermo is dead he wants to be buried in this very spot, in the soil beneath their naked bodies, on the site of their long-delayed consummation. The idea should repulse him, or sadden him, but instead it just feels right. He pictures Nandor visiting his grave every Sunday for the rest of the time and cants his hips, taking the vampire deeper as the blood trickles from his neck and his cock smears precum onto his belly.

Their bodies move together in a rhythm that’s both familiar and wonderfully new. They cling, claw, grab and stroke. Nandor’s length fills Guillermo; the vampire’s fingers wrap around Guillermo’s rigid cock and pump him as he thrusts. The words that fall from their lips are a heady, nonsensical, sacred blend of Spanish, Al Quolanudarese and English. Love is only the beginning. This is yearning, devotion, allegiance, becoming, undoing, transforming. Nandor is god is Guillermo is Nandor. They are whole for the first time in their lives.

The climax takes them both at the same time. Guillermo sobs, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as Nandor roars above him. Nandor spills his plentiful vampiric seed inside of him as Guillermo’s cum shoots out in hot ropes that paint his and Nandor’s bellies. He lets his softening cock fall from Guillermo’s body as he collapses down, pillowing his head on Guillermo’s chest and gasping for air that he doesn’t need. Guillermo cards his fingers through his hair and weeps.

He’s crying for the boy he once was. The one who loved his amá and wanted to make her proud. The boy who fell in love with a demon. The boy who dreamed and hoped and prayed and was disappointed. He’s crying for Nandor, too, who has lived for centuries without ever allowing himself to acknowledge the soft animal of his own emotions. And he’s crying for his amá, whose heart he broke for a decade and who never, ever stopped believing in him even when he came home at the age of 30, jobless, soulless, and ruined.

Nandor nuzzles his cheek against Guillermo’s sparsely-haired chest, pressing kisses into his sweat-slick skin and tracing patterns over his stomach with long, elegant fingers.

“I can hear your heartbeat, Guillermo,” he whispers. “Did you know I could always hear your heartbeat? It’s not usual. I mean, yes, of course vampires have super hearing, but we learn to tune all that out, you know? But never with you, my Guillermo. I listened to every beat of your little heart for eleven years. I was so afraid one day it would stop…”

In the soft, sacred dark Guillermo can finally ask the question, “Then why didn’t you ever turn me? You could’ve had me forever, immortal. Why, Nandor?”

Nandor sits up and his eyes glow as he looks down at Guillermo, a frown in his voice, “I didn’t want it to stop, Guillermo. I didn’t want to be the one to...make it stop.”

Guillermo shuts his eyes and they are quiet for a long, long time. He holds Nandor in his arms. The chill of the night air finally affects him and he shivers once. Nandor grabs the edge of the cape and pulls it over Guillermo to shield him. They lay beside each other, touching, breathing, listening. Guillermo traces the outline of Nandor’s lips, letting his finger dip inside his mouth and feeling the sharp edge of his fangs. Nandor allows it. Of course he does. He could not deny Guillermo anything. Not in this place. Not anywhere else, either. The knowledge settles in his veins, flows through him like Guillermo’s blood.

“Guillermo,” Nandor begins, drawing out the last syllable like he used to. “It is not too late…”

It’s a statement and a question. Guillermo holds his breath, waiting for the vampire to elaborate, but Nandor remains silent. A moment later he feels Nandor’s cold skin pressed to his lips. There’s warmth there, too, borrowed from his body. He tastes blood as Nandor presses his wrist firmly to Guillermo’s mouth.

“It’s not too late,” he repeats.

“May this mingling of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, bring eternal life to us who receive it.”

#wwdits fanfic #nandor x guillermo #nandermo #guillermo x nandor #guillermo de la cruz #nandor the relentless #smut #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fanfic

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 12 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 12: It’s the Buried, so… expect exactly what it says on the tin labeled Too Close I Cannot Breathe, that is to say: claustrophobia, being trapped, descriptions of asphyxiation and immobility, etc. Also: anxiety/panic symptoms; a brief mention of suicidal ideation; mentions of canon-typical worms & kidnapping; swears; and Lonely-typical Martin (isolation, low self-worth, etc.). SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 12: Lost and Found

Martin was so single-minded in reaching the Archives, he forgot to shroud himself before descending the stairs to the basement. It’s a miracle that no one was around to intercept him before he could make it to Jon’s office and close the door behind him.

For a long minute he stands there at the threshold, staring blankly into the room, taking in the bizarre scene.

A long, wooden crate sits in the center of the room, loose chains snaking underneath and coiled on the floor around it. A heavy padlock affixed to one of the links yawns open, key still fitted into the lock. Dozens upon dozens of tape recorders are arranged like a summoning circle around the box and every single one of them is on, filling the space with a low, jumbled drone of indistinct syllables.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Martin draws closer. When he catches sight of the ominous DO NOT OPEN scrawled on the lid, the realization hits him.

“Is that a coffin?” he says to himself, flummoxed.

“We really need you, Jon –”

Martin jumps just slightly when his ears pick out the sound of his own voice from the rest of the chatter. His eyes wander to Jon’s desk where a single tape recorder rests, isolated from the clutter on the floor. As the statement continues, Martin recognizes it with a jolt.

“We – I need you. And I – I know that you’re not – I know there’s no way to –”

“Where did he get this?” Martin wonders aloud, reaching out to pick the thing up – and only then does he notice the notebook it sits on. “Where did he get this?” he says, a bit louder.

There’s a scrap of paper sticking out of the top like a bookmark. Bewildered, he sets the tape recorder aside and flips the notebook open to the marked page.

Were I prone to flights of fancy, I daresay I would call his words portentous, the paper reads. Jon’s handwriting has always been nearly illegible, and it only got worse after his burn, but Martin is intimately familiar with it after all this time. A tiny swell of affection begins to bloom in his chest before he forces it back.

You can’t, he tells himself, shutting his eyes. Peter’s plan – whatever it may be – requires Martin to steep himself in loneliness.

Yes, he agreed to the plan assuming that Jon would never wake up. And he’s glad that Jon woke up, of course – albeit in a muffled, distant sort of way. He should probably be more bothered by that, but he notes it with only mild interest. It doesn’t change the simple fact that his feelings for Jon were never actually going to go anywhere. That sort of thing just… isn’t for Martin, let alone with Jon.

At least this way, Martin can put those dead-end feelings to some practical use. He has no illusions about being a hero. Even if Peter isn’t mistaken or lying about the Extinction’s emergence, Martin doubts that he of all people could make any real difference. But with any luck, maybe he can keep Jon safe – or safer, at least.

Not from himself, though, Martin thinks, glaring at the Coffin. He’s so…

He heaves a sigh before turning his attention back to the strip of paper with its cryptic message. The makeshift bookmark is held in place on the side by a paperclip. There is a drawn arrow pointing down, and his eyes follow its trajectory to see it pointing at –

Oh.

Martin can feel his cheeks flush. The arrow sits just above a stanza that he could best describe as blatantly pining, and…

“Oh, god, did Jon read this? That’s –”

“Embarrassing?”

Startled, Martin whips around to see a woman standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Martin, right? Your ears are very red right now,” she says with a smirk. “Don’t worry, he liked it. You saw the note, didn’t you? A bit heavy-handed. He’s always been dramatic, but he never used to be such a sap.”

Martin opens his mouth just slightly, but no sound comes out. The idea of speaking with another person grates at him, bringing his thoughts to a grinding halt like a crowbar jammed between corroded gears.

“I’m Georgie. Jon’s friend.” Martin shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, willing her to go away. She doesn’t, though; doesn’t even wait for him to reply before continuing: “We need to talk.”

It’s worse than it was the first time. How is it worse?

Did the stairs end so soon last time? Did the walls close in so quickly? How long has he been here already? How much longer will he have to stay?

Jon stops for a moment, panting in short gasps, desperate for whatever stagnant air he can force into his lungs. As if to protest the delay, the walls press in tighter and squeeze a breathless whimper out of him.

Keep moving, he tells himself. Just – keep moving. There’s an end, and if you keep moving, you’ll reach it faster.

Without warning or invitation, the tape recorder clicks on and Daisy’s statement begins to play.

“…kept walking into the earth” – a peal of static – “completely out of sight” – more static – “the lid closed very slowly, and then he was gone.”

That’s… not where he paused the tape the last time he listened to it, he realizes with crawling dread. Why did it pick up there? And it’s – is it making its own sentences, mimicking his clumsy attempts at communication? Is it mocking him, trying to stoke his fear? Can the Buried somehow affect the tapes? What else could possibly be doing it? The Powers usually hold no sway in one another’s domains – except for… except for the Watcher, after Jon opened the door.

He’s fairly certain that that no longer holds true. It’s not as if he can still direct the Ceaseless Watcher’s focus; that was in a future that has not – will not – come to pass. But still… curiosity is as much of a pest as it’s always been. Jon resists for a brief few moments before giving in to the urge to Know, even as he curses himself for it.

It becomes immediately clear that just like the last time, he can’t See anything in this place. Reassuring, in some ways – the Eye can’t reach him here, and neither can Jonah Magnus – but the Archivist in him still recoils at the confirmation: he can’t See, he can’t Know, he can’t –

Attempting to tamp down his mounting panic, Jon lets out a shaky breath.

Breathe, he tells himself – and an instant later, he realizes his mistake. Predictably enough, when he tries to draw in a breath, the earth contracts again and chokes him before he can get to the two-second mark. The forced exhale comes out as a whine, and he hates himself for it.

You can’t stop here, he thinks. Keep going.

Blinking grit out of his eyes, he presses on.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Martin mutters to himself, frowning at the weathered stone floor.

“What was that?” Georgie asks, glancing at him as she reaches the bottom of the ladder.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Georgie makes a show of scanning the tunnel.

“Well, I’m the only other one here.”

Martin’s gotten used to talking to himself, but he doesn’t bother explaining that. He’s already exhausted from what brief interaction he’s had with her so far, and he doesn’t care enough to push through the haze.

Georgie starts walking towards a collection of chairs arranged in a loose circle a little ways down the tunnel. Why are there chairs down here? he wonders idly, before discarding the question with deliberate indifference. He cannot afford to give his curiosity any quarter, no matter how mild.

“Well?” Georgie says, sitting down. “Pick a seat and fall into it. You look dead-on-your-feet tired. Honestly, I’m starting to think chronic fatigue is a job requirement for you lot.”

Martin lets out the beginnings of a small chuckle. Almost instantaneously, he strangles it, but the noise echoes in his head, unwanted and unsettling. It sounds wrong to his ears, discordant and out-of-place. It’s only now that he thinks to wonder how long it’s been since he’s laughed.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself automatically before repeating: “I really shouldn’t be here.”

“Listen,” Georgie says, taking on a more serious tone, “I promised Jon I’d pass a message to you, and this is the only place we can talk without your creeper boss spying on us.” She holds up a folded piece of paper. “He left you a letter, too.”

“Fine,” he says flatly, approaching and holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

“You can’t read it outside the tunnels.”

“Fine,” he says again through clenched teeth. She stares him down for a moment – he resists the impulse to back away – but she does hand it over. He meets her halfway, avoiding skin contact as he takes it from her. He doesn’t even have to put conscious thought into that anymore; at this point, it’s become second nature.

Taking a few steps back, he stares down at the paper held loosely in his hands. There is a part of him – shoved into a dusty corner of his mind, forcibly stifled and neglected – burning to unfold it. His thumb toys with one of the corners, peeling the top layer up ever so slightly before letting it snap back down with a soft fluttering noise. A more prominent presence overshadows the first, though, looming over his shoulder, whispering insistently about restraint and resolve and a greater purpose.

When he notices that Georgie is watching him, he sets his jaw and forces himself to meet her eyes.

“I can read just fine on my own. I don’t need company.”

“Don’t know about that,” she says, not quite under her breath. Then, in a more conversational tone: “There are a lot of things that Jon couldn’t communicate. I’m here to fill in the gaps.”

“He went into the Coffin.” Martin barely recognizes the monotone as coming from him.

Georgie makes an affirmative noise. Something ugly and unwanted simmers just underneath Martin’s contrived calm, a nagging itch clamoring for attention in the back of his mind. When Martin takes a breath, he can only manage to fill his lungs halfway.

“Why would he…”

Martin falters. It’s too broad of a query, and just scratching the surface is enough to break the uneasy ceasefire between the Powers laying claim to him. Martin can feel the pull of the Eye begging the question, the pushback of the Lonely at the prospect of involving himself with others.

“It says ‘do not open’ in big letters,” Martin says instead. Not a question, just an observation: a tangible, easily digestible detail that he can latch onto, enough to distract the Eye but impersonal so as not to offend the Forsaken.

Georgie snorts at that. “No better way to entice Jon to do the exact opposite.”

If she was trying for levity, it falls flat to Martin’s ears. The carefully constructed stillness he’s grown so adept at cloaking himself in shatters. When he speaks, his voice comes out sharp, louder – more emotional – than he had intended.

“Why is he so – why would he go in there?”

“Because –”

Martin makes an agitated noise before he can stop himself. The slight echo of his own voice bouncing back at him off the tunnel walls is already too much company; being repeatedly reminded that there is an entire other person here is unbearable. Every atom of his existence is screaming at him to turn his back on her and get away.

Georgie falls quiet and waits. After a few minutes cocooned safely within his own thoughts, Martin looks up and is surprised to see her still sitting there. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; he didn’t see her leave. There’s just some part of him that cannot reconcile the concept of someone else being physically present in the same space as him.

“Sit,” Georgie says. Just a single word, spoken softly but with the weight of a command.

Before he even consciously makes the decision to move, he’s closing the distance between them and lowering himself into a chair. Unthinkingly, he chooses the furthest possible seat from her, and when he sits, he scoots backwards a few feet, as unconscious and instinctive as breathing. If she notices, she doesn’t comment on it.

“It was important to him that you read that,” she says, nodding at the paper still clutched in Martin’s hands.

“‘Was’…?”

Georgie gives him a peculiar look. “It’s not a suicide note, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What? I wasn’t – I didn’t…”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Should it have? Is that something he should have thought to worry about – that he would have thought to worry about once upon a time? It – it is, isn’t it? He knows how Jon can be, how he spirals, how he’s his own worst enemy – how when he’s not actively putting himself in danger, he’s hurting himself through casual self-destruction and neglect. How much has Martin changed, that that possibility of Jon deliberately hurting himself didn’t even occur to him?

Wasn’t half the point of Martin doing this to protect Jon? Because he cares about Jon? When did he become so out-of-touch with that part of himself?

“Should I be worried?” he whispers to himself.

“No! I mean, not about that – not now, anyway – I mean –!” Georgie grimaces. “Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you something new to worry about. You just – you seemed hung up on the past tense?” She chuckles drily. “I think I’ve just been spending too much time with Jon. He overanalyzes things like that.”

“Semantics,” Martin says obscurely. He isn’t even entirely sure what he means, but Georgie nods as if she understands.

“Always have to be conscious of word choice around that man. I have seen him brood over verb tense for days trying to find meaning where none was intended, instead of just asking –”

“So what is it, then?” Martin interrupts, his voice tight, staring down at the paper in his hands again.

“It’s… hmm.” Georgie gives him a look that he can’t quite identify. “I think you should just read it. Take your time, and let me know when you have questions.”

“I don’t think –”

“Trust me,” she says with a tight smile, “you’ll have questions.”

“Fine,” Martin says, grinding his teeth together. Georgie seems nearly as stubborn as Jon. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can shake her off.

He heaves a longsuffering sigh and begins to read. As it turns out, he does have questions, the first of many making itself known mere seconds after he begins reading.

I’m sorry I left you.

…now I’m here, trying to explain things –

– had changed since he left –

– it seemed he was alone –

“Who is ‘he’?” Martin asks.

“Hm?”

“It keeps referring to a ‘he.’”

Georgie blinks. “You’re kidding, right? I know Jon is oblivious, but –”

“What?”

She frowns. “How far are you?”

“Only a few lines in…? ‘You’ is me, I’m assuming, since it is written for me, but then he jumps right into –”

“Oh,” Georgie says, sounding relieved for some reason. “Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t know yet – don’t get too tripped up by the pronouns. Ever since he woke up, Jon’s only been able to speak in statement quotes. Limits his options a bit.”

“That… explains some things,” Martin replies, remembering his brief encounter with Jon a few weeks ago. Martin had recognized some of the words as his own. It was bizarre, but he’d been trying not to dwell on the peculiarities of the one-sided conversation. Thinking about Jon at length always made it more difficult for Martin to stay away. But now that the subject is free-floating in the air like this, his sense of curiosity is making demands again. “Why?”

“No clue. Jon hasn’t really said, and I haven’t pressed him on it. I can tell there’s some baggage there, but I wasn’t going to make him unpack it when he wouldn’t have the time or space to actually sort through it just yet. I think it’s safe to assume it’s supernatural, though, not psychological. And it definitely isn’t by choice.”

Great, Martin thinks bitterly. Just what they need: more complications. When he turns his attention back to the letter, he doesn’t get much further in his reading before he has to stop again.

“Are you sure that Jon wrote this?”

“Mhm. He fussed over it for hours.”

“It’s just…”

“Weirdly communicative?” Georgie suggests, a knowing smirk on her face. “Uncharacteristically revealing and insightful? Indicating a level of self-awareness seemingly not typical for one Jonathan Sims?”

“I… I was just going to say ‘open,’ but… yeah?”

“Yeah,” Georgie echoes with a dry chuckle. “Just keep reading.”

Jon is stuck.

One arm is pinned to his side, elbow bruising where it presses against the wall. The other is stretched out ahead of him, bitten-short fingernails digging into the dirt for purchase. Useless; the earth is packed so tightly, he can’t quite get a grip. His bad leg is throbbing painfully with every slight shift, and he can’t seem to move the other at all. He tries to breathe through it, but he can’t seem to force his lungs to expand, trapped as he is in –

“A squeeze can be a hole less than a foot wide, sometimes going on for a long way, the rock pressing in on all sides of you,” the Archive recites matter-of-factly. “In a particularly bad squeeze, there are parts where the walls and ceiling are so close that you can’t move your arms or bend your legs to push forward, and you just have to squirm your way to the other side like a worm –”

Jon wriggles frantically, trying to pull one arm free to clap a hand over his mouth, but he’s stuck –

“– down, down, down, down, down below the earth, there was a worm. He had not always been a worm, of course, but time and tide and life had pushed him to it – and he was, as definitely always had been the case, trapped. Boarded on all sides with no escape and no recourse.” The words are strained and faltering, the pressure on Jon’s chest being what it is, but the Archive carries on, punctuated with the occasional gasp or grunt of pain but otherwise unrelenting. “Even in his faint and fading memories of a life that wasn’t simply stone and rancid, reeking soil, he wasn’t sure he’d ever known a thing that might be called freedom. Choices he had had, that’s true, and certainly compared to the relentless press of all the weight and dirt now on him, the simple choice of left or right or stand or sit would now seem the most outrageous of luxuries –”

Shut up, shut up, just shut up, Jon rails against the Archive, redoubling his struggling, but it forges ahead, as if to highlight the fact that Jon cannot.

“…this was a particularly bad squeeze. Near the end, it got so bad that, if Alena hadn’t gone in first, I would have told her to go back and forget Lost Johns’ Cave.”

Very funny, he thinks acidly.

“When had the crushing pressure in his chest become literal? When had the empty promise of the horizon finally vanished completely, replaced by the pitch darkness of this – forever wall of earth?”

Suddenly, the aforesaid earth expands outward like a vast beast drawing in a breath, and Jon pitches forward as the passageway widens just enough for him to move. It’s still a squeeze, but he can at least inch his way onward again. He takes advantage of the opportunity while it still exists, blunt fingernails scrabbling against the walls as he pulls himself along.

Something in Martin gives – an overlong tug-o-war brought to an unceremonious end by a snap in the rope, sending both sides careening backwards to the ground. Like a tightly-coiled spring let loose, he stands abruptly and begins to pace, trying to suppress the uncomfortable stirrings of emotion threatening to break through the fog.

“He’s only saying this because he thinks it’ll change my mind about working for Peter,” he mutters heatedly, running a hand through his hair, making sweeping gestures with his other hand. The letter still clenched in his fist flutters and crinkles with his sharp movements.

“What?”

“He’s just –” Martin throws his head back with an aggravated sigh. “He’s always been insensitive, but mostly in an – an awkward, off the cuff sort of way. And he can be snappish, but that’s mostly when he’s… scared, or overtired, or… but this,” Martin smacks the paper in his hand with the backs of his fingers, “this is just cruel.”

“I don’t understa-”

“Of course you don’t,” Martin spits out. “Just – using my – my feelings for him to try to manipulate –”

“Hey, hey, whoa,” Georgie interrupts, “that’s not –”

“What, then?” He laughs, and it feels almost caustic on his tongue. “He just – he’s gone for six months and then he comes back and suddenly he’s – he’s giving a love confession?”

“Yeah, he was worried that you wouldn’t be-”

“He doesn’t even like me most of the time!” Martin’s voice cracks, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Even after – I mean, he was nicer in the months before…” He closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat, unable to say the words. “But he wasn’t around much, so it makes sense. He wasn’t having to put up with me on a daily basis. Made it easy for him to forget all the things about me that he hated.”

“I don’t think –”

“And – and even when he was here, he was distant. Avoiding all of us, like it would keep us… I don’t know, safe?” Martin’s arms fall limp at his side, the fight gone out of him. “And – and then he… just…”

He trails off feebly, his burst of energy sapping away from him. When he doesn’t rally, Georgie begins to speak.

“Well… being avoidant and snippy, that definitely sounds like Jon,” she concedes. “But trust me, he’s not capable of using your feelings for him to manipulate you.”

“What?” Martin eyes flick to her.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s an ass sometimes. I know he mistreated you. He knows he mistreated you. He said as much when he was staying with me.”

He did?

“Judging by your reaction, I’m assuming he never told you as much.” Georgie sighs. “I told him to try talking to you. He was isolating himself, and he needed more than just me – needed someone who actually knew about… well, everything that goes on here. And I suggested you, since he talked about you all the time.”

He did? Martin thinks again, disbelieving.

“And based on what he said, it seemed like you cared about him? Though I don’t think he realized how much. Honestly, he didn’t even notice how much he went on about you until I started pointing it out.” She gives him an amused look, and Martin averts his eyes. “He’s astonishingly oblivious sometimes. He gets so focused on the little details that he misses the big picture. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Martin continues to stare at his feet, muscles tensed and knees locked.

“Anyway, he was worried about you, too. I kept nagging him about it. Eventually he did say he talked to you, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t exactly a heart-to-heart.”

“No,” Martin says quietly. “I mean, he did talk to me after he was kidnapped for the first time –”

“The first time?” Georgie repeats. “It happened more than once?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. He hates that he has to specify which kidnapping. “He… wanted to check in with me before going traveling. And he… did seem worried, I guess?” After a beat, Martin adds hurriedly: “About – about all of us.”

“But he mentioned you specifically. Said you were taking on too much.”

“I was –” Martin splutters, pulling his hand away from his face and flinging his arm out in agitation. “How can he of all people say –”

“I know, I know,” Georgie says, placating. “He’s a self-destructive workaholic throwing stones at glass houses.”

“Boulders, more like,” he huffs. Georgie chuckles at that.

Martin thinks back. Elias had had him start reading statements to keep up with the workload while Jon was… in hiding, then doing independent investigation, then kidnapped – which Elias had neglected to even mention. Jon had always seemed fixated on the statements to the point of possessiveness, and Martin had been anxious that Jon would feel like he was… infringing, somehow? And Jon had been upset, but not jealous or territorial as Martin had expected. He was… he was worried, wasn’t he? That the statements would take a toll on Martin’s mental health? Because Jon knew what they were like, and…

More like setting an avalanche on a glass house, Martin thinks, pressing his lips together in a thin line.

“Couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that someone might be worried about him.” It isn’t until he hears his voice that he realizes he’s spoken the thought aloud.

“Yeah. He’s always been like that. I think he’s working on it, though?” When Martin doesn’t respond, Georgie continues. “But, back to my earlier point… yes, he can be an ass. But saying that he loves you, just to convince you to come back? Does that really sound like him to you?”

“It’s more likely than the alternative,” Martin says stubbornly, and Georgie sighs.

“It’s just… not something he would even think to do in the first place. His guilt complex wouldn’t allow for it, first off. And he can be thoughtless, but even when he’s being harsh, it’s not premeditated. But more than that, he’s not… hm. How to put this nicely…” She taps the knuckles of one hand lightly against her lips. “Jon doesn’t have the emotional intelligence necessary for that.”

Martin blinks several times, lips parted just slightly.

“That was… uh, blunt.”

“Well, it’s true.” Georgie shrugs, unconcerned. “He’s clever in a lot of ways, but this sort of thing doesn’t come naturally to him. Has trouble enough processing his own feelings, let alone managing others’ emotions. He’s always been either hypervigilant or oblivious with not much middle ground.” She casts a pensive look at the floor. “He seems… better than he used to be – or he’s trying, at least – but I still wouldn’t call him socially skilled. And even if he was, he’s still just not subtle enough to be deliberately manipulative.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s a shit liar.” Martin snorts at that, and Georgie grins. “I take it you’ve noticed.”

“A little over a year ago, he got stabbed –”

“Of course he did,” Georgie groans.

“Refused to explain how it happened. Said he cut himself with a bread knife.”

“A bread knife?” This time, she laughs outright.

“I know, right?” Martin exhales with a little heh. “He just – I knew he was lying, and he knew that I knew he was lying, but he just – he stuck to that story.” His lips curl into a small, timid, but inarguably fond smile. “Just… stubborn, you know?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, the corners of her eyes crinkling when she mirrors his expression.

Martin clears his throat, smile fading. “But – but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does, though.”

Martin looks off to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Look,” Georgie says, “I’ve known Jon awhile. We even dated for a time.” Martin’s knee-jerk flicker of jealousy must show on his face, because Georgie grins. “Don’t worry, we’re not romantically compatible, as it turns out. Strictly platonic.”

“I didn’t say any-”

“You didn’t have to.” Before Martin can protest again, she presses on. “Point is, you can trust me when I say that he’s not the type to throw the word ‘love’ around carelessly, let alone to use it for emotional manipulation.”

“Fine,” Martin says tersely, digging his heels in again. “Then he’s just mistaken. What he feels isn’t love. He just feels guilty, and – and lonely, and he thinks this will make it hurt less.” Martin scoffs. “Or, hell, even the opposite: he knows this won’t work and he’s hoping it hurts when I push him away, so that we’ll be even. Using me to – to punish himself.”

“Yeah, I can see why you’d think that,” Georgie says. “But it’s not the case. He’s… changed a lot.”

“When? How? You – you keep saying that, but what is that even supposed to mean?” His lips move soundlessly for several seconds before he bursts out, “He was asleep for six months, not – not getting therapy!”

Georgie raises her eyebrows at the increasingly battered letter trembling in Martin’s clenched fist.

“I think you should keep reading.”

“H-h-hello?”

The voice is weak, almost a whisper, but it startles Jon all the same. It sounded like it was coming from some immeasurable distance to his right, and he strains his ears for more.

“Is – is someone there? P-please, please help me, I can’t – I don’t know where I am, I – I can’t –”

It cuts out with a strained wheeze, but Jon’s heard enough to recognize it.

Well, he doesn’t know who it belongs to, but he’s heard it before, the first time he was here: a hapless plea from a stranger who Jon failed to save. The words are exactly the same. He knows, because they’ve haunted him since the first time he heard them, playing over and over in his mind on sleepless nights. Even after the ritual, they remained etched in his memory, only now they had to compete with the cries of the billions of other souls that Jon had condemned. That he could not help.

“Please,” the voice tries again. “Please, are you still there?” Jon tries to grasp for a statement, but the Archive is eerily silent. “H-hello? Please, please say something.”

Jon was unable to find him last time, but maybe… maybe this time, he can –

As if to quash that thought, the earth begins to shake, rattling his teeth and sending a shooting pain through his bad leg.

“Help me–!” The stranger lets out the beginning of a muffled scream, cut short when the earth surrounding them begins to properly heave and thunder.

The packed dirt beneath Jon’s feet begins to give way and then he’s falling, swept down, down, down. He doesn’t know how long the landslide continues before the earth becomes solid again, compressing around him and arresting his descent.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers to no one, as his ragged panting begins to subside. “I –”

His eyelids fly open and he barely registers the grit that begins to sting his eyes.

“It’s me?” he murmurs with a sense of wonder. Daring, he tests again: “Not the Archive.” He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Just – just me –”

The hungry earth constricts again as if with a vengeance, smothering the words before they can leave his throat and filling his mouth with the taste of soil.

As Martin reads on, his restless pacing continues.

After leaving the hospital, the next thing that is properly clear in my mind is –

– I need him to be okay.

I couldn’t see him or hear him –

– I didn’t even get a chance to speak to him – asked what had happened, he was just gone. And I was alone again.

Jon doesn’t know what it is to be Lonely, Martin thinks bitterly. Martin of all people knows what it is to be alone, and Jon isn’t alone. And as long as Martin can keep Peter distracted, he won’t be. Martin made his choice. He has to see this through.

A moment later, though, he’s admonishing himself. He’s being unkind. Unnecessarily harsh. It isn’t Jon’s fault that Martin’s Lonely. This is just a poorly veiled attempt to distract himself from the surge of guilt he feels at reading the words. Because… because there’s no denying that Martin wasn’t there when Jon woke up; that he hasn’t been there since Jon came back. Jon might not need him, not really, but… Martin still should have been there, right? What if he never gets another chance?

Martin’s blood runs cold in his veins, his chest tightening more with every passing moment.

What if… what if Jon never comes home?

I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –

– I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed.

I think he might be part of something really awful, and I don’t know how to make him see that – of course I did worry. I knew that, secretly, he was as well.

Martin huffs, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes.

“What?” Georgie asks.

“Nothing,” he says, tongue feeling thick and heavy in his dry mouth. “He just… sometimes I wonder if he actually hears himself speak.”

“Mm. Yeah, I get that,” she says after a moment, but Martin is already looking back down at the letter.

I know how that sounds – but – I ask you to read on.

Don’t… misunderstand me, please –

– I trusted his instincts almost as much as I trusted my own.

There was a time – not even that long ago – that hearing Jon say that he trusted him would have meant… everything. Now, it skates right over him, leaving only the barest impression. Or, that’s what Martin tells himself as he reads on.

More truthfully, it’s that he doesn’t dare pause to examine his emotional state right now.

Jon continues… begging, really, for Martin to listen to him. Ironic, really. How many times have the roles been reversed? How many times did Jon brush off Martin’s sincere attempts to take care of him, to encourage him to take care of himself?

And then –

Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –

– travel through time.

Martin rereads the lines silently to himself several times, his brain wrapping around the individual words without quite comprehending the whole.

“Travel through time?” he says, as if it will make any more sense spoken aloud.

“Right.” Georgie takes a breath, claps her hands on her knees, and gives Martin a significant look. “You… may want to sit down for this part.”

Partly to keep himself company, partly to make strategic use of this newest development in his overly convoluted existence, Jon records a statement: a rambling, stream-of-consciousness explanation, cramming as many of his own words as he can onto the tape while he has the chance.

“Every – every single mark was orchestrated by Jonah. Well, almost every one. I was marked by the Web when I was – when I found – when…” Even now, he cannot bring himself to share it where someone else might hear. “Before I ever started working at the Institute,” he says instead, “which is partly why Jonah saw me as a candidate in the first place. That and… and how easy I was to manipulate. You were right, Georgie, when you suggested that I was chosen because of my inexperience, not in spite of it. He… he read me like a… he knew I would play right into his hands.

“And – and of course being marked by the Eye, that happened when I signed the contract to become the Head Archi- well… the Archivist. Though, I think what crystallized it may have been my, ah – need to know, and – and paranoia, after…” Grimacing, Jon scrapes by another tight segment of the passage. “After finding Gertrude’s body. After Jane Prentiss. Jonah knew that she was targeting the Institute, and he let it happen. Put everyone in danger just to see how resilient I was, if I was… if I was a survivor, if I was worth investing in or if I should just be – eliminated, so he could move on to more promising candidate –”

Jon lets out a strained whine as he struggles through yet another squeeze.

“And I – I survived. Not that I had anything to do with that. It was… it was Sasha’s competence, her ability to act under pressure and think on her feet, which was – the last time we saw her, the real her, and I should have…” Jon swallows thickly. “And – and Tim, finding the fire extinguishers, and coming back to help Martin and me, because he… he was brave, and he wouldn’t abandon us. And Martin, being… well, being Martin. Making the fear bearable, because that’s just… how he is, isn’t it?” His fond chuckle dies in his throat, choked with dirt and persistent, unshed tears. “Caring, stubbornly caring, even when we were both about to die, even though I’d done nothing to deserve his consideration.”

The squeeze opens up a bit, allowing Jon to draw in a shallow breath. The air is stale, humid, and saturated with dust, but at least it lets him exercise his lungs a little.

“An-anyway – Jonah, ah, he was watching the whole time. Deliberately waited to activate the sprinkler system until the worms had…” Jon shudders, trying to ignore the way his scars begin to itch and crawl. “And Tim – he got caught up in it, too, just because – because he was too close to me at the wrong time. I guess that – that never stopped being true, did it?

“The next few marks were… well, I couldn’t have made it any easier for Jonah.” Jon laughs, a bitter wheeze of a thing. “I just had to go looking for answers. Stupid. All he had to do is leave me a few pertinent statements and watch as I walked right into the Vast and the Desolation…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Martin says flatly.

“Not at all.”

“Time travel.”

“Yep.”

“Actual, legitimate time travel.”

“I don’t know what distinguishes legitimate time travel from illegitimate” – Martin rolls his eyes – “but sure?”

“How?”

“Not entirely sure? Jon’s had trouble going into detail given… well, his current limitations. Something about a wormhole in a spooky house?” She frowns. “And he mentioned spiders offhand once, but I still don’t know whether he meant it literally or metaphorically.”

Martin doesn’t reply to that. He paces, paces, paces in short, erratic bursts. The hand not holding the letter curls into fist, fingernails cutting into the palm.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Georgie ventures.

“I… I don’t know,” Martin answers truthfully. “It’s just – a lot. Elias is Jonah Magnus, and – and he forced Jon to…”

He stops his pacing and unclenches his fist, only for his fingers to begin twitching and flexing, as if itching for something to wring or throttle or crush. The pounding in his ears nearly drowns out his own noisy breathing, and he has to take a minute to relax his jaw before he speaks.

“How… how is he?” He manages to keep his voice remarkably calm, considering the crackling, pent-up energy roiling within him.

“Handling it better than I would have expected, honestly? I mean – don’t get me wrong, he’s… traumatized. Guilty. Keeps referring to himself as a monster, and I don’t think that’s entirely because he doesn’t have any better words to use. Still not taking care of himself as much as I would like, but… for once, I don’t think he’s just being careless? It’s more like… I don’t know.” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together in front of her mouth and gaze fixed on the floor. “He’s afraid to sleep, afraid to read statements – which I guess is like eating for him now? It’s like he has to choose between fulfilling a basic need and… well, triggering a panic attack. It’s not a fair choice to ask him to make, and it would be unfair for me to hold that against him.”

“None of that sounds like ‘handling it.’”

“Except he’s not just giving in to despair, and for once he’s not going it alone. He’s actually asking for help, and accepting it when it’s offered.” She straightens in her seat again, and Martin resolutely ignores the pointed look she gives him. “He’s been openly communicating – not just about the facts, but about his own feelings.”

“Not enough to keep him from taking it upon himself to – to bury himself alive, apparently. And for a person who tried to slit his throat and – and leave him to… you know, if Basira hadn’t stepped in, I – we never would have known what happened to him.”

Martin thinks back to the day Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute.

“I don’t want to become a mystery,” Jon had said. “I refuse to become another goddamn mystery.”

That was the first time he had really seen Jon with his guard down. Martin remembers every detail: the tone of his voice, the set of his jaw, the thinly veiled desperation in his eyes when he finally offered Martin a candid glimpse of what lives behind all those obdurate walls he hides behind…

“Because I’m scared, Martin!”

So much about Jonathan Sims had made sense after that.

“Well,” Georgie says, “he trusted us enough to tell us where he was going this time.”

“And you let him go?” Martin says, far more vehemently than he had intended.

“First off, there’s no letting him do anything,” Georgie says sternly. “He’s an adult; I can’t control him. It’s not my job to control him. But yes,” she continues after a pause, softer now, “he explained the situation and I told him I’d support him.”

“Why?”

“Because he said he knew what he was doing.”

“And you actually believed him?”

“Yes. Because I really do think he’s changed. He promised me that this isn’t more of the same, and I believe him.” Georgie shrugs. “Also, he’s from the future and he’s done this once already. Though I’m willing to bet that the last time, he didn’t tell anyone what he was planning.” Staring at Martin intently, she leans forward again. He takes an automatic step back, as if pushed. “He’s trying to do better. I think he deserves a chance to prove it – maybe to himself more than anyone else.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t –”

“Then sit back down and read the rest.”

He doesn’t sit, but he does return to the letter. And it’s… well, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Jon knows about the Extinction. He knows that Martin is cooperating with Peter partly to protect him. He knows that Peter’s plans involve Martin’s isolation.

None of that is surprising, if Jon actually is from the future. He seems confident that the Extinction isn’t as imminent a threat as Peter claims, so if Jon does have future knowledge, then… well, Martin might have to reevaluate some things.

But despite the weight of that revelation, that isn’t what’s dominating the forefront of Martin’s mind right this moment. What’s tripping him up right now is…

He deserved to –

– to be – beloved –

– cared for – trusted –

– being wanted and appreciated –

– being genuinely loved –

– no matter how wrong it might feel –

– when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable.

I need him to be okay –

– and the world is so much better for –

– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with –

– being in it.

Almost sedately, in stark contrast to his earlier burst of manic energy, Martin finally lowers himself into the nearest chair. It’s only later that he’ll realize that he didn’t pause beforehand to assess which seating option offered the furthest physical distance from Georgie.

“You’re… sure Jon wrote this?” he says meekly.

Georgie sighs heavily, but when she rolls her eyes, it’s with amused exasperation rather than true annoyance.

“Like I said the last eleven times you asked, yes. They aren’t his words exactly, but the meaning behind them is his. And I don’t think it was the apocalypse that made him so sentimental.” Martin gives her a bemused look, and she sighs again. “It was you, okay? And it started way before whatever happened in his future. He was besotted when he was staying with me last year, even if he didn’t realize it for what it was. And he might be clumsy at expressing it, but… you know as well as I do that he overthinks everything, and I don’t think that’s changed any. If he was confident enough to say all those things, he means it.”

“It’s just…” Martin trails off, gesturing vaguely with one hand. It isn’t impossible for him to conceptualize of Jon as someone capable of love. The impossible part is that… “It’s me, you know?”

“Yeah, and so does Jon, and it seems he likes you as you are.” She waits for Martin to look up before she continues. “I won’t tell you what to do with that information. I think he would agree with me when I say that you aren’t obligated to reciprocate. But I will tell you that he had the exact same reaction to you caring about him. Regardless of how you see yourselves, neither of you seems to think that the other is unlovable.”

Martin… doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s too much, too fast, too unexpected – too unbelievable.

“Did he, ah…” The Lonely kicks up a furious objection, but Martin forces himself to ask the question. “Did he say how long he would be gone?”

Yet again, Jon is pinned, panting and shaky from the exertion of struggling fruitlessly for… well, he isn’t sure how long he’s been stuck. He isn’t even sure how long he’s been in the Coffin. He managed to dodge giving a specific timeline for when to expect him back – he didn’t want to worry anyone if he missed a deadline – but he did insinuate that it shouldn’t take more than a week. Secretly, he hoped he could return more quickly than he did the last time.

As expected, though, he has no sense of the passing of time in here, beyond just too long. Too long without air, too long without stretching, too long without Seeing –

That familiar rumbling is starting up again, distant at first but moving closer, closer, closer like an oncoming freight train, volume climbing louder and louder until the entire earth is roaring. The walls contract abruptly with an earsplitting crack, punching the scant amount of air in his lungs out in a wracking wheeze. From all around him come the grunts and groans and yelps of pain from who knows how many fellow trapped souls, but there is one cry in particular that draws his attention.

“Daisy?” His hoarse voice cracks, and he clears his throat before trying again. “Daisy!”

“Jon!”

End Notes:

Sorry for the delay!! Last week was very busy for me; I didn't have much time for writing.

Citations are as follows: Section 1: The ‘we need you’ bits are from Martin’s dialogue in the S4 trailer. The ‘Were I prone to flights of fancy…’ line is from MAG 007. Section 2: Excerpts of Daisy’s statement are from MAG 061. Section 3: None. Section 4: Jon/the Archive’s dialogue comes from the following episodes, in order: 015, 166, 015, 166. Sections 5 & 6: None. Section 7: See last chapter for citations for Jon’s letter to Martin. Section 8: Jon quotes are from MAG 039; see last chapter for citations for the letter excerpts. Section 9: None.

Also,,, my ace/aro-spec ass is not a poet, and I wasn’t going to embarrass myself by attempting to write a love poem. Just pretend it’s affecting, S1-S2-era awkward Martin yearning, complete with that very relatable experience of reading your past writing and cringing because oh, god, the mortifying ordeal of confronting the person you were a minute ago, let alone years ago.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers

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courtorderedcake · 4 years ago

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Procrastination: An Apology - Apothecary Shoppe Smut (REPOST)

I did a bad thing.

Instead of writing my piece for @cssns that I was supposed to have done a week ago, I present to you this, as an apology. Sorry. Kind of. Maybe. Not really.

Rate E for Enticing. And Explicit. It’s fucking, because I’m not fucking doing what I need to be.

I’ll finish my shit eventually.

NSFW art available via Pillowfort, this was uploaded in 2018 before but Tumblr flagged it.

Working in an apothecary has its perks when it comes to magic. For Killian Jones, one of those perks happens to be the beautiful customer that seems to always be buying one thing or another.

Killian idly passed time sorting books as Belle had taught him, waiting for the clock to inevitably bring closing time. His job at the Chipped Cauldron was interesting, the place was small and quiet with only a few patrons at a time. As a discharged and dishonored warlock it was perfect work to avoid any questioning eyes, people unsurprised that a potion maker’s arm ended in a gnarled stump.

Today had been quiet, too quiet as far as he was concerned. He’d done everything that could be done twice, now back to his third time sorting books. He wanted to go home. It wasn’t even that he had plans other than to go to his flat and drink, but he was having an off day.

She hadn’t come in today.

For the last 4 months or so, one Emma Swan (per her scratched signature), had been coming in twice a week to pick up various supplies, and he had found himself enjoying their talks.

(And, well, her voice, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about the historical constructs behind why there were so little female potion’s masters and how certain ingredients smelled so much better fresh but she would have to make do, or how breathtaking her shoulders looked when she took that red jacket off. He wanted to bite one just to see the mark against that pale skin -)

No. He frowned deeper, eyebrows furrowed. If this wasn’t his place of work that his friend Belle had painstakingly gotten him, he would pursue her aggressively like he had in bars for a quick fuck… But no, actually he wouldn’t. She seemed the type that liked gentleman, black glasses pushed up her nose again and again, simple ponytail, cardigan over a summer dress or skirt and blouse. Surprising even himself, he realized he’d court her if she showed any interest in him outside of his fantasies.

She didn’t. She dutifully came in and drove him insane.

“Hey, herb guy!” She’d yelled at him the first time he saw her, immediately irritating him. He stomped over to the aisle she’d called from ready to give her a good shushing, until he looked up to see an angel perched precariously on a ladder reaching for a jar of gargoyle tears. “A little help? I think I broke your ladder.”

“Oh.” he said, and regretted how absolutely stupid he sounded. “Ah, yes, here. Let’s get you down and I’ll get it for you.” He extended his good hand towards her, and she took it, stumbling down the wobbling ladder. When she stood next to him she’d looked up at him with kind eyes, and he forgot any reason to be mad at anything.

“Thank you. It’s an ingredient Belle recommended for a spell I found in old book of Scandinavian curses. They’re heavier than I thought it would be.” She pointed to the jar, it’s tear shaped stones glittering. He climbed and grabbed it, carefully balancing on the wobbly ladder before jumping the last few steps and handing it to her.

“Here you are. If you need anything else…” He scratched behind his ear, and nodded to his desk area. She smiled at him, and as he turned grabbed his arm.

“Really though, thank you. Killian, right? Belle told me about you and I appreciate it.” She turned and walked down the aisle, picking up a large pile of books she had collected and placing them in a basket with various ingredients. When she was out of sight, he groaned quietly. Belle talking to people, or warning people he should say, about his irritability was a great end to his and Swan’s meeting.

(She probably bloody well knew him as the moody, brooding Warlock that occasionally set off a stinging nettle spell to get the odd wanker back out of the shop and on his way, if he was in such a foul temper)

When she began coming in every other day for this or that, he found himself excited to see her. He subconsciously dressed a bit nicer, read books that might pique her interest to talk to him, and on braver days he’d write up signs with potions that could be made with her favorite ingredients, hoping she would strike up conversation. She never noticed him really, a quick hello and then endless torture as she perused or read in their small lounge area.

Swan also had a habit of needing ingredients she couldn’t reach, a talent that he was torn about. On one hand, when he went over to grab her chosen goods, her warm body was so close to his that he could smell her hair or perfume.

(He was close enough to kiss her neck, or run his tongue down her spine listening to her moan -)

And that, was the other hand. She showed no interest in him, and her sweet demeanor made him feel guilty everytime those jade eyes looked up at him when she apologized for bumping him. That had almost killed him: as he reached for a container of mandrake leaves, some had slipped out and she made to grab them. As she moved up, her beautiful ass had ground against him and he resisted every urge to rut up against her.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m glad we saved these! They’re so valuable, I’d hate to waste any.” She’d smiled at him and he’d quietly adjusted himself at his desk. Lately she’d been winding down the reading and talking to him more, inviting him over to her table to quiz her on her technique or to recommend spell books for practice. He’d helped her edit recipes and directions, hovering over her shoulder while his body begged an end to its needy fantasies.

(Her mouth in that perfect, pretty shape when she says his name, and he’s buried deep, hot and hard in her warmth -)

She wasn’t here today though, and closing was in 30 minutes. No point for any type of special signs or added charms to brighten the place. He began to lock up, unsure why her absence made him so damn irritable. The door chime went off and his ears perked up.

“We close in twenty minutes, so please if you’re getting something make it qui - “

Swan came down the aisle towards him, and he felt his heart leap. She was wearing a pink dress that made her practically glow, and he was very aware in this moment that it was only them in the building at the present. His mouth felt dry spying a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“I need to get another book, can you help me? I just went on the most awful blind date, and immediately came here because the ridiculously hot herb guy that has been ignoring my flirting would be better company. I just thought, if I’m thinking about him on dates with other men, than he should know. Bluntly. Because you’re oblivious. Is there a spell, potion, or book that could help me with that?” she rambled and he felt his heart beating in his ears.

“It’s not that simple, Swan, I think you’re wonderful but I’m -”

“Emma. Call me Emma, Killian. Belle told me. Luckily for you, I like broody, ill-tempered, swaggering men who will only make eyes from me across the room.” she smirked deviously, and the heat that swept through him made his skin tingle.

“I suppose you can’t read a book by it’s cover, you came in here with this… Soft and cutesy attire, besides that red jacket of yours, everything you wore was so - “

She groaned and slid a hand over her face. “I know, that explains so much. My apartment had a pipe explode and everything in my bedroom was ruined. I’ve been staying with my roommate and borrowing her clothing. She dresses like the grandmother of a Disney princess, but it works for her, just not me… However, even if I did dress like this,” she took a step forward with a grin. “I’d prefer someone who could take control.” He groaned quietly, as she pressed herself against him.

“Let me lock up. Stay here.” he rushed to the door, locking it and flipping the sign with a wave. Placing the enchantments on the building, and turning off the front lights, he practically ran back to her.

“There, no interruptions.” He looked her dead in the eyes, then pressed his lips to hers. They started slow, and then he began kissing her hungrily, as she grabbed at his shirt to pull him closer. Her mouth on his felt amazing, it felt right, her tongue and his exploring each others lips.

He pulled away breathless for a moment. “Emma, this… I want this, but it’s your last chance to back out if you want to. This can be a one time thing, if you want.” His voice was hoarse as he searched her face. “If you stay though, I’m going to do everything to you that I’ve thought about since you came in here that first day. I’m going to fuck you senseless, do you understand?”

She panted into him, and nodded. “Yes, please.” she whispered and every synapse in is body lit.

“Oh thank every star, I’ve waited entirely too long for this.” He crashed his mouth against hers, pushing her against a shelf, immediately hiking up her dress to find her clit. “God’s above you fucking siren.” She wasn’t wearing any knickers, her wetness already leaking between her thighs under the dim lights. He stroked a finger into her, listening to her moan while he circled his thumb on her clit. “That day you ground against me? If I had known, I would have pulled you into a closet and grabbed your ass with both hands, pulled you against me so you could feel how hard I was.” he took her hand and pressed it against his pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric as he added another finger to her wetness.

Withdrawing his hand as she protested, he licked his fingers. “You’re delicious. I think I’ll have more than a taste. He knelt as her eyes went wide, letting him pull on of her legs over his shoulder.

Killian’s first slow lick had her eyes closing, and mouth keening out a cry of pleasure. He smirked. This would be easy. He felt like a man starved, slurping and gently nipping when she bucked her hips up into his face, desperate for him to stop torturing her. When her hips shook and he felt the beginning flutters of orgasm, Killian pulled away, watching her chest rise and fall with her panting breaths.

“No. You made me wait, made me sit there with my cock hard imagining ways to fuck you until you couldn’t walk. You’ll wait.”

Pulling her by the arm, he pushed her against a table, bent over as he pushed her skirt up again. Removing his belt and releasing himself from his trousers, he stroked himself a few times before sliding slow between her folds coating himself.

“I love the feel of how wet you are, Emma. And, I love the feel of your arse, Gods you are beautiful. I need to bury myself in you, and I think you’d like that, hm?” He gave her ass a smack and she moaned, wriggling slightly. “Here’s the catch love: I don’t care how good it feels, and it will - Do not come on my cock. If you do, I will leave you with quite the reminder when you can’t sit tomorrow.” he chuckled darkly, before hissing and whispering a spell for protection.

“There we are love,” He nudged himself into position, his stump against her thigh and palm pressed to the small of her back. He slid into her with one hard thrust, sinking with a deep groan as she moaned. He set a fast pace, relishing in how good she felt around him.

“You’re so fucking tight, your quim feels like magic, fuck, Emma -”

He pistoned his hips, fucking her hard against the table as it rocked slightly. Emma’s moans drove him insane, his body bucking at different angles to illicit keening cries.

“Please, please don’t stop! Ah, Killian, that’s so good!” Her body tensed, and he let out a groan as she came on his cock, shuddering and screaming his name. She panted, and he continued languid movements as she came down from her high. Sliding his body over hers, while kissing her neck, he bit down hard on her shoulder and she cried out with a buck of her hips.

“I told you not to come.” Killian murmured, licking the mark. Pulling away from Emma and out of her heat, he smacked her ass hard, and she whimpered as she tried to press against his hips. He continued hard smacks until he was satisfied, running his nails over the reddened skin. “Turn over, love, and on your knees. That’s a good, lass.”

Killian presented himself to her, and Emma took him in her mouth, swallowing him to his base. His eyes rolled back into his head, as he felt her hands lightly press on his thighs, her tongue swirling as he tried not to ram himself down her throat.

Spreading his legs further apart, he wrapped his fingers in her hair as she bobbed on his length. His breath came in harsh pants as she hollowed her cheeks, his release close.

Pulling her back as her mouth made a satisfying pop around his cock, he pulled her up to claim her mouth with his. He placed her back on the table, thrusting into her heat in one precise move that made her moan his name. Her nails clawed at his back while he ground his hips, her walls spasming as he lost himself in a few final thrusts. They panted, his chest pressed against hers as they came down. After a moment he pulled away, a quick wave of her hand and a few pieces of parchment became a set of warm wet rags. He cleaned himself, the rag incerating with a snap of his fingers. While they were still warm from the flame, he traced the line of her collarbone stepping back between her legs while she pulled down her crumpled dress.

“That was…” Emma whispered. “As I said, it can be a one time thing, if you like.” He pushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. He held his breath, trying not to hope.

“That’s probably smart.” Her eyes were downcast, and she chewed her lip.

“Aye.” Killian sighed, stepping back. “I understand, I’ll see you out.”

“This shop has the best selection and the most knowledgeable sorcerer I’ve met, though. Having access to him after hours might be a perk I’m willing to live with, if occasional dinners were involved.” Her voice was light, and he turned, the small smile on her face lighting her eyes like emerald witch-fire under a cauldron.

“Warlock, darling. A devilishly handsome Warlock.” He smirked, striding forward and capturing her lips in a kiss that left them breathless. “As for dinner, there’s a diner down the street that’s open late. If you don’t have plans, that is.”

“I do now.”

#Courtorderedcake #8th #August #2020 #August 8th 2020 #Smut #cssns #CS AU #CS FF #captain swan fanfiction #Captain swan #captain swan au #cs cocktoberfest #Originally posted a while ago #but Tumblr fuckin sucks

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