#i was just happy to be a contender‚ i was just aching for anything

[brionysea]

kind of mike wheeler coded

[star-girl69]

My Heart Never Knows

Jake Sully x Neytiri x Fem!Reader

—-

a/n: hello everyone and welcome to my new series!! some of you might know me from my hotd writings, and some of you might not know me at all. i am so excited to give you this new series- jake sully x neytiri x fem!reader!! i’ve had this idea rolling around for a while, and i finally decided there isn’t enough of this pairing so i decided to write my own. thank you so much for reading and i hope you all enjoy!! (not beta read)

also- please send me a private message, a comment, or an ask if you would like to be added to the taglist!

warnings: none, but tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter One - Under My Ribs

—-

When the Sky People come, you are not scared.

They have come before, and now they have come again. Ronal hisses they are a sore that keep recurring, something no herbs can fix. Tonowari soothes the clan- saying that it is not the Metkayina’s war. It is over the sea, he says, in the forest. We are reef people, not forest people.

The village is assuaged and life continues as it did before.

But with each wave, each whisper of wind, you can feel something changing. It has been a year since they came again- and you know it is happening.

You are not the Tsahìk, not like your sister. Ronal is the most talented Tsahìk you have ever known. She is in tune with the water, with Eywa. There is this air about her, this wisp of something. Like she knows more than you, and will not deign to tell you.

As her sister, you are awarded more of her kind smiles than most. Ao’nung even jokes that she loves you more than her own children. You know that isn’t true, but you humor him anyways.

Ronal is the sun, and you are the moon in her shadow.

It is hard, to simply be the “other.” To crave the light so much it aches in your ribs, but to be denied it time and time again by your own blood. She does not mean it, this you know, and it is not her fault. She probably thinks you content in the shadow, content to be the moon.

But you want to be wanted, want to be needed. To be loved.

Tsireya and Ao’nung love you, call your their aunt, listen to you, respect you.

Even Tonowari loves you in his own way. Although it is mostly just pity, a sorrow he feels for his poor mate’s sister. Alone and unmated, childless and teetering on the edge of useless. You are not a warrior like him.

Instead, your days are filled with trailing behind Ronal, carrying her supplies, holding her tools, helping her while she cures sickness and prays to Eywa. She is a force, like that. You swim with Tsireya, race your ilu’s near the edge of the reef.

It is something deep under your ribs, near your heart but not quite, this longing, this feeling- knowing that you are meant for something more.

When the Sky People come, you are not scared.

Tonowari says you are safe in the reef, in your village. So you contend yourself to your life, live with something growing under your ribs.

When the Forest People come, you are entranced.

—-

“Y/N,” Ronal says, looking into a steaming pot. It is full of herbs and sea plants, simmering and cooling down into a soup, meant to be fed to a injured man, to help with his pain.

He snagged his arm on a rock, and he is lucky to not have died. Ronal had only looked disappointed when she saw him, before diving into her work and effectively saving him. You stood in the background, listening to her commands, handing her what she asked for.

Normally it was Tsireya who helped her, but you had persuaded Ronal to let her go into the sea today. It was a beautiful day, and there will always be other injuries. She relented, eventually, and you had smiled at Tsireya as she leapt into the water.

You watched her disappearing figure until you could not anymore.

The morning is calm, and Ronal is in a good mood this morning. The news of her baby has put her in good spirits, and you are most happy for her.

You turn you attention back to her, looking over from where you are tidying some cases of herbs on the shelf.

“Will you get me some more seaweed?” she asks, glancing at you over her shoulder.

“Of course, sister,” you murmur, and collect a handful of the green plant and give it to her.

She looks it over, taking about half and putting it into the pot.

She starts muttering to you about what she is craving for the evening meal, and you indulge in the mindless conversation.

The morning is normal. You feel something in the air, like you have been feeling so often lately, a changing. This feeling under your ribs. It aches and wanes, and Ronal knows not what it is.

The ache flares when you hear the sound of the shell being called, warning you that outsiders are approaching. It is not the war call- but you and Ronal still share a look anyways. She leaves the pot to simmer, hand brushing your arm as she leads you out of the home and onto the sandy beach.

When you come out into the sun, feel the sand under your feet, you see people crowd around something. You can just barely see the figure of ikran, steady on the ground. You gasp. Ikran- forest people- have not come to the Metkayina in years.

Then, you see them, and the feeling under your rib aches. You suck in air, and Ronal looks at you. When you shake your head, she appraises you once more. She does not believe you are fine, but there are more pressing matters.

Her expression glazes over again, inquisitive and slightly worried. Neither of you know why the forest people are here. They are fighting a war, but your people are not.

The crowd parts for you and Ronal, and she looks around at the crowd before her eyes narrow. She stands next to you, although slightly in front of you.

Regardless of anything, you are still her baby sister. And without a mate, and without your parents, it is her and Tonowari who will protect you. Your sister’s mate stands in front of these strangers now- spear pointed up, ready to stand for battle at any moment. He shoots the two of you a glance.

The two of you come to stand next to Tonowari, and you finally see them. Forest people. Familiar, although not by face. The air about them is.

It is a man, a woman, and four children. Your eyes flick down to the youngest one, a girl, you think, and she cannot look to be more than seven.

“I see you, Ronal.” The man speaks, raising his fingers to his forehead. The woman copies him. “Tsahìk of the Metkayina.”

“Why do you come to us, Jake Sully?” Tonowari asks, hand extended, and you suddenly realize who they are.

It is Toruk Macto and his wife, Neytiri. And their children stand behind them, around your niece and nephews age. Besides for the little one, of course, who stands close to her mother.

Your eyes flick up- and the ache in your ribs flares again. Neytiri is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Her eyes shine in the light of the sun, holding that reserved sadness behind them. You faintly wonder why, before she meets your eyes.

You watch as her mouth parts. She looks at you like she is blown away- but it must simply be surprise. You do look a bit like Ronal, and to see you stand so close to her, she just must not have known that Ronal has a sister. You dismiss any foolishness in your heart, ignoring the ache in your ribs.

Jake Sully holds his arms out. “We seek uturu.”

The clan immediately jumps into whispers, and you bite your lip.

Tonowari is a revered warrior, a wise Olo’eyktan. But this strange man, this forest person, he is Toruk Macto.

You glance at Ronal, and she looks taken aback.

“Uturu?” she asks, looking past you and towards Tonowari.

“Yeah, sanctuary for my family.” He steps forward, and you see his face fall. He is… scared, you realize.

“We… are Reef People. You are forest people.” Tonowari says, as Ronal starts to circle them. “Your skills will be nothing here.”

“We will learn your ways, right?” Jake laments, turning towards his family. He looks at them expectantly, and you see Neytiri reluctantly nod. His voice is hurried, nervous and scared. And suddenly you cannot hold your tongue.

“You look scared, Jake Sully. Did something happen? To the Omaticaya People?” He looks towards you in the same way Neytiri did, as if noticing you for the first time.

“N-no.” He says, but you are not sure you believe him.

Ronal grabs Neytiri’s tail, the little ones arm.

“Their arms are thin,” she observes. The little girl whispers for her mother, bounding away over to her father. “Their tails… are weak.” An older girl takes her tail back from Ronal. “You will be slow in the water.”

She looks down, suddenly, grabbing the girl’s arms roughly. She grips her wrists, holding her hands up for everyone to see the five fingers she possesses.

“These children… are not even true Na’vi,” she hisses.

The girl she is holding looks to Jake, calling for him.

“Yes we are!” She says suddenly, and Ronal drops her arms and walks away. She grabs one of the boys next.

“They have demon blood!” The people gathered around jump back and gasp, the whispers rising again.

“Look!” Jake calls, holding his hand up to your sister. “Look, I was born of the Sky People and now I am Na’vi, alright.” He turns back to you and Tonowari, still frantic. “We can adapt. We will adapt.”

“My husband…” Neytiri starts, face blank and apathetic, “was Toruk Macto.” She points her chin up, stepping closer to Ronal. “He lead the clans to victory… against the Sky People.”

When she looks to Tonowari, you watch as he nods. He cannot deny Jake Sully’s achievements, cannot deny what Toruk Macto has done.

“This you call victory?” Ronal asks, voice cruel. “Hiding, among strangers.” She steps forward. “It seems Eywa has turned her back on you.”

Neytiri bares her teeth and hisses, and you sister does the same. But Jake steps in just as you place a gentle hand on Ronal’s arm. She steps back, reluctantly.

“I apologize for my mate. She is-”

“Do not apologize for me,”

“-tired, we have come a long way and she is exhausted.” He gives Neytiri a small flick of his head, and Neytiri hisses and turns away.

Tonowari steps forward, placing a hand on Jake’s shoulder.

“Toruk Macto is a great warrior!” he proclaims. “All Na’vi people know his story. But we, Metkayina, are not at war.”

Your heart squeezes when Jake picks up the smallest child, cradling her to his chest.

“We cannot let you bring your war here.”

“I’ve done my war. Okay? I just wanna keep my family safe.”

Ronal and Tonowari share a look, and your eyes flick between the two of them.

“Arturu has been asked,” Neytiri says, arms wrapped around herself and chin pointed to the ground.

Ronal stares at them, mouth parted, as Tonowari turns and looks at her. You watch as they subtlety move their heads, silently speaking.

“Ronal…” you whisper, and when they turn to you, you nod.

You know Ronal values your opinion, and Tonowari does by extent. You cannot let this family be turned away, left to travel the planet hoping for someone to take them in. Finally, Ronal breathes in and nods.

Tonowari stands tall, addressing the people. He breaths in.

“Toruk Macto and his family will stay with us. Treat them as our brothers and sisters. But they do not know the sea- so they will be like babies, taking their first breath. Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless.”

“Thank you,” Jake breathes, and the rest of the family follows.

“Our son, Ao’nung, our daughter, Tsireya will show your children what to do.”

Ao’nung steps forward, complaints spilling from his lips, but Tonowari stops him. He sighs, and Tsireya beams. You see her eyes fixed on one of the young boys, and you smile to yourself when you notice he is looking at her as well.

“Tsireya and Y/N, my sister, will show you the village.”

You look towards Ronal, eyes wide, and she only looks at you pointedly.

“Ronal,” you hiss, but she only touches your arm and pushes you forward.

When you look forward, Jake and Neytiri’s eyes are on you.

—-

taglist:

@sully-stick-together

[myreia]

Castaway

CHAPTER THREE: FORM SHIFT

Chapter Rating: Teen Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Thancred Waters, Minfilia Warde, Yda Hext, Scions of the Seventh Dawn Pairings: Aureia/Thancred (pre-relationship) Chapter Words: 2,356 Notes: A Realm Reborn, set during A Wild Rose by Any Other Name. Written for the prompt “anxiety”. Summary: Aureia’s inauguration into the Scions of the Seventh Dawn should be cause for celebration, yet she cannot shake her feelings of unease. These newfound friends of hers may have the best of intentions, but is she anything more than a means to an end in their hands? Chapters: part one • part two • part three Read on AO3

You shouldn’t have said all that. You shouldn’t fight with him.  

Aureia curses inwardly, a wordless groan vibrating on her lips as she climbs the stairs. She is irritated with herself. The thought has chased itself relentlessly round and round her head for the past half hour. On one hand, she wants nothing more than to yell at Thancred, get in that smug face of his and tell him off. On the other, she blames herself for reacting the way she did. He was being nice. He has been nothing but nice to her. Joining this organization was supposed to be a good thing, but she just had to take it in the worst way possible.

What is wrong with you…

She puts a hand on the railing and pulls herself up another step, her calves aching from the steep incline. She was happy to remain on the docks, but she had little desire to be surrounded by a flood of incoming passengers once the ferry arrived. Nor did she want to hang around the main square and Lolorito’s domineering statue. If she returned to the solar she would have to contend with Thancred and Minfilia and their archon friends… and while she supposes she owes them an explanation and an apology for her odd departure, the last thing she wants to do is go back and trap herself in a face-to-face conversation.

Uncertain where else to go to find a quiet place to herself, she escaped to the nearby lighthouse, slipped through a door in the back and disappeared up the staircase.

Panting from the exertion, Aureia reaches the top, nudges the door open, steps outside.

The searing sun shines brilliantly in her eyes. She steps from the shadows and raises a hand, shielding her face, and rounds the beacon burning brightly in its iron brazier. Unnecessary now, given the time of day, but the lighthouse signal never dims. She scoots around it and reaches the edge, folding her arms against the rough stone railing.

A magnificent view of Vesper Bay unfolds before her. The settlement feels so distant from up here—the tops of the marketplace’s colourful tents fluttering in the breeze, the burnished roof of the Waking Sands glinting in the sunlight, Lolorito’s statue feeling more Lalafell-sized from afar than up close and personal. The docks bustle with people as streams of new arrivals flood the area. Some make their way to the marker, others go directly to the chocobokeep; others still make for the Foothills, intending to make their way to Horizon on foot.

It all feels so ordinary. So regular. So average.

Her heart pangs with longing. It would be so simple, to join this procession. Turn her back on the Waking Sands and the invitation extended to her, walk away. Keep putting one foot in front of the other until it is nothing but a distant memory.

Minfilia’s organization existed long before her. It will exist long after her. There is no reason for her to stay.

“I thought I’d find you here!”

Aureia whirls around—breath high in her throat, trained instincts screaming at her to expect the worst—and drops into a defensive stance. An unfamiliar face stares back at her, half-obscured by a headwrap and visor. Pale, wisps of blonde hair escaping from the headwrap, those familiar tattoos on the side of her neck…

Archon.

“Hello!” The woman raises a hand and waves, a little awkward despite her high energy. “I’m Yda. We already met. Downstairs, that is. In case you forgot. My name, not that we met, of course!”

Aureia blinks, muscles still tensed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t blame you if you did!” the woman continues airily and stuffs her hands behind her back. “Lots of new faces, hard to keep track of us all. Tataru was all for throwing a tea party, but Thancred thought it might be too overwhelming for—” She cuts off abruptly, a flush on her cheeks. “Well. I don’t really know anything about all that. I’m usually the last to hear about anything. Well. Anything important.”

She pauses again, kicking a foot absently against the tile floor. “Not that I’m complaining, of course! There’s a time and a place for everything, at least that’s what my sister used to say.”

Aureia frowns.

“I’m talking too much again, aren’t I? Papalymo says I do. Sometimes I fear I have nothing worthwhile to offer but useless talk, but that’s his opinion, not mine. I think I have plenty to offer.” She raises her hands and punches a fist into her open palm. “Since all the others aren’t here, how about some proper introductions? I’m Yda. Yda Hext.”

A stubborn smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Aureia Malathar.”

“Aureia… as in Aur?” Yda grins excitedly with recognition. “That Aur?”

She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Thancred calls me that sometimes, yes.”

Yda waves a hand. “And Papalymo calls me tactless sometimes, but I don’t let it bother me.”

“I—what?”

“You can drop your stance, you know,” she continues knowingly. “Unless you’re planning on challenging me to a sparring match, but between you and me, I don’t think there’s enough room up here. One of us  might go flying over the edge and I don’t think Minfilia would approve.”

Aureia splutters. “How did you… how…?”

“I’m not just a dumb blonde in a visor, you know. Regardless of what the others say.” Yda walks determinedly across the lantern room and draws up next to her. She leans out over the railing and inhales deeply, enjoying the fresh air. “Where did you train? Your form is different from Ala Mhigan and Ul’dahn practices, I don’t recognize it.”

Aureia swallows the lump in her throat and lets her stance go, deflated. She crosses her arms and rests her elbows on the railing, chewing her lower lip as she wonders how to reply. Garlemald won’t go over well. “I’m not Eorzean,” she says.

“Othard, then? I haven’t had the chance to meet many Domans. Did you study there?”

“Not… exactly.”

“Or was it Thavnair? Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit Thavnair! It must be such a pretty place, and I’ve heard the food is to die for…” She trails off and stretches, resting her hands against the back of her head. “I’m sorry. Here I am prattling on, asking questions uninvited. It wasn’t my intention to pry. Believe it or not, I know a thing or two about not wanting others to dig around in your past. I’ve been a bit thoughtless, I suppose.”

“You haven’t.” Aureia glances at her, searching her visored face. It is difficult to get a reading on her with it in the way; she didn’t realize how dependent she was on eye contact until now. But even with her face half-covered, Yda strikes her as someone honest and genuine. Far more than Thancred has been. “Quite the opposite, I think.”

Yda brightens. “I was worried about you. I’m sorry if it’s not my place, we don’t even know each other, but the way you left… I thought you may have been… Well. They can be quite the overwhelming lot, don’t you think? Between Thancred’s witty quips and Y’shtola writing another archon’s thesis every other paragraph. Urianger doesn’t say much, but when he does speak it goes right over my head. And Papalymo will turn every situation into a lecture. They’re all a bit too smart for me.”

“Aren’t you an archon as well?”

“Hm? Oh…” She drops her hands. Her fingers brush the tattoos on her neck, as if reminding herself that they are there. “I am. Not that I deserve it, it was my sister who…” She blows out a puff of air. “Let’s just say that I know where my strengths lie.”

“Don’t tell me you have a degree in punching things.”

“I may very well have a degree in punching things.”

“How does one even go about earning that?”

Yda flashes her a grin and curls her hand into a fist. “Sharlayan state secret. I’m afraid I can’t share.”

Aureia returns the smile, her heart lighter than before. Exhaling a soft breath, she leans against the railing and takes in the view. Most of the ferry passengers have found their way to the chocobokeep and they are preparing to leave. It’s a long journey to Ul’dah even by chocobo, one she has made many times. If you aren’t in a rush and have time to spare, it’s well worth it. Thanalan has its own unique beauty, one that is underappreciated even by those who have spent their whole lives in the desert.

This wasn’t the home she asked for, but it was the one she found. And if joining the Scions of the Seventh Dawn ensures it remains protected from outside threats—whether it is as pressing as the Garleans or as esoteric as primals—then maybe there is a place for her there, Echo or no Echo.

The thought gives her pause.  

“You didn’t mention Minfilia in your analysis of our friends down there,” Aureia says quietly.

Yda makes a strangled noise. “No, I suppose I didn’t…”

She trails off, her tone growing hesitant. Aureia sighs, giving her a moment, and returns her attention below. She spots a familiar figure in the meandering crowd below, his pale hair shining white in the afternoon sun. He rounds the marketplace, a tall Elezen in a robe strolling serenely at his side.

Thancred. Though she is still irritated with him, a part of her is happy that he has thought to look for her.

She bats it away.

“Minfilia is the Antecedent,” Yda says hesitantly. “All of this is her dream. Her purpose. If I had half the determination and faith she does…” She pauses again. “I think all of us would be better people if we were a little more like Minfilia.”

Aureia’s jaw clenches, her gut twisting. The statement, though innocent and well-intentioned, rubs her the wrong way. “Perhaps,” she murmurs. “I don’t know her well enough to make that judgement.”

“Some day you will.” Despite the overly bright and optimistic, Yda’s words carry a weight to them. Behind the bubbly cheerfulness and the unrestrained volume is a sense of self-awareness and understanding that Aureia would have overlooked if she took her at face value.  

She is someone who sees more than she lets on. The visor may be a physical mask, but she is wearing a much more intangible one underneath.

Yda stretches again, raising her hands high as she nods to another figure exiting the Waking Sands. Y’shtola is immediately recognizable from her brisk walk and the way the crowd parts before her; no one seems to want to get in her way. “Don’t let them intimidate you,” she says.

“I’m not intimidated—”

“You walked out the moment you could and ran all the way to the docks.”

Aureia chews her lower lip, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Doesn’t mean I’m intimidated.”

“Mhm.” Yda grins, but the moment is short-lived. “They mean well, but I think sometimes they forget no everyone thinks the way they do. Thancred, Urianger, Y’shtola, Papalymo… especially Papalymo… For a group of open-minded people, they certainly are stuck in their ways sometimes. Don’t expect any of them to be normal. None of them are. I don’t think you can become an archon and be normal.”

“I wasn’t going to. I’ve met Thancred, remember?”

Yda laughs. “What I’m trying to say, Aureia…” She presses her back to the stone railing and takes her hands in hers, gripping them tight. “I know what it feels like—to be the least impressive person in a room of impressive people, to feel like you are always chasing them and you can never catch up. Sometimes I think that I don’t belong here, that I’m not smart enough or haven’t done enough to deserve it.”

“Don’t say that—”

“I can and I will. I know where I stand next to the rest of them.”

“Yda…”

She exhales a long breath. “I’m not telling you this to put myself down, but because I think I know what you must be feeling. Because I’ve been there myself. I’ve doubted, I’ve wondered, thought myself worthless… Lies. Good lies. Ones I was very good at telling myself.” She brightens, her smile returned in full force. “I know how much you’re wanted here. And it’s not because of the Echo, but because of what you’ve done.”

Aureia swallows hard, a lump forming in her throat.

“All those people you helped when no one else dared to stand up and do it. That’s the mark of someone I would trust to the end of the world and back, don’t you think?”

Aureia squeezes her hands. For the first time since she stepped foot in the Waking Sands, she feels like she can breathe. Somehow these words, spoken sincerely from a young woman she barely knows, were exactly what she needed to hear.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Yda lets her go. “Give them a chance, aye?” she adds, nudging her in the side with her elbow. “This journey we’re on together… This world Minfilia envisions. It will be worth it in the end. I promise.”

They exchange smiles and fall silent, content to watch the settlement below. The crowd thins, eager to move on as the afternoon bleeds into evening. The last of the ferry passengers flock to the chocobokeep, the carriages prepare to depart. A moment’s pause and then off they go, trundling through the gates and out of sight, carrying their travelers onward to whatever fate awaits them.

Without the crowd, Thancred, Urianger and Y’shtola’s figures stand out even more in the distance.

“I wonder how long it will take them to realize we’re up here,” Yda says idly, rapping her fingers against the railing.

Aureia arches an eyebrow. “I wonder…”

“We shouldn’t let them search too long, they’ll be worried.”

“We really shouldn’t. It would be unfair.”

“Most unfair.”

Their laughter rings out from the top of the lighthouse, lost to the sound of crashing waves.

[metacrisisdoctor]

Lying with this love, that’s where he’ll be

an alien intruder makes itself known in the tyler household. for the @tentoorosemicrofics challenge. i used “icy” as the prompt. cookies for anyone who understands what the title is a refence to!

1.7k. family fluff. post empire of the wolf.

READ ON AO3

Like most things, it will all make sense in retrospect. Or at least some of it will.

The situation is starting to come into focus now, really- the thought of what could be happening so terrifying Rose can only mentally kick herself for letting the Doctor wander off into the snow to get her some aspirin for her cramps.

("Never doubt my love for you, Rose Tyler. This stuff could kill me.")

Well- what she had thought were period cramps.

Cramps have never felt this bad though, and the only thing Rose can focus on is the terrified look on her daughter's face. And the pain. Oh God, the pain. Splitting pain radiating from her womb and spreading, spreading, spreading until she can barely walk over to the sofa, even with Mia holding her arm and leading the way with a patience no teenage girl can muster unless they're really scared.

It's then that is clicks. The only time she's ever felt this pain was seventeen years ago.

She's in labour. And she hadn't even known she was pregnant.

This universe has a sense of humor, doesn't it? Hard to deny that now.

For years Mia had begged them for a sibling, and they'd tried. Of course they had. Many times, without complaint. Sometimes multiple times a day, as due diligence. They had a name picked out and everything, the perfect name. And when the Doctor saw a tiny suit or miniature converse, he couldn't help but bring them home.

They'd tried until they could say that one child was miracle enough, and after a while Mia had contended herself with an orange cat that the Doctor pretended to hate and playdates with Tony.

They were happy. They are happy. 

Happiness comes and goes, however. In this moment, happy is certainly not the term she would use.

The contraction that takes a hold of her is so intense that her knees give out. It increases until she can't help but scream in agony while Mia holds her waist. A drop of sweat falls into Rose's eye and blurs her vision when she opens her eyes. The room seems bigger than it ever has, the couch never so bloody fucking stupidly far.

"Don't die," Mia whimpers. Rose can feel her daughter's arms trembling, and she knows she's crying. There is nothing Rose wants more than to comfort her, to stand up straight and tell her that she's fine. That she isn't dying. But she can barely string together three words.

Three words are better than none, "I'm gonna alright." 

Mia sniffles, "I love you, Mummy."

And blimey, Mia hasn't called her anything other than "Mum" or "whatever," in ages. It's enough to to make her laugh, tears springing to her eyes at how young Mia sounds. But it makes her heart hurt too. Mia really thinks she’s watching her die. 

The pain ebbs into a dull ache, giving her enough reprieve to say those words back and keep moving. When they finally make it to the sofa, Rose pulls her phone from her pocket to call her husband. Her hands are slick with sweat and the device slips from her hands like butter and clatters to the floor.

Rose curses, taking a deep breath. "I need you to call your father. He should be back soon, he just went to the store but we should warn him... before he gets home."

Mia's eyes are as wide as saucers despite the sleep lines on her face and her messy braid. Guilt twists inside Rose again. She had hoped this, whatever it was, wouldn't wake her. But it did, of course it did. She was having a baby for Christ's sake.

"Warn him about what?! We don't even know what's wrong. We have to get to the hospital."

A furious shake of the head has Mia's mouth closing back up. She lifts her hips and starts tugging her sweatpants down. "No time. Baby's coming."

"Baby?! Since when are you pregnant?!"

"Hell if I know!"

Just then fresh, freezing air spreads throughout the room, cooling Rose's burning skin as the Doctor bursts through the door. The small bag of pain killers and crisps in his hand looks equal parts ridiculous and terribly endearing. He has snow on his shoulders, piled on the blue wool of his coat, soaking his cotton jim jams and stuck to his hair.

He's panting like he's been running, his own terrified expression mirroring Mia's- but it's clear that he heard every last bit of their exchange before opening the door.

"I already called him," Mia explains, tapping her temple a bit smugly, "with my mind."

Before Rose can respond something cheeky about their alien mind connection the pain rips through her again, and she slides off the sofa and onto the floor with a groan. She tastes blood and realizes she's biting her cheek. 

Snow tracks across the room as he makes his way over to them. He quickly shrugs off the coat and kneels on the floor in front of his wife. His hands are cold as ice and Rose flinches when he gently touches her thigh, then leans down to have a look.

"Oh hello," he croons, before looking back up and smiling widely. "You're crowning. I can see the head. Looks like I'm right on time for once."

"I didn't know," Rose sobs, thinking of all the glasses of wine she's had. The prenatal pills she should have taken- especially at her age. It's hard to know exactly how old she is anymore, but above forty is a good guess. She thinks of the spotting she had taken as her period, as menopause kicking in.

The small, tiny bulge that she had thought was bloating. But it was a baby, their baby, somehow hidden away in her own body.

How could she have been so blind?

"Rose, I know what you're thinking but it's alright. None of us knew. But I don't think our child wants to be ignored any longer, eh?"

They share a small smile and Mia nods in agreement, pushing the sweaty hair away from her mothers face. Rose attempts to pull her hand from Mia's but the teenager refuses to let go, determined. "I'm not leaving."

It's all goes so fast then, nothing like her seventeen hour long labour of years past. The silence of the night is filled with the sounds of one small, (mostly) human life making it's way home.

"Come on, you're doing so well. Just one big one for me."

Her red, blotchy face scrunches as she pushes one more time.

"I'll catch you," the Doctor says, and she knows he's not talking to her anymore. Suddenly, she really really want to meet her baby. It's as if she can't wait another second to hold them. Besides her Mia gasps and let's go of her hand, finally, to whip off her favourite pink hoodie for the Doctor to wrap the baby in.

Just like that it's over. Her husband makes a sound of victory, between a sob and cheer. The room is suspiciously silent though, and she sits up straighter, trying to get a look at them despite her pain and confusion. The entire room smells like copper.

Her voice is raw and trembling when she speaks, "Why isn't he crying?"

He's so small, the chock of brown hair on his head the only thing making him seem bigger than he is. 

Fear contracts around her heart like scar tissue, old memories of children they have both lost in their time apart bubbling to the surface of the ocean of her mind and threatening to pull them down into an abyss she doesn't know if they could ever come back from. She watches as the Doctor rubs circles on the baby's back, his face tense. After what feels like an eternity, a piercing cry fills the room.

"That's more like it," the Doctor chuckles, his voice thick with unshed tears. Relief courses through her entire being, her arms opening instinctively. "I think he was asleep."

It makes sense doesn't it? At least in her mind it does. Mia had been non-stop energy, dancing on her bladder at all times. Takes after her father. Maybe this one shares her love for sleeping in. But even if he doesn't, she doesn't mind one bit.

"Where have you been hiding?" She murmurs as their son is place on her chest, wrapped in his sisters love, delivered from his father's hands. The three of them sit in stunned, awed silence until he settles, making small snuffled sounds into Rose's sternum. 

Mia's words are accompanied by a small giggle. "A little stowaway, he is." She tugs the fabric that obscures his slimey little face down to run a fingertip over his features, amazed that her little brother has finally made an appearance.

Rose marvels at how well the Doctor is taking this, how perfect the timing is. He had been so afraid to be a father again. If it hadn't been for Tony, maybe he would have been able to open his heart to this part of himself again, but she's so glad he did. Fatherhood fits him like a glove, like he was born for it. But if Mia had been a surprise, she doesn't know how he would have reacted. 

Everything worked out just as it should have, it seems.

In a few moments they will rush to the hospital, they'll call Jackie and tell her there won't be a Christmas party this year after all. There will be months of nappy changes, and sleepless nights and guilt followed by comfort. By happiness. By love. Always, always love.

Now, at three in the morning, there is a moment of complete serenity as snow continues to fall around their townhouse. The fireplace crackles. All old wounds heal.

A family of four, propped on the floor, nestled safely in their home.

"It's good to finally meet you, Jack." the Doctor whispers then leans toward and presses a kiss to Rose's brow, then one to Mia's before making his way back down to the newest member of their family. "And don't you dare let your grandmother think we named you after her. I'll tell you now, in fact, at two minutes old, that you were named after-"

—

Somewhere in a world not much different than their own, Captain Jack Harkness suddenly looks up at the sky and smiles.

He doesn't know why.

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

Happy Jmart-iversary!!! Have some S1 annoyances-to-lovers (or, well, annoyances-to-mutual pining) Jmart to celebrate their day!

Martin usually has more shame than this.

Despite what certain Archivists might think, he isn’t oblivious. He knows Jon doesn’t like him, and while Jon seems to think that Martin has made it his mission in life to bother him whenever possible, Martin usually does his best to avoid Jon as much as civility and his job will allow.

But the thing is, Martin is lonely.

Worse than that, he’s 1 AM Lonely.

Martin has become something of an expert in loneliness, over the years, and he can confidently assert that 1 AM loneliness is the absolute worst. 7 AM loneliness is rough. 8 PM loneliness can be dire. But 1 AM loneliness is utterly, entirely hopeless. If he felt this way while the sun was still up, he might be able to find an excuse to call Tim and Sasha that wasn’t just, “I wanted to hear your voice.” If nothing else, he could walk to a library, or a coffee shop, and remember that there were other people in the world. But at 1 AM, he has nothing to do but sit with the yawning, aching emptiness in his chest, and feel like he is the last person left on the face of the earth.

Except for Jonathan Sims. 

He’d always sort of suspected that Jon had a deeply unhealthy work schedule, but he was still surprised at how often he wandered out of Document Storage after midnight, expecting to have the Archives to himself, only to run into Jon in the breakroom. He’s always more irritable at night – which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible, a month ago – but an irritable Jon is better than nothing, which is how Martin has found himself standing outside Jon’s office in his pajamas, socked feet barely keeping out the chill of the scuffed linoleum floor.

There’s still time to change his mind. He could still turn around, go back to the cot in Document Storage, and sit in his insomnia with some semblance of dignity intact.

He knocks. 

There’s no response, but Martin’s used to that, so he lets himself in. When the door opens, Jon lifts his head from his work to stare daggers at him.

“Yes?” he snaps. “What do you want?”

“Just– J-Just checking in. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Jon says with a finality that borders on rudeness.

“Right.” Martin can take a hint, so he starts backing out of the door. “I’ll, uh… I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Jon purses his lips like he wants to say, See to it that you do, but is aware that that would be rude even for him, and says nothing. Martin winces as he pulls the door shut behind him.

Well. He did achieve what he was setting out to. He no longer feels like he’s completely alone in the world – there’s at least one asshole here with him.

Somehow, that thought comforts him enough that he is finally able to sleep.

*

The next few days, Martin manages to sleep a bit better. The Archives are remarkably empty on the weekend – not even Jon is working Saturdays, this week – so he has to contend with 3 PM loneliness (and 4 PM loneliness, and 5 PM loneliness…) but by 1 AM he is sound asleep. When the work week starts again on Monday, Martin is feeling almost well-rested.

Jon, it seems, isn’t.

He hasn’t stayed late at the office for the past few days, but whatever he was doing away from work, Martin feels confident that it wasn’t sleeping. He’s in an even worse mood than usual, and chews Martin out for a full 5 minutes about a simple formatting error that Martin has seen Tim and Sasha make before. 

(Tim used to work in publishing, he thinks but does not point out, he built his career on finding formatting problems, so if even he screws this up occasionally, I’m pretty sure it’s not a huge deal. But of course, when Tim makes a mistake, he gets a note on his report asking him to revise it, not a 10-minute lecture in which it’s implied that he doesn’t take seriously the historic institution for which he works, and that he may as well be spitting on the grave of Jonah Magnus with each misused semicolon.)

Which makes it all the more embarrassing when 1 AM rolls around and Martin once again hesitates outside the door to Jon’s office. He’s got tea this time, which is a pretty feeble excuse to barge in at 1 in the morning, but it’s a better one than he had last time. He has to shift both mugs to one hand to get the door open.

“Tea?” he asks in lieu of a hello. “I was making some for myself and figured you might want some.” (It’s a bald-faced lie, but Jon doesn’t need to know that.) When Jon doesn’t respond, Martin trips over himself to fill the silence. “It’s, uh. I-It’s herbal. I hope that’s alright. Thought caffeine was probably a bad idea, this time of night.”

“Hm,” is all Jon says in response, but he still takes a sip.

Martin settles into the seat opposite the desk. Jon eyes him suspiciously, but once again says nothing. He turns his attention back to his laptop, and they drink their tea in silence. 

It’s almost pleasant, somehow. The tea is delicious, in Martin’s completely unbiased opinion, and Jon relaxes enough to become a reassuring presence. He doesn’t speak, but he’s a living, breathing human in the same room as Martin, and that’s all Martin needs right now. Jon sighs and coughs and taps his foot, and whenever he notices a mistake in whatever it is he’s reading, he gives an irritable click of his tongue and starts typing furiously. At one point he even laughs. It’s not much – a quiet little bark of a laugh, barely any louder than his sighs – but it still comes as a surprise.

“What?” Martin asks, and Jon startles as though he forgot Martin was there.

Jon looks vaguely mortified to have done something so human and unprofessional as to laugh, but he explains, “Tim’s report on the Ramao case. His methods for obtaining Ramao’s marriage license were… very Tim.”

“Ah.” Martin has a few guesses at what that could mean. “B&E, bribery, or flirting?”

“Flirting,” Jon confirms. “Honestly, I’d prefer a good B&E. At least then I wouldn’t have to explain to Elias why dinner for two at Frescobaldi counts as a business expense.”

“Always happy to do my part,” Martin grins, but his smile droops as he adds, “Though my last break-in didn’t quite go to plan.”

Jon’s face grows serious as well. “Right. How, uh, h-how are you… adjusting?”

“Fine,” Martin says, and it’s not the biggest lie he’s told in his life, but it’s close.

“Right,” Jon says again. He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, and Martin can’t help but be relieved to let the subject drop, even if the rest of the conversation drops with it. They go back to drinking their tea in silence, and soon enough it’s time for Martin to collect their empty mugs and slink back out of the office.

This time, at least, Jon says good-bye.

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin’s lips twitch upward, just a hair. “Good night, Jon.”

He sets the mugs in the sink and heads back to Document Storage, and he’s asleep within minutes.

*

Tuesday night he manages to fall asleep at a shockingly reasonable hour. Which is wonderful, right up until it isn’t.

He wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare that is already fading from his memory. His dad was in it, which is rare. He tries to recall what his face had looked like, but it’s gone. Maybe he hadn’t even had a face – dreams are like that sometimes – but he can still feel it at the edges of his memory, slipping away with each passing second.

He does his best to remember what the dream had been about. He was back in the apartment he used to share with his mother, the tiny, dingy place that forever smelled like mildew and cigarettes even though neither of them smoked, and his father was there. Then he left, again, and his mother was furious. She didn’t need to say that she blamed Martin, he could read it in her face, but she told him anyway. And then the apartment was a hospital room, and there were nurses yelling at him, too – how could he upset his mother at a time like this? Didn’t he know how ill she was? And then the hospital was his new apartment, and the mildew smell wasn’t mildew at all but worms, worms and rot, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks, and no one had thought to check on him, and the only one in the world who cared whether he lived or died was the woman trying to break down his door and fill him with worms.

So not the best dream he’s ever had.

He checks his phone. 12:22. Great. Too late to talk to anyone, too early to just get out of bed and start the day.

He stares out at the dark room. Document Storage has no windows, and with the hallway light off, there isn’t even any light spilling in under the doorway, so his eyes have nothing to catch on. He can do nothing but sit in the dark as the afterimage of his bright phone screen gets swallowed up by the gloom.

It’s not as though the dream was real. He’s safe for now; the worms can’t get to him here. And he’s not alone in the world. He’s not. His coworkers didn’t just abandon him to die – he’s seen the texts, he knows they had every reason to think he was safe.

Still, if Tim had been out for two full weeks with a stomach bug, Martin would have been on his doorstep with soup and ginger chews and an offer to drive him to the doctor any time he needed. He would have checked up on him. So would Sasha. So would Jon, probably – as much as he likes to present himself as aloof and coldly professional, Martin knows he cares about Tim and Sasha a whole lot more than he lets on. There’s only one person in the Archives who could disappear without being missed.

It isn’t that his friends don’t care about him. He knows they do. But he also knows, with bone-deep certainty, that they don’t care about him as much as he cares about them, and that’s a very lonely feeling.

Martin pushes himself out of bed. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, but he’s had enough nightmares in his life to know that getting out of bed and away from the room he woke up in is a good place to start.

There’s a light on in Jon’s office. This time, Martin can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed when he steps inside.

Jon is sitting behind his desk, like always, scribbling furiously in the margins of some document Martin doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t even glance up when Martin enters the room this time.

“Yes?”

“Do you–” Martin’s voice is hoarse and rough – he hadn’t thought to get anything to drink when woke up, and now his throat is painfully dry – but he clears his throat and pushes through. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Right.”

Martin takes a seat in the chair beside the desk. He doesn’t try to make conversation. He doubts Jon wants to hear it, and he isn’t feeling up for it, anyway. He just sits and listens to the scratching of Jon’s pen.

He’d be more than happy to sit in silence all night, but Jon keeps pausing his work to shoot suspicious glances Martin’s way, and Martin knows he ought to say something, so he clears his throat again and asks, “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

He sounds more than a little irritated. Martin should definitely take that as a sign to leave, but he isn’t ready to go back to sitting in the dark in Document Storage just yet.

“I could make tea?” he offers. “It’s no trouble, really.”

“I don’t need tea,” Jon snaps. “And I don’t need help, and I certainly don’t need a nosy coworker barging into my office every five minutes to try and guilt me into leaving work.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Jon insists. “And it’s none of your business how late I work–”

“I don’t care how late you work! I mean, I think you could stand to get some sleep once in a while, but that’s not–”

“Then why are you always hovering around any time I work late?”

Martin is too tired to think better of it before he snaps, “Because I’m lonely, Jon! Because it’s one in the bloody morning and I can’t sleep and everyone else I know is already in bed. Believe me, if there was a single other person I could be talking to right now, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

That’s all Jon says. Martin isn’t sure what he’s going to say if he stays in this room any longer, so he stands up.

“I’m going to make tea. Do you want any?”

Jon nods.

When Martin comes back with two perfectly-brewed cups of camomile-and-vanilla, Jon has set aside his pen and his notes and is fidgeting at his desk. Anxiety and shame flicker across his face when he accepts the mug that Martin offers him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. I thought you just wanted me out of the Archives.”

“Yeah, well. Not everything’s about you.”

And Jon laughs at that – the same soft, barking laugh he’d given to Tim’s report – and Martin feels a strange sort of affection flood through him at the sound. Pretty inconvenient, given that he was just getting used to being irritated with Jon.

“I suppose I deserve that.” Jon smiles, and it’s somehow worse than the laugh. There are a few more minutes of silence before he speaks up again. “Have you, um. Have you ever tried lavender?”

“What?”

“Whenever I tell people I have insomnia, they always recommend lavender – lavender essential oil, lavender tea, lavender eye masks…”

“Have you tried it? Does it help?”

“Not in the least,” Jon says. “Not for me. But maybe it would help you.”

“Maybe,” Martin agrees, more out of politeness than any real hope. “Never hurts to try.”

Jon nods. He looks for a moment like he’s debating with himself whether to say anything else, then he clears his throat with an awkward little grimace and says, “If– i-if you ever need to talk… I can’t promise I’ll be very good conversation, but I can promise I won’t yell at you next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

Martin’s insomnia doesn’t get any better. Breathing exercises don’t help, and neither does the white noise app he downloads. A box of lavender tea mysteriously appears in the break room, and it doesn’t make him tired, but it does leave him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that can’t be entirely explained by having drunk a hot beverage.

Jon starts staying late more often. Some nights, just knowing that he’s there is comforting enough to stave off the worst of Martin’s loneliness, but some nights he finds himself once again sitting in the chair in Jon’s office while Jon sits across from him with his nose buried in a statement. Jon never asks for an explanation anymore, just nods at Martin when he comes in and then gets back to work.

They don’t talk much on nights like this, but they do talk. Mostly it’s just chatter – how was your day? Did you see what Tim was wearing today? How long until they fix the aircon in this building? – but some nights the conversation opens up to the kind of vulnerability that only 2 AM can bring.

“I wish I was as close with Tim and Sasha as you are.”

It’s not a complete non sequitur – they were just talking about their coworkers – but Martin can still feel the tone shift between them.

Jon just blinks. “What do you mean? I’m certain they like you more than they like me – The three are always going out to lunch–”

“And we always invite you!” Martin reminds him, “You just never come! And anyway, you three go way back, you all know each other so well… They don’t even know me well enough to know if it’s me texting them or some evil worm woman.” He’s gotten to know Jon well enough over the past few weeks to know that, supportive or not, Jon’s never very quick with words of comfort, so he goes on. “I can’t complain – I mean, they’re nice! They’re really nice! It’s just… it’s not fun, feeling like the odd one out.”

Jon flashes him a grimace that Martin thinks is supposed to be commiserative but mostly just looks awkward. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I also wish I was closer with Tim and Sasha. Things haven’t been the same since we transferred from Research. And it doesn’t help that they both know Sasha should have been promoted over me.”

Martin wants to reassure him, tell him that Elias must have promoted him for a reason, but he’s the last person who can argue that Elias always hires the most qualified person for the job.

“Anyway,” Jon says, “I know for a fact they like you. Have you just told them how you feel?”

“Have you?”

Jon smiles. “Alright, fair enough.”

The conversation moves on to lighter topics from there, and Martin almost forgets about it. But the next time 1 AM loneliness hits, it’s a relief to know that he isn’t the only one in the Archives who’s lonely.

*

Jon stays late every night the next week. 

Martin knows Jon doesn’t want anyone chiding him, but he worries. He looks more and more worn out by the day, and Martin’s pretty sure he’s getting less work done for all the time he’s spending in the Archives.

When Martin wakes up from another nightmare (just a Prentiss nightmare this time, not a Prentiss-and-his-mother double feature) he doesn’t have to question if Jon’s around. When he checks his phone and sees that it’s well past 2 AM, some small, optimistic part of him thinks Jon might have gone home by now, but he isn’t at all surprised when he sees light spilling in from under the door in Jon’s office.

Jon doesn’t look up when Martin enters the room. 

He looks rough. His head is resting in his hands, shoulders slumped, fingers wearily massaging his temples. When he hears the door click closed behind Martin, he finally looks up, and Martin can see that the dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse.

“Go home, Jon,” he says, and Jon shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“You need sleep.”

“I doubt I could get any sleep tonight regardless,” Jon says. “Insomnia, remember?”

“Well, try,” Martin says, patience waning. “Go home.”

“I can’t.” Jon’s voice is small and hoarse, and he sounds more vulnerable than he ever has in all their late-night chats.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

 “You were alone for two weeks, Martin,” he says, voice hushed as though he’s confessing something. “I can’t leave you alone like that again.”

Oh. Martin puts some pieces together. His boss has been running himself ragged, staying at work past 2 in the morning most days, because he’s convinced Martin can’t handle being alone at night. He thinks that Martin is a child in need of a security blanket, and has decided that the best course of action is to simply never leave work. It is, unfortunately, very sweet, but it’s also utterly humiliating.

“I can handle being alone!” he sputters, mortified beyond belief. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of practice. I don’t need you to always be around. I-I know I said I get lonely sometimes, but, God, I’m not that pathetic.”

Jon frowns. “I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he whispers. “Believe me, Martin, that’s the last thing I think. I know I haven’t always been… fair to you. Or kind. Or even civil. If I had been fair to you, you wouldn’t be living in this basement.” He drops his gaze and addresses his next words to his hands. “It’s my fault you have to stay here,” he murmurs. “The very least I can do is ensure that you don’t have to stay here alone.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. His brain cycles through several options and discards them all as insufficient. In the end, he decides to forgo words altogether. He stands up, reaches over, and pulls Jon out of his seat and into a hug.

Jon startles, and for a moment Martin thinks he’s made a horrible miscalculation, but then wraps his scrawny arms around his middle and squeezes tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I forgive you,” Martin says. “Now go home.”

*

That Friday, the four of them go out for drinks after work. It’s Martin’s idea, and he insists that they invite Jon. Tim and Sasha tell him it’s a lost cause – Jon’s never agreed to get lunch with them, he certainly won’t agree to drinks – but lo and behold, Jon agrees.

It’s awkward. Martin hasn’t left the Archives much since Prentiss, and he’s on high alert for worms, but he can’t deny that having his coworkers with him is a comfort. Sat around a sticky high-top table in a pub that smells like stale beer and fresh sweat, the conversation simply flows. Every now and then, the other three will laugh at some inside joke from their research days, but Jon always makes a point of bringing Martin up to speed.

Afterwards, Jon walks him back to the Archives. Martin is floating in a warm, hazy middle ground between ‘tipsy’ and ‘drunk,’ and Jon seems to be feeling much the same.

“I could stay, if you’d like,” Jon says.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin says.

When he makes it to the cot in Document Storage, he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

*

It would be nice, Martin thinks, if getting closer to people were the straightforward antidote to loneliness – if making friends were enough to stop him feeling so utterly friendless. But loneliness is never a simple thing, and some nights he still finds himself lying awake at night feeling like the last man on earth.

He checks the time. 1 AM. Naturally.

For the second time in a week, Jon doesn’t look up to see Martin when he enters the room. This time, he’s slumped over the desk, dead asleep.

He looks smaller, somehow, when he’s sleeping. His face is slack, the perpetual furrow in his brow is gone, and his hair is falling across his face in a way that leaves Martin itching to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. He looks cute, if Martin’s being entirely honest, but Jon’s only started being mostly-nice to Martin in the past two weeks or so, so Martin isn’t ready to be that honest with himself quite yet.

He reaches out a hand and gently shakes Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon.”

Jon stirs but doesn’t wake, so Martin shakes harder. 

“Jon,” he repeats. No luck.

He sighs. He’s still wide awake, and he doubts that’s going to change any time soon. At least one of them should get some use out of the cot.

It’s surprisingly easy to pick Jon up. Jon stirs slightly as Martin scoops him into his arms, and for one terrifying second he thinks he’s going to wake up in Martin’s arms, but he doesn’t. Opening the doors to first the office and then Document Storage is more than a little tricky with his hands full, but he manages.

He sets Jon down on the bed as gently as he can, but Jon finally rouses as Martin tucks a blanket over his shoulders.

“Martin?” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, Jon.”

It doesn’t seem like Jon needs any encouragement. His eyes are already slipping closed again, but he manages to ask, “Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, “I’ll be alright.” 

And he means it.

(View this story on AO3)

[my-head-is-an-animal]

The Sitter

Mycroft Holmes x Bethany Wheeler (OFC)

Story Masterlist

Chapter 22 - For The Ages

Mycroft was a little nervous, he didn’t think there was much reason to be, because Bethany didn’t expect anything of him, but somehow the nerves got to him more than usual. He text her to say he would pick her up a little later than usual due to some meetings he couldn’t reschedule, and then proceeded to put on his newest dark blue suit. He’d been keeping up with his workout routine and felt he looked worthy of a dinner date with Bethany. It was the first time he’d really felt like that and he was certain she’d appreciate it.

He got through his day as quickly as he could and told Anthea to divert his calls where appropriate unless it was an emergency. She gave him a knowing smile and agreed.

Mycroft got into the car and made his way to Bethany’s home, driving past the house that was still being cleared out. He felt something of pride in his chest that he was able to help in some way.

Bethany stepped out of her front door, wrapping her grey coat a little tighter around her body, he was glad she was at least staying warm, the last thing he needed was for her to freeze on their way home.

‘Mycroft.’ She smiled at him as she stepped into the car, he could just see the bottom of the same mauve dress she wore the first time they went to dinner, her slender legs slipping into the same black heels. Stunning. ‘How are you?’ She asked, happily.

‘Fine.’ He nodded.

‘Fine? You want to talk about it?’ She offered, kindly.

‘Not at all.’ Mycroft smiled. ‘What have you been doing today?’

‘Well,’ she took an excited breath. ‘It was my turn to go over to Sylvia’s to do some housework this morning, but when I got there, someone else answered the door… her carer.’ Mycroft sucked in deep breath and nodded, pretending he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Thank you.’ She said, quietly.

‘You’re very welcome.’ He felt her hand slide over his, her much cooler skin made his heart inflate. How was she always so soft?

Mycroft began his routine of tracing over every part of her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers, taking note of every detail he could, but somehow, always, he missed out on the crucial details that told him she was a lifelong musician.

‘Have you spoken to Sherlock recently?’ He suddenly asked, turning to see that her eyes had been closed as she absorbed the feeling he had been creating unknowingly.

‘Sorry, erm, no I haven’t recently.’ She said, almost waking herself up and trying to refocus. ‘We spoke a little once I was out of hospital, he just asked me how I was. Why?’

Mycroft was a little too busy staring at her every feature to answer immediately. ‘He mentioned something about music. I’m sure he’ll get in contact at some point.’ Mycroft was suddenly completely uninterested in music or Sherlock or anything that wasn’t sitting in the back of his black town car looking into the darkened eyes of Bethany Wheeler.

He scanned over her face, taking note of her freckles lightly scattered over her cheeks and the small creases around her mouth and eyes indicating a life time of smiling and happiness. The image of her suddenly in pain as he told her he loved her, flashed in front of his eyes, it was real for a moment, he could feel his chest aching and his heart breaking. Why did he allow his mind to wander to something so painful?

‘What are you thinking about?’ Bethany asked, bringing him back to the present.

Mycroft just smiled and shook his head. ‘Nothing that will make you happy, I’m afraid.’

Bethany watched him, concerned, but not pressuring him to talk or do anything he didn’t want to. She was incredibly accommodating that way, never wanting him to be anymore or less than himself, but he was still contending with the deserving nature of their relationship, if he could indeed call what they had a relationship.

They arrived at his home and Mycroft was around the other side of the car to open the door for her in seconds. She chuckled at him, not teasing, more appreciatively and thanked Andy for picking her up. He nodded to the driver, still not comfortable calling him by any name, and led Bethany inside.

They decided to order in as once again Mycroft failed to plan, why did he always fail to plan ahead where Bethany was concerned? She was in a good mood and looking forward to settling in the projector room.

Mycroft poured her a glass of wine and watched her choose what they would watch together that night. She carefully placed the tips of her fingers over each label, biting her lip or furrowing her brows as she read the titles, some she smiled at, others she grazed over with disinterest, until she landed on one that looked interesting. He wandered over to see what she’d picked and smiled.

‘The Strange Woman,’ he chuckled. ‘How fitting. Any reason for the choice?’

‘Just seems to fit the evening, I think.’ She smiled up at him sweetly. His gaze drifted momentarily to her mouth and he would have kissed her, but his courage failed him.

Mycroft was just a little frustrated, but excitement soon took over as Bethany asked him to show her how the projector worked. His explanation was long and detailed, and he was sure in moments that she wasn’t really listening, but if he’d learnt anything in the past few weeks, it was that she was always listening.

Bethany, under his supervision, set up the film for them to watch just as the doorbell went. He excused himself to retrieve their food and felt his anxiety rising as he realised, he’d left her alone with one of his most prized possessions. He was in a small internal battle with himself as he tried to convince himself that everything was fine, but also worried as she may not have been confident at dealing with any issues that might have arisen.

Mycroft looked up as he entered the kitchen to see Bethany leaning against the door frame watching him.

‘I could hear your anxiety across the house.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Impossible. You can’t hear anxiety.’

‘Oh really? So, you weren’t just thinking about how you left me alone with your projector?’

Mycroft didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. She just laughed, shaking her head and helped him get dinner ready, he would spend hours in the following days trying to work out how she knew what he was thinking, but for the time being, he just wanted to focus on the present.

They got comfortable at the kitchen table and he asked her about her dissertation. She spent most of dinner, explaining things that he only partially understood, it had been a long time since anyone confused him with words, but it was a testament to her intelligence that she could speak with such precision and so fluidly.

Mycroft asked the occasional question, and she had an answer every time with a brief explanation. She loved the subject of science and she loved the chemical aspect of it the most, but it was becoming very clear, very quickly that Bethany knew a substantial amount about surrounding subjects as well, including biology, physics and now mathematics.

‘Numbers just confuse me sometimes,’ she chuckled, sipping her wine as Mycroft cleared away their plates. ‘Bit of a tricky conundrum in the scientific field, but I suppose I’ve got to work hard at something.’

‘That suggests that your studies, thus far, have been incredibly easy and therefore unchallenging.’ Mycroft stood up, putting the dishwasher on and shoving his hands in his pockets behind his chair.

‘It does suggest that doesn’t it?’ She chuckled.

‘Why don’t you just fast-track?’ He picked up his glass, taking a mouthful. ‘It seems obvious that you could have completed your degree well within a year, potentially taken only another to complete a masters, PhD, or whatever other qualification you desired.’

‘Yeah, I probably could’ve done.’ She nodded, sitting back in her chair, her dress moving a little further up her knee to reveal the top of her thigh, making his mouth water.

‘Then why didn’t you?’

‘Because I would need to study every hour of every day,’ she laughed as if it were obvious. ‘Mycroft, I have other things I like doing, you know, other priorities, like Rosie, like music and travelling and my friends.’

‘I understand that, but you have a mind capable of extraordinary things, why waste time not filling it with as much information as you can?’ Mycroft frowned.

‘Isn’t having a happy life more important?’

Mycroft stopped for a moment and thought on what she was saying, there was something he was missing.

‘Look,’ she said, standing up. ‘I can fill my brain with every fact under the sun, I can study, learn, fast-track through anything I want, but I won’t be happy and no one will be better for it. I’m motivated by the things I enjoy, but if I don’t take the time to enjoy anything, then what is it all for?’

Mycroft was surprised by her logic, it made sense he supposed. She smiled all the time, because she was enjoying herself and everyone around her smiled as a result, including him. He couldn’t deny his progress at work when he thought about her, she distracted him often and confused him almost always, but she always made him work harder. Maybe she had a point.

They headed into the projector room and Mycroft let her get comfortable, taking her shoes off and pulling her knees up to her chest, while finished getting the film ready. Once he was done, Bethany leaned over to get the lights. The only illumination came from the screen and in a lot of ways, Mycroft preferred that. He loosened his tie and sat down next to her.

For some reason, he automatically put his arm behind her, allowing her to shuffle closer, she knew he liked to feel her against him, it had been a topic of conversation fairly recently over the phone, but again, she wasn’t making fun of him for it.

Mycroft liked how engrossed Bethany became, she enjoyed the story and thought there was something beautiful about the film. It wasn’t one of Mycroft’s favourites, but he was starting to appreciate it in a new light. He’d tried to steal a few glances at Bethany while she watched, but every time he did, she smiled just enough to let him know she knew he was watching her.

It was just as the film was coming to an end that Mycroft realised that while one hand was behind her, stroking her shoulder gently, the other was across his waist and delicately touching her arm. It was just his fingertips, but enough to be able to feel the soft skin that was her signature. Mycroft could smell the ginger much more strongly now, he turned slightly feel her body gently pressed into the side of his and thought it wasn’t enough.

He gently pressed his lips to the side of her head, feel the soft hair against his fair and felt settled for a moment. He pulled away, the shame over his forward action getting the better of him and he began to remove his hands as well, she hadn’t expressly given him permission to touch her and the thought that he might have been taking advantage crossed his mind.

‘Don’t.’ Bethany whispered, startling Mycroft a little. She turned to face him, her eyes were heavy and black, her hand stopped his from moving away from her arm. ‘Don’t stop.’ Was it a beg? Was it a simple request? Did it matter?

Mycroft couldn’t tear his eyes away, she wanted him to continue to touch her, perhaps kiss her. He debated for only a second before giving in.

Mycroft brushed the back of his fingers down the side of her arm, his eyes focused on the way her skin reacted to his touch, the little bumps forming indicating either she was cold or… well, she wasn’t cold.

He went slow, no longer using just the back of his fingers, but his whole hand to stroke and caress her arm all the way down to her fingertips. Mycroft had failed to notice she had a few tiny scars, most of which just looked like cuts from her adventures abroad, but some he couldn’t identify at all and he was desperate to know.

Something in the back of his mind had him desperate to know every inch of skin on her body, to know what it had been through and how it worked. He wondered if it was a normal response, but he knew if he told Bethany, she wouldn’t think any less of him.

Mycroft lifted his gaze, still tracing over the thin skin on the inside of her wrist, her breathing was shallow and quick, her eyes were closed and her lips parted just slightly. She was exceptionally beautiful, half illuminated by the light from the screen that was concluding the film.

Mycroft felt himself lean a little closer, the side of her mouth twitching in a smile as she felt him moving. His eyes grazed over her face once more before he took the plunge and touched his lips to hers. Bethany let out a small gasp, but she was the one to lean in for more pressure, taking him by some small surprise. Mycroft didn’t let the chance go to waste though, he brought his hand away from her wrist to cradle her face, listening to the quiet whimper of emerging from Bethany.

He felt himself take control of the kiss and explore her mouth the same way he had done before, but still managing to rediscover her. Mycroft never thought it possible to have done the same thing more than once and still not feel fully satisfied that he knew it inside and out, but once again, Bethany was proving him wrong.

Mycroft felt her hand place delicately on his thigh and it gave him a moment of hesitation. He pulled away just enough to realise what was happening, or rather what could have happened.

Bethany smiled against his lips. ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. ‘I can wait.’ She began pulling her hand away, but Mycroft’s chest began caving in again.

‘I can’t.’ He breathed. He felt a desperation take over that he’d never felt before.

Mycroft felt her hand return to his thigh and he sucked in a deep breath, he could somehow feel the sensation running through the rest of his body and it only made him want to kiss her again. Bethany’s hand stroked just above his knee, nothing too extreme, yet the contact alone was enough for him.

He kissed her more desperately, his teeth dragging over her lip and a much breathier sigh came out, one that Mycroft was instantly addicted to. He swallowed the sigh and began his passionate attack again, repeating the motion and getting the same result. What made him stop was Bethany’s hand moving further up his thigh.

Mycroft was all too aware of the effect kissing Bethany was having on him, it was one thing to kiss her against his kitchen counter, another for her to actively seek out that part of him.

‘Mycroft.’ She breathed, panting a little, much to his liking. ‘If you’re not ready-‘

‘I am.’ Mycroft panted, desperately. He leaned his forehead against hers, again feeling like he was disappointing her. ‘I just…’ This time he could feel her smile and it grounded him once again.

‘You won’t disappoint me.’ Bethany told him, softly. ‘It’s not just about me.’ Her thumb brushed over the outside of his thigh and it sent another rush through him. ‘Do you want me to stop?’

‘No.’ Mycroft breathed, suddenly not in control of his words anymore.

Bethany smiled, but it was the sound of the projector running out of film that broke the moment. She giggled and took her hand away, knowing he couldn’t just leave his projector like that, it had already been broken once thanks to John and Sherlock’s antics, he wasn’t risking the repairs that were made.

Mycroft pulled away and took a moment to regain his senses. His head was light and a little dizzy, it took him more than a moment to actually get up and deal with the projector. Bethany just sat, much the same a little dazed, but she couldn’t stop smiling at him and Mycroft suddenly felt a bravery take over that he desperately needed the first time he thought about her.

Mycroft held his hand for Bethany to take, she did with a small frown and stood so that she was almost pressed against him. The smell of ginger ignited him once more and he felt his courage finally take hold. He slowly leaned down to press the softest kiss to her lips. He felt the shivers running down her arms as her hands came up to his chest.

‘Bethany.’ He breathed.

‘Yes.’ She breathed back, an answer to the non-verbal question.

Mycroft took her hand in his and led her down the corridor to his bedroom. He felt himself starting to get nervous, but the second he closed the door and turned to see Bethany spinning back, her dress flowing around her waist just a little and her dark frizzy hair catching in the moonlight, his chest began caving in again.

Two strides and his mouth was on hers once more. His hands delved into her soft hair, hers were on his waist as she moaned against him. Mycroft found that the more desperate and needy he appeared, the more positively she responded. Bethany’s small sighs and whimpers, turned into moans and Mycroft devoured them all.

He felt the bed just behind her, making them stop mid-kiss. They both breathed out a chuckle and Bethany looked over every part of his face, before sitting back on top of the bed. He hadn’t quite noticed that she’d unbuttoned his waist coat the entire way, but in an uncharacteristic moment of desperation, he took it off, throwing it somewhere behind him, his tie following closely.

Bethany reached up, gently guiding Mycroft to follow her back to lie on the bed. He could feel every curve of her body beneath him, he mentally scanned down his own body, taking careful note of the connection points and memorising how they felt, the shape, the warmth, the desire it spurred on inside him.

Mycroft let his eyes graze over her face once more, she looked so happy and he couldn’t help his own smile at how happy she was. He let his lips graze hers once more before kissing her with more intensity, his hips pushing into hers, her back arching just a little every time, pushing her chest up as she felt him move against her.

Mycroft wanted to find out more about the way her body reacted, his hand came up, his thumb grazing her bottom lip, but somehow her tongue instinctively licked the tip, making him groan and shudder. He was fascinated at the way her tongue moved around his thumb and soon his hips were grinding against her as she sucked gently.

He took the opportunity to guide her head upwards so that he could press his lips to the impossibly soft skin along her jaw, moving down her neck and making her mouth open and release his thumb. Mycroft made her sigh and groan as his mouth begun to work out where her skin was most sensitive, he wanted to hear her, louder and more pronounced, to know that he was the one allowing those sounds to emerge from her at all.

Mycroft descended down her neck to her collarbone, his tongue came out to trace along it and felt her hands twisting into the fabric of his shirt. Her leg came up to his waist and on instinct alone, Mycroft moved his hand from her face to smooth skin.

The contact between his hand and her smooth leg, had Mycroft stilling, breathing hard against her chest. He’d expected to feel the fabric of her dress, but was somehow surprised that it might have fallen away. He moved his hand slowly from midway down her thigh almost to the curve of her hips, he could feel small bumps and a scar in his brief exploration and wanted to know how she got them.

‘Mycroft?’ She whispered, he’d stopped moving and naturally she was kind enough to be concerned for him.

Mycroft looked up at her swollen lips, a pride that his kiss had been responsible, and her heavy, dark eyes that showed concern for him. Her fingers traced his jaw, trying to assess his expression, but he didn’t have an explanation, he just wanted to feel for a moment.

Bethany smiled, realising he was fine, her fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt, going slow enough for him to stop her, but he didn’t want to, he wanted her to continue. The tips of her fingers caressed the hair on his chest as she exposed more of him, she was gentle and caring and she felt so good that his eyes closed of their own accord, just to block out any distraction that took away from the feel of her soft fingers.

Mycroft felt her lean up and place a light kiss to his lips, she’d made it half way down his shirt buttons, caressing his skin as she exposed more of it, but now she was gently guiding him off of her so she could stand up. He watched her, feeling the slightly cooler air of the room hit his chest, but he was heaving breath into his lungs at such a rate that he didn’t care for it.

Bethany stood just a little away from the bed and smiled, biting her lower lip. Mycroft could feel his trousers, unbearably tight and restrictive. He watched hungrily as Bethany reached behind her, pulling the zip of her dress down at the back, before gently pulling the shoulder straps away and revealing what was the single most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Mycroft sat up straight, his eyes scanning over her quickly before going back to take every single detail in. Her smile seemed to pour out of everywhere all at once, he didn’t even know what that meant, but he could see it. Her legs were smooth, toned, to be expected from all the adventures she had, her hips just a little wider than average, but gave her waist that smaller quality, which also happened to make her breasts look bigger and softer. He noticed the scar on her thigh that he’d previously felt, another on her collarbone that his tongue had found, the two from the snake bites and another that curled around her ribs.

‘Beautiful.’ Mycroft breathed, not even really able to focus on a single part of her body without getting distracted by another. He swallowed thickly and let his breath go when he realised she was smiling and what seemed to him as a little bashful. Why would she be afraid of showing him her body? It was stunning in every way, especially when it was only covered by a pure white thong.

Mycroft smiled and reached his hand out for her to take, guiding her closer so he could once again inhale the ginger that he only associated with her now. She stood between his legs, one hand intertwined with his while the other, tracing fingertips from the bottom of her thigh to her hip, made her shiver.

He felt himself lose all control for just a moment and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her stomach. A wonderful sigh escaped her chest and Mycroft remembered something. He moved his lips towards her hips and her breathing became stuttered and shallow. Her hand grasped his a little tighter and tangle in his hair, indicating just how much she loved her hips being worshipped.

Before he could really stop himself, he hooked his thumbs into the top of her thong and pulled it down just enough to run his tongue from one side to the other.

‘Fuck, Mycroft.’ She groaned, so he did it again, changing up the motion, sometimes kissing, sometimes licking and even gently biting at the thin layer of sensitive skin. Bethany responded to every movement, every intention he had to fill her with pleasure and listen to her moan, was understood by her and it gave Mycroft a courage to give into her completely.

Her hand was pushing his shirt away and Mycroft interpreted that as her own need to feel him against her skin as well. He continued placing messy kisses to her stomach, but quickly went about unbuttoning the last few buttons of his shirt and tossing it aside. Bethany gently stopped him from returning to her as she took a moment to gaze down as his body.

Mycroft felt a wave of shame, he wasn’t nearly as beautiful as she was, at least that’s what he felt, Bethany didn’t agree. She lifted his head to look at him properly and smiled a slightly weakened smile.

Bethany then did something Mycroft never quite felt he ever deserved; she began to kneel down in front of him. He felt his chest panting hard in anticipation, she didn’t break her gaze and Mycroft watched as her fingers open his belt, avoiding the obvious protrusion. She was being precise and clinical in a way, she knew what she was doing and it made Mycroft breath another laugh, making her smile.

Bethany slowed down, making sure that he was okay with everything she was doing. She then unzipped his trousers, the sensation sent small vibrations through him that made him break his gaze and take a deep calming breath. Mycroft lifted his hips so that she could bring his trousers down, revealing his tight briefs. The next part had him slightly more hesitant.

She sensed his nervousness and lifted herself enough to kiss him. The kiss grounded him instantly and the smell of ginger made him need her.

Finally, Bethany ran her fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs and dragged them slowly down. ‘I’ve been thinking about this.’ She whispered, making him groan into her mouth again.

Bethany pulled away, Mycroft stared down at the most beautiful creature in existence and saw a hunger in her eyes. She licked her lips, before running her tongue from the bottom of his shaft to the very tip.

‘Oh God!’ Mycroft cried out, his hand going straight to one of the bedposts for support. He couldn’t quite handle both the sensation and the sight of Bethany working her mouth and tongue around his cock, but he hoped he would be able to at some point.

Mycroft let his head fall back and his eyes close as she moved her mouth slowly around him. The feel of her wet, warm mouth encompassing him was a feeling he would never forget. Her hands working with her mouth, over his hips, his thighs and her pacing were all on point, she listened to every small noise he made, every groan, every stuttered breath, she learnt exactly how to please him and more importantly to him, she learnt the moment to slow down and give him a fighting chance.

Mycroft felt his hand dive into her soft, frizzy hair and gently massage her scalp, anything to show his thanks for what she did, she hummed, chuckling as he did and Mycroft showed the ultimate control in not responding to it. He couldn’t afford to mess this up now.

He looked down to see her lips once again swollen and immediately cradled her face, kissing her deeply. Her lips were soft and it only made him groan. Mycroft guided her up, got rid of his trousers and briefs that were around his ankles and turned his attention to her thong. He didn’t have any nerves about peeling them away from her hips and discarding them somewhere with the rest of his clothes.

Mycroft let his eyes scan over her body once more. He breathed another laugh at how wonderful she was, how everything about her just seemed to be what he wanted without him knowing.

‘Come here.’ He said and gestured to the bed. Bethany just laughed and did as she was asked. Mycroft was once again on top of her and kissed her deeply, he didn’t dare press his body to hers just yet, he was saving that feeling for after he was done.

Mycroft looked down at her and gave a small smile, which seemed to excite her, but she couldn’t have known what was on his mind, could she?

He slowly kissed down her jawline, remembering what he had learnt about the sensitivity of her neck and exploited it to the maximum. He felt her hands running up his back and dragging her nails lightly over him, something else he didn’t know he enjoyed. But Mycroft continued to descend down her chest. He brought his hands up to feel the shape of her breasts, how soft and perfectly shaped for his hands they were. If he were that way inclined, he would have thought she was made to fit with him, but he wasn’t so his conclusion was that she was simply that beautiful.

It came as a small shock when he felt her body writhe beneath him, his tongue circling her nipple and sucking gently seemed to be something of another sensitive spot. Mycroft experimented for a moment, trying to find out what made her back arch the most, what made her moan out louder, what brought her closer to coming for him.

That was the goal, he wasn’t oblivious to what sex was all about, but everything felt different with Bethany, it felt more important in a way. Mycroft did everything he could think of, but eventually he realised that she needed something a little more. He brought his hand to her ribcage, lifting his head to capture her mouth, he lowered his hand, caressing her body gently and slowly, rubbing his thumb against the inside of her hip, feeling her mouth drop open.

Mycroft hovered over her, leaning on his forearm and wanting to hold her gaze while his hand gently moved her leg to open up to him. She was panting hard in anticipation as his fingers drifted closer to her core. Even Mycroft had to take a moment as he felt how wet she was, had he really done that to her? It was the ultimate indication that she really wasn’t making fun of him, surely that couldn’t be faked.

Mycroft’s lips grazed over hers as he slid his fingers through her folds, finding where she was most responsive, where she needed him to go, he listened and watched as carefully as he could, not missing a single thing, until he slowly inserted a single digit making her heavy eyes close and a deep moan emerge from her throat. It was a beautiful sight and a wonderfully pure sound, but he wanted more.

He began slowly pumping in and out, reaching deeper and finding a spot that made a thin layer of sweat form on her forehead. Mycroft then moved his mouth back to her neck, kissing, sucking, biting, anything to bring her higher. He descended, remembering every part of her body and the way she liked it to be treated, he didn’t stop, he kept going until he was between her legs.

It was never a strong skill Mycroft had, but he was certain he could do this for Bethany, he’d listened and made mental notes, revised them and he knew he could put them into practice. Mycroft used his tongue to lick through her folds and found the right pressure and pacing easily enough, but he needed to make her come.

‘Fuck.’ He heard her say without any hint of control. Mycroft groaned into the movements and felt the first indication that she was close, she clenched around his fingers, and it made him groan into her again. ‘Fuck, yes.’ She said again and realised that his enjoyment was what was bringing her close.

Mycroft devoured her and made it known just how much he loved what he was doing. Before he even got a chance to pick up any pace, Bethany cried out his name and clenched around his fingers, contracting against his mouth. It was bliss. Pleasure that Mycroft had never known. It was beautiful.

He slowly helped her descend and looked up to watch her chest heaving, panting more and more breath into her lungs. Mycroft removed his hand as slow as he could, kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs and taking a moment to appreciate the sound of her panting, clearly with a smile on her face.

Mycroft eventually made his way back up her body, seeing it in a new light and enjoying every part of it’s new hypersensitivity. He felt her body still reacting to him, her dark frizzy hair splayed out against the white sheets of his bed and an exhausted smile on her face. Mycroft smiled down at her.

‘That…’ she panted. ‘Yeah.’ She laughed and Mycroft took that to mean he’d done well. ‘I don’t think anyone… you know.’ Bethany frowned trying to remember.

‘You mean to say I was the first to make you… like that?’

‘Don’t get too cocky about it, you’ve set the bar pretty high now.’ She teased.

Mycroft chuckled and placed a kiss to her lips, tasting a thin layer of sweat. ‘I feel confident I can exceed expectation.’ He said, lowly, making her smile against his mouth.

Bethany’s body froze for a split second, she had an idea and it excited Mycroft. She guided him to sit against the pillows on the bed, making sure he was comfortable before getting up onto her knees. Bethany swung her leg over his hips and Mycroft pushed himself a little further up, preparing himself for what he thought was about to happen.

She was so stunningly beautiful in the dim light, her body was soft and warm and everything that ignited Mycroft to no end. He looked up at her and readied himself for the moment she took him inside her. She was incredibly tight and Mycroft, again, let his head loll back for a moment. He held her hips, just trying to control her descent, to slow her down a little and Bethany was entirely complicit. She didn’t want to rush this either.

Mycroft lifted his head to see her, just to watch her pretty face reacting and smiled, finding that her eyes had fluttered shut. Her hand was on his chest to help hold herself upright, the other was gripping the wooden headboard and finally, Mycroft felt himself surrounded by her.

He couldn’t resist, Mycroft wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his body to hers and feeling every patch of skin against his chest. He took a moment to feel her hand tangled in his hair and to once again burn this moment into his memory. The smell of ginger and sex, the echo of moans and the sight of something truly spectacular.

Mycroft felt her hips moving just slightly and chuckled to himself, leaning back and watching as Bethany took control. She smiled as she moved, biting her lip, encouraging his hands to roam her body, if that was what she needed then that was what she would receive, he wanted her to come again.

Bethany’s hand released the headboard and snaked between their bodies. Mycroft was hypnotised by her, engrossed in the movement and the way she worked her body. He watched and listened and felt her get so close, just a little more and she would come again.

‘Bethany.’ Mycroft groaned, feeling her tighten around him, his voice seemed to do something, but again it wasn’t his forte, what did he say? He went with the only thing he could think of. ‘Will you come for me?’ His voice was more of a growl.

‘Fuck, yes!’ She cried.

Mycroft sat up, feeling Bethany clench tight around him, he swallowed her moans, devoured the sounds erupting from her throat and there was no stopping what was about to happen. He held her secure against his body, not leaving her mouth for a second, he moved them so he was once again on top and began thrusting into her at a pace he didn’t know he had.

He needed to see her, he wanted to look at her beautiful face, but he could feel her still reeling, still keeping a tight hold of him and her dark eyes piercing his was enough to make his whole body shudder. Mycroft thrust all the way inside her, coming hard, not being able to keep quiet and only her name emerging from his lips. It was all he could think of, the only thing in the entire world, nothing else existed.

His eyes had closed as he panted, regaining his breath, and he felt her lips graze his. Mycroft smiled, opening his heavy eyes and saw Bethany almost laughing she was so happy. He looked down and wondered how much longer his arms could hold him upright, he didn’t have much time left, they were about to give in.

Mycroft stroked his hand over her forehead and into her hair, examining her face in the afterglow and kissed her slowly. There was nothing sensual about it anymore, now it was comforting and grounding and reality was calling them back.

He slowly removed himself and sat back against the pillows, taking in the room again, still trying to steady his breathing and looked over at Bethany trying to do the same.

‘I love you.’ Mycroft frowned, not sure why he hadn’t said it since the day he thought she was going to die. Bethany looked over at him, startled that he’d said it, but soon began smiling uncontrollably. She rolled over to him and placed her head on his chest, he naturally came to wrap his arms around her body and keep her close.

‘I love you too, by the way.’ She said, making him chuckle. ‘In case that wasn’t clear.’

‘I had my suspicions.’ He teased and sure enough it made her giggle.

They stayed where they were for a few moments longer before deciding they both needed a quick shower and some water. Mycroft took note of her kindness on previous occasions and refused to let her do anything more than her body would allow.

Despite his own body not wanting to move or do anything more than he absolutely had to, Mycroft refused to let her go downstairs to get water, instead he retrieved it for her himself. He stepped into the shower with her and helped her clean her body, taking the clear opportunity to once again understand the way her body reacted in the afterglow.

Mycroft felt happy, he couldn’t remember the last time he could genuinely say that, but then he couldn’t remember very much at that moment.

They got into bed and Mycroft didn’t dare look at the time, instead he allowed Bethany to rest, and he instinctively curled his body around hers. It felt natural, no, it felt essential. Mycroft never wanted to know another day without her again.

END

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[hallothere]

87 (smile) + 34 (comfort/safety) for my girl Idhrien? :unlessranger: she should have a nice day

87. Smile 34. Comfort/Safety

A woman of the city- possibly a noble, though Idhrien had no way of knowing- had made it her solemn duty and highest priority to see her dressed for the evening.

"You may wear what you like, of course." Bright brown eyes blinked back tears. "But please... let me render whatever services you desire to that end. If it is only someone to fashion your hair, or provide the traditional flower adornments for your..." here she made a gesture at Idhrien's travel-worn uniform and trailed off, "...or even a dish of soap for your bath. Or... or nothing."

Idhrien turned back to look at where her brothers aggregated, some looking askance at the elaborate bath halls next to their quarters. As much as she ached to be near them, to see them breathing free air and laughing, she could hardly say no to a moment for herself.

But still... "You are very kind to offer," she began, "but I need no special treatment. I am no person of status, only a healer and humble servant of King Elessar's."

The woman kept blinking tears. "I...see..." she said, as though she did not, "Forgive an... old woman for insisting, but... I still wish to do something for you." She wrung her hands a little, clearly nervous, but pressed on. "I have very little in skills or trade, or even the healing arts. Some embroidery, not kept-up, and I have fashioned my own curtains since the days grew darker."

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with a fine handkerchief, unembroidered. "But I have made it my business, in times I could, to help any young girl in the city who wished to... who had some event or another she--" Pausing again, she increased her efforts to remain dry-eyed with little avail. "You are not a young girl. It is quite fine if you have no wish to... There is plenty else for me to worry over. My husband's business, and him gone on the Pelennor--"

Her voice caught, and before she could turn away Idhrien reached out a hand to stop her.

"Forgive me," Idhrien began, "for I both misjudged you and misunderstood. While we have our own grand events in the North, they might seem... rustic to you. We wear our uniforms- though they shall receive some tending before tonight- to honor our Chieftain and King. But-" she hastened on, "-I should do him no dishonor to wear something else, especially a gift so kindly given from a cousin who has already suffered much." Idhrien swallowed thickly. "I... lost my father on the Pelennor as well."

"Oh, you poor dear." The woman's tears flowed freely with her pity and understanding. "You shall have whatever you like."

------------------------------

"Is it lavender?" Idhrien held the dress up to the light of the window. Her host- who had tearfully introduced herself as Lengwen- had practically thrown open her wardrobe, closets, and stores for Idhrien's inspection. This, and a dress of 'Calembel cream' color, were the top contenders.

"It looks paler in this light," Lengwen said, "but by the evening and in the torches it will shine differently. If you don't wish to-"

"No," Idhrien reassured her, grinning, "no, I think it's just perfect."

------------------------------

"Mistress Lengwen!" she called from within the bath chamber of the lady's house, "Which of these soaps should I use?"

"Whichever you please, my dear, I'm sure!" Lengwen paused. "And none of this 'Mistress' nonsense. Should you continue, I will be forced to point out that one of us ought to warrant a Ladyship due to her kinship with the King..."

Idhrien took the soap that smelled strongest of herbs and laughed.

------------------------------

"I fear we have brushed it too thoroughly."

Idhrien could feel her hair rising, crackling, sticking to her face in places. Likely as anything it stood up all over. She imagined great puffball flowers and tufts of wool. Lengwen only shook her head knowingly.

"Oh, never fear, my dear. We are quite happy it is dry and shining. I do have something for it."

She returned with a small bottle and Idhrien felt all the sillier.

"Oil! Of course. I'd forgotten, but we have our own mixtures back home. It's just.... been so long..."

Lengwen returned the sad smile that was surely creeping up on her own face. "There aren't great celebrations like this every day, but I hope we are coming on a time where they are not so far apart as to be easily forgotten."

Idhrien nodded. "So do I."

------------------------------

"Oh, pardon me, madam, I--"

It was worth a hundred tears to see Lothrandir choke on his drink. They had all agreed to gather before the ceremony- only partly in jest to see that no one got lost- and to have a drink while they ensured Aragorn took his place on the Pier with any trinket he might wish and forget in haste. Halbarad's star was one such effect, and Daervunn guarded it closely against all incident.

"You are thus pardoned, sir." She said, curtsying. Oh, certainly most of the rest had cleaned up- and some plainly accosted and consented to styling like herself- but only a handful had seen her in anything but her uniform. Amlan, across the room, still seemed to be puzzling over her identity.

Corunir looked stunning, but strode over still ignorant of city decorum. "You look wonderful!" he said, picking her up in his arms and spinning her around. "I should swear you were to be wed today! Amazing!"

She laughed aloud, and then louder still to see the faces of her brothers peering at this new curiosity. Helchon was agape, Mincham nodded sagely, and Mithrendan... Neither could voice the sentiment or bear it today, but his eyes welled up all the same.

My father, she could nearly read out of his mind, would have been happy to see me so well.

"Oh you'll forget me in an instant." She said, swatting Corunir's arm. "Once Lady Arwen ascends the steps, I'll be some sort of tablecloth starched-standing off to the side. And you a big tree-" she poked Lothrandir in an un-mopped spot on his shirtfront, "-that someone tried to water."

And they laughed, and cried, and spun around to show off stitch-work and borrowed finery. When their Chieftain- their King- arrived, they ascended to such a celebration as none could forget.

[mccek]

Oh, we all wanna know.

Where'd the American dream go?

Did you give up and go home?

Am I here alone?

Oh, when the credits roll,

I'll watch as the screen glows

The moments when I choked, all the fears that I've outgrown.

At least I hope so.

I was just happy to be a contender.

I was just aching for anything.

And I used to have such steady hands

But now I can't keep 'em from shaking.

TuesRock pt.19 (2)

[amugoffandoms]

Ooh, 3, 17, and 29 for the fic asks if you want :D

whoopee!! more mug's ao3 writing wrapped!! here's the list!

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

i am incapable of picking just one so here's a list aidnjf!!

Sing Your Sins! - yeah this would be an obvious choice but like audhgjgjg it was so fun to write about!! just let them be happy guys please!,!@,&$$

37.2°C -- Yuno Kashiki's Trial 2 Voice Drama - I had a blast rewriting some of yuno's trial 2 vd for this swap au judt man some of the last lines kinda just hit hard and man judt man

a mug of whumptober 2023 fics - is this cheating?? yeah a little bit buy i had so much fun writing some of this!! really can't wait to get to the rest shhffjjf

ILOLL - yeah the characters are historical figures, I like writing and if the story just so happens to be through these figures that were sort of modernized by a musical then yeah ajfjfjf ANYWAYS you can see my favorite part of formatting and also gruesome writing in this ajfhfj love both of those things dearly sjjf

17. Your favorite character to write this year?

yuno.

but there are some close contenders!!

Sayori is really fun to write! There's a balance of bubbly and bittersweet you have to hit and it's always fun standing on that line! also just sayo :]

Es, Mahiru, and Fuuta all because I've written them a few times to understand their character better and also they have beliefs and traits that are so intrinsically woven into their character that it's like Oh we're gonna have fun writing this yippee!!

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

oh man there's so many auauausu

here are some that i picked out sjfjf

“Ha, you know that you’re just pushing everyone away when you’re being honest?” She knows. She knows. It’s stupid, but she knows. No matter what she’s like, she’ll have to lie. Just to have a little warmth. How cruel is that?

Shidou hears that voice. He can’t tell who said that, probably one of the doctors pulling him out of the room. Closing his mouth to stop the next scream, he realizes, for a second, he believes them. He believes that if he lets other people dip their hands in the ocean of blood he wades through every day, his wife will be waiting for him. His wife will be alive.

It's only that noise and him standing around. He can feel his chest tighten with guilt and dread. If he dared to breathe, it felt like something akin to a noose constricted his breath, pulling him away.

"Sometimes I wake up and everything feels frozen. It's cold and I can't feel anything. It's nothing. I can't feel the light against my face. I can't feel my body ache for relief."

"Y-Yuno—" "I can't tell if I'm on the edge of my life or I'm already dead." "!" "Then, Mahiru-san comes into my cell with Shidou-san. He fixes my bandages. And, eventually, I feel something. It's cold." "..." Es stares at the other. "I think we both know, even Shidou. I'm on the verge of dying, Es." Es stands up and slams the table, with Yuno only blankly staring. "Yuno, you aren't going to—" "Am I... really alive?"

so that's it!! :D thank you for asking ^^

[harbingrs]

I'm fanaticizing about doing a raindance in traffic. I'm fanaticizing about a storm to wash me away. If you'd study the laugh-lines, you'd see that I'm cracking. I spent six months now feeling like dead weight — the fighter in me must have died a long time ago. I must have been watching his ghost; just going through the motions, just putting on a face. It feels like 1929 and I'm on the verge of a great collapse today.

Every window in this house faces a brick wall. I'm panicked and absent like a bird in a cage. The word from the front lines says that we're out-gunned but I can't walk away. No, I can't walk away. No, I can't. I was just happy to be a contender. I was just aching for anything. I used to have such steady hands, now I can't keep them from shaking.

[spacetravels]

🎧 Ser🫡

And I was just happy to be a contender

And I was just aching for anything

And I used to have such steady hands

But now I can't keep 'em from shaking

[boyobjectifier]

I was just happy to be a contender

I was just aching for anything

And I used to have such steady hands

But now I can't keep 'em from shaking

[just-my-onion]

Kinda off topic but but since you have watched succession what do you think of Tom becoming CEO?

😍 Yay, i love talking about Succession.

The TL;DR is "Thanks, i hate it." I felt pretty desolate. I think the finale was excellent, but Tom being CEO? 🤢 I can't stomach it.

(He's maaaaaybe my least favourite character, though the 'rankings' would basically shift with every episode, and i do have some sympathy with him. Props to him for keep Gerri & Karolins too!)

Still, it's such a superficial victory for him. He's a puppet and a pain sponge for someone arguably less cruel than Logan but just as nihilistic and way more unhinged. Chances are he won't even be in that chair for a year.

I guess the main thing is i'm a Kendall girl. (I tried not to be, but ach, what you gonna do? 'Cunt is as cunt does' 🤷‍♀️)

I get why he couldn't, but if i'm honest i wanted him to win. And i honestly do still feel like the "Kendall wins" ending would have been more satisfying for me, because it really wouldn't actually be a neat, Happy Ending. I think i'd find it more interesting to see him have to contend with how empty that victory would actually be. I sort of feel like either way, he'd be alone on that bench?

But that would lack the hideous poetry of Shiv's ending – becoming the parent she hates and scorns. And Kendall's his worst enemy – of course he got cocky and fucked up at the last minute, could he ever have done anything else? So i don't like it but it works.

(I do kinda wish it had been Lawrence Yee though, for the topsy-turvy symmetry and for him to finally realise that "I'm gonna eat you all" threat, served very cold.)

What did you think?

[marble--tears]

[A Raindance in Traffic Interpolation]

I was just happy to be a contender

I was just aching for anything

And I used to have such steady hands

But now I can't keep them from shaking

[There, There Interpolation]

Oh I'm sorry I...

I'm sorry I don't laugh at the right times

Is this what it feels like with my wings clipped?

I'm awkward and nervous

I'm awkward and nervous

[The Devil in My Bloodstream Interpolation/Verse 4]

Two blackbirds on a highway sign

Are laughing at me here with my wings clipped

I'm staring up at the sky

But the bombs keep fucking falling

There's no devil on my shoulder

He's got a rocking chair on my front porch

But I won't let him in

No, I won't let him in

'Cause I'm sick of seeing ghosts

And I know how it's all gonna end

There's no triumph waiting

There's no sunset to ride off in

We all want to be great men

And there's nothing romantic about it

I just want to know that I did all I could with what I was given

23/05/23 - 4 AM

[wordsintotheether]

It was so beautiful to fall in love with you. I miss you all the time. How many years will it take to stop feeling a spark when I look at our pictures? It has been painful and arduous to walk away. I ache for you. And yet I know if you were here, we would feel miles apart.

I’ve never been good at change. I will stubbornly reassess and try again a thousand times over before I accept things are different, that they have changed against my will.

In my youth I made the mistake of having a talon-like grip on everything I loved, convinced I could prevent loss if I simply did not let go. With age, I have seen too much slip through my fingers, as if those precious things I clung to had suddenly turned to dust and cascaded through my hands into the depths below.

With age, I learned to hold on loosely, prepared to let things come and go, knowing some love is only meant for a season of our lives. I have somehow accepted the inevitability of loss while drowning in its wake.

To you, I held on loosely. I was skittish, ready to let go and run at any sensed shift. I lived on high alert, too afraid to let myself believe anything could stay. And yet there you were, lulling me over my walls into your bed where I could live in your warmth and sunshine.

I don’t have it in me to regret letting my guard down. It was the most peace, the most loved, the most safe I have ever felt. And, I fear, may ever feel.

I didn’t know what to do when you put up your walls and disappeared behind them. You, my stable little home that stood and made the world feel still in the midst of its noise and belligerence, I did not know what to do when my worst fear came true:

I would once again brave the world without you.

It feels unfair, which feels so petulant to say. But simply, how do I make sense out of being given my world and then watching it crumble underneath me? How do I contend with my apparent forever-lesson in life seems to be: I am doing this alone.

Why did you have to love me so well that in this moment, in this ache, I just want to come running to you? You don’t make me feel good anymore. In your addiction, you can be cruel and careless. In my heartache I become distant and mean. I could not disgrace our love like that, to continue to act that way with each other in the same hallowed grounds of our connected lips whispering “I love you”s and sweet nothings as we lay all tangled up in one another. You felt like happiness on my skin, both comforting and exhilarating.

No, those grounds are sacred, and I love you too much to stomp through the gardens and effigies we erected. I know that what is right is to leave them untouched; to leave well-trodden paths to become overgrown as these monuments to us are slowly, quietly, swallowed up by the good earth that holds them. Swallowed up and birthed a new as the soil repurposes our pieces and life goes on.

I know all this, and yet I sit here, aching for you. It’s certainly gotten easier, but the end is still not in sight.

I hope you are safe. For all our distance, in the rain you will always have me as your umbrella if you choose to reach for it. I only worry that your pride will stop you from asking from the help you know is there.

You do not have to fear death while I’m alive; I’ll shelter you forever.

[im-always-the-problem-its-me]

dear tumblr, i forgot about you again. i'm always abandoning you for what i think are more nobler pursuits, but then i remember some things can't be shared publicly. some things go beyond the pages of my private journal. some things need this outlet that stains my memories and reminds me that if i post some things maybe they'll transform. the void makes them concrete. tangible. something i can look back on and think 'oh, i remember that.' 'i remember those feelings' or 'wow, i'm still right there.'

i have escaped a place that was killing me. i have healthier eating habits now (meaning, i'm actually eating). i am very active. my pain levels have decreased. i feel happier, but i still have secret dramas to contend with.

i am in a place with family i barely know, but am getting to know. how strange not to grow up with people you share blood with. especially such close blood. a new sibling. the father who actually contributed to my biology, even if he had nothing to do with my upbringing.

i am surprised by the mix of things i feel although it seems totally normal to feel how i do. i am happy. i am trying to 'fit in' with new people which is bringing up the horror of how i used to feel in high school. i'm too old to feel 'nobody likes me' but i do. i analyze all i say in social situations and wonder if that was 'too something' for people.

i have been told i'm 'too much' for the majority of my life. is this true? i know i'm 'out there', but i'm kind. i don't feel the need to assert my opinions. i feel i listen to others very well and am not argumentative. i share how i feel. i still write my surface bullshit, terrified to actually bare my soul, and still debating whether or not to get back into publishing.

i quit a lot. i gained a lot too though. life will always be a battle. i just don't really fight anymore. i just slowly let everything fall apart and fall back into place again.

i am at a crossroads. again. i have a month to make a decision that will probably destroy my life. i'm leaning toward not going through with it of course. i don't even think i can. i mean, i just got used to being happy. why do i have to be my own wrench in every good plan?

i don't feel so confused anymore. i only feel bad for others' involved who will be affected. i can't keep secrets. well, i can...but they destroy me inside. never a good idea when you're a fragile girl who already has a stomach ache about life in general 82% of the time.

i realized that i hold a lot. everyone talks about autumn and how it teaches us to let go. what if you don't want to hang on but you do...like, you can't control that you do?

HE says to learn to be cold and indifferent in certain areas, but i am all or nothing. either i'm numb to everything, uncaring, cruel even...or i'm feeling everything so intensely that the only way to release it all is to scream.

i'm in this post-transition phase i guess. i just made a big change. a big move. i am used to my surroundings and finally, i love them...but i'm worried about finances, i'm worried about all i feel and flipping out on my new family...and i'm worried about the possibility of seeing HIM in a month. i'm pretty sure it's happening but i don't know WHAT will happen when we're in the same room again and i have to have some control or my entire life will burn down.

i once said i was ok with that. i'd do that for HIM. but HE doesn't want that. he doesn't want me destroyed. too late though. what can't be, could have been, maybe will be...all that eats me alive.

i warned HIM. HE can't hold anything against me if he chooses to do so because i have been clear about how i am and how i handle things. which is always 'not well'. i'm good. i'm not good at being bad. i'm just really good at feeling bad when there's no reason for me to.

i'll figure this out. or i won't. i'll sweep it under another rug and discover it again in the future.

it's what i always do.